The Golden Cage (Part 1)
The humid Lagos air felt like a heavy blanket as I pushed through the service entrance of the Ikoyi mansion. Tonight was supposed to be simple. Serve the appetizers, collect my 5,000 Naira shift pay, and rush back to the hospital to tell the doctors I'd have the rest of the money soon.
I didn't expect to meet the devil in a three-piece suit.
"Watch where you're going!" a supervisor hissed, shoving a tray of vintage wine into my hands. "Chief Kunle is in a foul mood. If you drop even a grape, don't bother asking for your pay."
I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling against the silver tray. I walked into the lounge, where the scent of expensive cigars and Oud perfume was so thick it made my head spin. And then, I saw him.
Chief Kunle. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the room. Even from behind, he radiated a kind of cold power that made the other wealthy guests keep their distance.
As I approached to offer a glass, the heel of my worn-out shoe caught on the edge of a Persian rug. Time seemed to slow down. The tray tilted. The deep red liquid leaped from the glass, splashing across the pristine, white-gold fabric of his jacket.
The room went silent. I could hear my own heartbeat thumping in my ears like a funeral drum.
"I... I am so sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking. I reached out with a napkin, my hand shaking uncontrollably. "Please, let me—"
He turned. His eyes weren't angry; they were dead. Cold. Like looking into the depths of the Atlantic at night. He looked down at the stain, then up at my face. For a split second, his shadow flickered—a flash of recognition—but it was gone before I could be sure.
"Don't touch me," he said. His voice was a low baritone that vibrated in my chest.
Two security guards appeared instantly, grabbing my arms. "Chief, we'll handle this. Out you go, girl."
"Wait," Kunle raised a hand. The guards froze. He studied me, his gaze traveling from my cheap catering uniform to the dark circles under my eyes. "Don't throw her out. Take her to my study. I have a proposal that will solve all her debts... if she's willing to lie for me."
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a room that cost more than my entire neighborhood in Bariga. The walls were lined with leather-bound books, and the desk was a slab of polished mahogany.
Kunle walked in, having discarded the stained jacket. He sat across from me, lighting a thin cigarette.
"I don't do proposals, Chief," I said, finding a sudden spark of courage. I didn't have much, but I had my pride. "I am sorry for spilling on you. Truly. Tell me how much it costs for the laundry. I will pay it back, even if it takes me a year."
He laughed—a dry, humorless sound. He pulled out a gold pen and scribbled a number on a silk napkin. He slid it across the desk.
1,000,000.
"That is for the suit," he said. "But I suspect you don't have that in your account, Amina. And I also suspect your brother, Tunde, doesn't have much time left at St. Nicholas Hospital."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "How do you know my brother?"
"I know everything about the people I bring into my house," he leaned in, the scent of sandalwood overpowering my senses. "My grandfather is dying. He wants to see me married to a 'good girl' before he goes, or he leaves the company to my cousin. I need a wife for thirty days. No touching. No feelings. Just a signature."
I looked at the napkin. Then at him. He thought he could buy me. He thought I was just another desperate girl in Lagos.
"I want ten million," I said, my voice finally steady.
He arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Five million for the hospital bills," I counted on my fingers, staring him down. "And five million for the stress of pretending to love a man like you. If I'm going to lie to a dying old man, I'm going to make sure my brother never has to worry about a hospital bed again."
Kunle stared at me for a long beat. Then, the dangerous smirk returned. "Expensive. But efficient. I like that." He pulled a thick folder from a drawer. "Sign here. 5 million hits your account tonight. The rest when the month is over."
I grabbed the pen. "I sign, but understand this, Chief. Only in front of your grandfather. In private, you stay on your side of the house. Don't think this money gives you a right to me."
"Deal," he whispered.
I signed the name 'Amina' in jagged, angry strokes. As I handed back the pen, our fingers brushed. It felt like an electric shock, but I pulled away instantly. I thought I had won. I thought I had saved Tunde.
I didn't realize I had just walked into a golden cage.
