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Lagos never sleeps.

Even at night, the city is alive with people shouting, generators humming, horns blaring, and dreams struggling to survive.

 Cynthia-Rose felt it that evening as she stood by the small window of their flat in Ikeja, staring at the orange glow of streetlights below.

 Her reflection stared back at her on the glass, young, beautiful, tired. Too tired for a girl of twenty-two.

 "Cynthia!" her mother called from the living room.

"Come here." She sighed softly and turned away from the window. The sitting room was small. Old sofa, fan making noise like it wanted to die.

Her mother, Mrs. Ezekwesili, sat upright, hands tightly folded like she was holding bad news inside her chest. Her younger brother, Chuka, stood by the door, restless.

 "What's going on?" Cynthia-Rose asked. Her mother looked at her for a long moment before speaking.

"Sit down first." That tone. That serious tone. Cynthia-Rose's heart skipped. "There is a man," her mother began slowly. "A very important man."

Cynthia-Rose frowned. "What kind of man?"

 "A chief" Chuka her younger brother, cut in, excitement flashing in his eyes. "Big man in Lagos. Very rich." Her mother shot him a warning look.

"Let me talk."

Cynthia-Rose folded her arms. "Mama, please, don't tell me another story of one uncle or politician that will promise heaven and disappear."

"This one is different." her mother said quietly. "His name is Chief Fredrick Mba."

The name landed heavy. Even Cynthia-Rose, who tried to stay away from gossip, had heard that name. Everybody in Lagos knows he was into real estate, politics, oil, influence. The kind of man that sneezes and markets shake.

"So?" Cynthia-Rose asked carefully.

Her mother swallowed. "He wants to see you." The room went quiet.

"See me?" Cynthia-Rose repeated.

"For what?"

Her mother's voice dropped. "He wants to... help us."

Cynthia-Rose stood up immediately. "No."

 "Cynthia-" "I said no" she snapped.

 "I'm not going anywhere to meet any old rich man because of money."

 "Sit down!" her mother said sharply. Cynthia-Rose froze. Her mother rarely raised her voice.

"You think I enjoy this?" her mother continued, eyes shining. "You think I don't know what people will say? But look around you!" She waved her hand around the room.

"Look at this house. Look at your brother struggling in school. Look at the debts. Light bill, hospital bill. Cynthia, we are drowning."

Silence.

Cynthia-Rose felt the familiar weight pressing on her chest. The one she carried every day but pretended wasn't there.

 "So you want to sell me," she said softly. Her mother flinched.

 "God forbid."

 "Then what is it?" Cynthia-Rose asked. "Because that's how it sounds."

 Chuka stepped forward. "It's not like that, Cynthia. Nobody is forcing you. The man just wants to meet you. He likes you."

She laughed bitterly. "Likes me? He doesn't even know me."

 "He has seen you" her mother said. "Your pictures. Your interviews. Your work."

Cynthia-Rose felt cold. "So he saw me and decided he wants me." she said. "Like some property."

"No" her mother whispered. "Like a wife."

The word hit her like slap. "Wife?" Her legs felt weak. She sat back down slowly.

"How old is this man?" she asked.

Her mother hesitated.

 "Mama" Cynthia-Rose warned. "Fifty-five," her mother said.

Cynthia-Rose laughed loud, sharp, painful.

 "Fifty-five" she repeated.

"Mama, that man is older than Papa would have been." Her mother's eyes filled with tears.

"Your father is dead, Cynthia." The room fell quiet again. "And since he died" her mother continued, voice shaking, "life has not been kind to us."

Cynthia-Rose rubbed her temples. "So what exactly does this Chief Mba want?"

Her mother looked down. "Marriage."

 "No" Cynthia-Rose said firmly. "I won't do it."