Episode 1: The Room I Almost Rejected
I still remember the day I first met her — Mrs. Adaora Uche, my NYSC landlady. If I had listened to my instincts, I would’ve walked away from that dusty compound in Enugu the very moment I stepped into it. The gate creaked like it hadn’t been opened in years, the walls were stained with years of harmattan and neglect, and the air smelled faintly of palm oil and wet concrete.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
I was posted to Enugu for my National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) and had just resumed at my PPA — a public secondary school in the outskirts of town. My allowance hadn’t dropped, I didn’t know anybody, and I was literally going house-hunting with ₦15,000 in my pocket. Madness, I know.
“Na self-contain I dey find. Make e just get kitchen and toilet,” I had told the bike man.
After rejecting four horrible rooms that day, the last option brought me to No. 17 Okechukwu Street, a face-me-I-face-you compound with one painted gate and about six tenants. My hopes were low — until the landlady stepped out.
She wasn’t what I expected. I imagined a loud, scarf-wearing, swollen-legged woman. But instead, I saw someone who looked like a ** Nollywood widow — graceful, quiet, mid-40s, with fair skin and tired eyes**. She wore a simple ankara wrapper and T-shirt, her hair packed neatly in a bun. She smiled, but her eyes didn’t.
“You’re looking for a room?” she asked, her voice calm and slow. I nodded, too exhausted to speak.
She gestured for me to follow her, and we walked to a room behind the main building.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was clean. Tiled floor. Small window. A tiny bathroom with a real toilet seat. The compound had light. Water from a well.
“How much ma?” I asked.
“₦35,000 per year,” she replied.
I blinked. It was still ₦20,000 more than I had. “Ma, abeg I only have ₦15,000 now. Can I pay the rest next month after my allawee drops?”
She stared at me for a long moment. Then she asked, “Are you a corper?”
I nodded.
“I like corpers,” she said quietly. “They don’t steal, and they don’t make noise.”
Then came the shocker.
“Pay the ₦15,000. You can complete the rest whenever you have it.”
I didn’t know whether to hug her or cry. That act alone made her look like a saviour to me.
The First Night
I moved in that evening with nothing but my bag, mattress, and a stainless plate my mum forced into my bag. Around 8pm, there was a soft knock on my door. It was her — Mrs. Uche.
“I cooked yam and egg. You can come and eat, or I can bring it.”
I was stunned. Who still did that?
That night, as I ate the soft, peppery yam and watched her retreat into her flat, I whispered to myself:
“This woman is an angel.”
But I was wrong.
Because what I didn’t know was that this same landlady would later turn my NYSC year into something I never expected.
Not with juju.
Not with hatred.
But with something much more dangerous — care.
And in the end, she would change my life… forever.