The Golden Cage (Part 2)
As I sat on the edge of the velvet chair in Chief Kunle's study, my hands wouldn't stop shaking. The silence of the room was heavy, a sharp contrast to the chaotic noise of the party outside. I looked around at the gold-rimmed frames and the mahogany shelves. This wasn't just wealth; it was the kind of "Loud Money" that only existed in the upper echelons of Banana Island.
In Lagos, the name Kunle wasn't just a name; it was a warning.
I remembered the first time I saw him at The Gilded Lily, the high-end lounge where I worked most weekends. I was still a 300-level Economics student at the University of Lagos (UNILAG), juggling macros-economics exams with serving champagne to people who spent my four-year tuition on a single bottle of Ace of Spades.
I had taken the job out of desperation when Tunde's lungs started failing. UNILAG was tough enough, but trying to be a student by day and a "hustling" waitress by night was draining the life out of me.
"Don't look him in the eye," my manager, Bose, had warned me the first night Kunle showed up. "That's Chief Kunle. He owns half the skyline you see from the Third Mainland Bridge. He's a playboy, yes, but a cold one. He's got the heart of a shark."
I had watched from a distance as the club changed whenever he entered. The music seemed to bow to him. Female celebrities and Instagram influencers would flock to his VIP table like moths to a flame, adjusting their wigs and pouting for a chance to be noticed. I'd seen a famous actress literally trip over herself just to hand him a drink. He hadn't even looked at her. He just waved a hand, and his security moved her aside like she was a piece of unwanted furniture.
He was terrifying because he didn't need to shout to be scary. Last month, a new waitress, Sarah, had tried to be "bold." She had laughed a bit too loudly and accidentally brushed her hand against his while serving his cognac.
"You're clumsy," he had said, his voice a low, terrifying whisper that cut through the loud Afrobeats music.
"I'm sorry, Chief, I was just—"
"I don't pay for 'just,'" he snapped. He didn't even look at the manager. He just looked at his head of security. By the time the song ended, Sarah was in the locker room, crying and clutching her termination letter. He got people fired for breathing too loudly in his direction.
And now, here I was. The girl who didn't just brush his hand, but dumped half a bottle of red wine on a suit that probably cost more than my father's house in the village.
Why hasn't he called the police? I wondered, my eyes darting to the heavy oak door. Why is he offering me a proposal instead of a prison cell?
Lagos was full of stories of "Big Men" who took what they wanted. Kunle was the king of them. He was the man on every billboard, the man mentioned in every gossip blog, the man who changed girlfriends like he changed luxury cars. Rumor had it he had a garage in his Banana Island estate filled with Ferraris and custom-made G-Wagons that he never even drove.
The door creaked open. My breath hitched.
Chief Kunle walked in, his presence instantly shrinking the room. He had changed into a simple black silk shirt, the top buttons undone. Even without the suit jacket, he looked like he owned the air I was breathing.
He didn't speak immediately. He walked to a small bar in the corner, poured himself two fingers of amber liquid, and sat across from me.
"You've been staring at that bookshelf for five minutes, Amina," he said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "Are you looking for a way out, or are you wondering how much those books are worth?"
I straightened my back, trying to hide the fact that my knees were knocking together. "I'm wondering why I'm not at a police station."
He took a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes tracking the movement of my lips. "Because the police are boring. And right now, I have a problem that only a girl as desperate—and as stubborn—as you can solve."
"I am not desperate," I lied, my voice trembling.
"You are a UNILAG student with a 2.5 GPA because you spend your nights serving drinks instead of studying," he said, pulling a file from his desk. My heart dropped. He really did know everything. "And your brother is in Room 402 at St. Nicholas. The hospital is planning to move him to a public ward tomorrow because your credit has run out."
He leaned forward, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something that wasn't coldness. It was interest. "2 million Naira, Amina. That's the price of your pride. Do you want to keep your dignity, or do you want to save Tunde's life?"
That was the moment I realized I wasn't just a waitress anymore. I was a player in a game where the rules were written in blood and gold.