BEING THE BADASS GIRL PAY THE BILLS QUICKER, BUT KILLS FASTER.
Part 3
Amara met Chike again on a Thursday, this time in a hotel off Ozumba Mbadiwe because his apartment was being painted. The room was on the eighth floor. Heavy curtains, a bed big enough for four people, air-conditioning that hummed like it was trying to keep a secret. She arrived first. She had showered, oiled her skin until it shone, and put on the black lace set she kept for nights she wanted a man to lose the ability to speak. When he knocked she opened the door already wet between her legs from the short walk down the corridor and the way the lace rubbed.
BEING THE BAD ASS GIRL PAY THE BILLS QUICKER, BUT KILLS FASTER.
Part 2
Chike’s apartment was on the twelfth floor. The balcony doors stood open and the city lights moved below them in slow lines of white and red. Amara stood near the glass while he poured two drinks. She had chosen the red dress that tied at the side. When she shifted, the fabric parted a little over her thigh. She left it that way.
He noticed. His eyes stayed on the small opening as he handed her the glass. She drank and watched him over the rim. He was taller than Emeka, broader, and he kept glancing at his watch as if he needed to remember he could afford the evening. She set her glass down and stepped closer until the front of the dress touched his shirt.
She smiled at the mirror until the smile felt real, then walked into the church still wearing the blood under her nails.
No one noticed. They never did. Sister Amara hugged the ushers, sang louder than anyone during worship, and when the pastor called for testimonies she stood and thanked God for “new mercies.” Her voice didn’t shake. The man she had left in the hotel room three hours earlier was already cold, but the offering basket still felt warm when she dropped in the cash he had given her.
After service a woman touched her arm and said, “You have such a peaceful spirit.” Amara nodded, eyes soft. In her bag the room key card dug into her palm. She hadn’t checked out. She liked knowing the body was still there, waiting, while she stood in the light and let people tell her she was good.
That night she went back. Not to clean. Just to sit on the edge of the bed and watch his face until the peace finally cracked and something hungrier took its place. She leaned close, close enough to smell the last of his cologne, and whispered the same words she had used in church.
“New mercies.”
Then she smiled again, smaller this time, and turned off the light.
Never try to fix someone who refuses to change. You will only exhaust yourself. Because real change requires personal responsibility. You can support someone, encourage them, and show them a better direction. But you cannot force them to become a person they don't want to be. So stop carrying the responsibility for choices that aren't yours. You'll only lose yourself trying to save someone who won't help themselves.