Onitsha doesn’t do slow beginnings.
By February, the “New Year” grace period has officially expired. While the rest of the world settles into a routine, Onitsha wakes up like a drumbeat. The festive dust has settled, the resolutions have been tested, and the market is back to its raw, unyielding rhythm. Engines cough, horns bark, and traders shout prices with the hope of getting sales. The River Niger sits nearby, calm and indifferent, while the city hustles like it’s running out of time.
Chidera Okafor stands behind a counter stacked with fabric and boxed shoes, her eyes fixed on a ledger that refuses to make sense.
She is thirty-one. Sharp, practical, stubborn in the way only first daughters become. She didn’t inherit her father’s business the way people inherit joy. She inherited it the way people inherit responsibility, with silent pressure and a hundred eyes watching to see if she will fail.
Her father, God rest him, had built Okafor & Sons Trading into something respectable: steady customers, reliable supply, good name. Then he died. And the business that looked strong from the outside began to reveal cracks like a wall after rain.
January was supposed to be the reset. The month to recount stock, settle debts, and start clean. But January came and went in a blur of empty promises.
Now, February is here, and the numbers have turned violent. The “new year” grace period is dead.
Her phone rings. Unknown number.
She ignores it.
It rings again.
She answers reluctantly. “Hello?”
A man’s voice, cheerful in a way that insults grief. “Madam Chidera. This is a reminder. Outstanding balance due. If you delay, penalties will apply.”
Her stomach drops. “Penalties for what? We are paying monthly.”
The man laughs lightly. “Madam, the interest accumulates daily.”
Interest.
The word sits in her ear like a curse. She ends the call quickly, then opens the ledger again as if staring harder will change reality.
A customer approaches, smiling. “Sister Chi, happy new year o. You get new Ankara?”
Chidera forces a smile. “Happy new year oo. We get.”
When the customer leaves, Chidera’s younger brother Emeka slips behind the counter, eyes anxious.
“Chi, I saw the email again,” he whispers. “That lender people… they say if we no pay, them go come lock shop.”
“Let them try,” Chidera says, but her voice isn’t as strong as she intends.
Emeka hesitates. “Daddy never told you about any of this?”
The question hits her like a slap.
Her father had always said the business was stable. That they were fine. That she shouldn’t worry.
But now worry is all they have.
She reaches under the counter and pulls out a brown envelope that has been sitting there for weeks, something an old staff member handed her after the burial.
“Your father said if anything happens, you should open this yourself.”
She has avoided it like a wound. But January bills do not respect grief.
She opens it.
Inside is a smaller notebook, old, worn, filled with her father’s handwriting. Not the usual customer ledger. This one feels… hidden. Like a private confession.
On the first page, her father has written one line:
“Chidera, if you are reading this, they have started.”
Her throat tightens.
She flips to the next pages and sees numbers, names, and strange labels: “facility,” “rollover,” “penalty,” “compound.”
Then a phrase she recognizes only vaguely:
“Non-interest option refused.”
Chidera’s heart beats faster.
Emeka leans in. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “But Daddy was fighting something.”
A commotion erupts outside.
Chidera looks up. Two men in tight shirts and confidence walk into the shop like they own air. Behind them, a third man holds a phone, recording.
The first man smiles. “Madam Chidera. Happy new year.”
Chidera stands slowly. “Who are you?”
The man gestures toward the street like the whole market is his witness. “We’re here to recover.”
“Recover what?” Chidera demands.
“Debt,” he replies, still smiling. “Your father signed. Interest has grown. January has started.”
Chidera’s voice hardens. “My father is dead.”
The man’s smile doesn’t move. “Debt doesn’t die.”
Her chest burns. Around them, people begin to gather. Market neighbours peek in. In Onitsha, shame spreads faster than fire.
Chidera takes a breath. “If you’re here to embarrass me, you can leave. We will pay what we actually owe, not what your interest has invented.”
The man steps closer. “Madam, don’t talk like you have options. This is the only warning we will give to respect your grief. The money should be paid as agreed with your father, or else…” He trails off, and gives a carton of fabrics a weird look. At the look, the second man goes to the carton and turns it upside down, with obvious effort. They look around one more time and leave.
Chidera sits on a bench beside the overturned carton, still holding her father’s notebook. She looks around the shop, and at her younger brother who had melted into a corner as soon as the men arrived. Her eyes drop to her father’s notebook again. She opens it and a note in the margin catches her eye.
“If they come, call Amina.”
A phone number is scribbled beside it.
Chidera freezes.
“Amina?” she murmurs.
Emeka whispers, coming out of his hiding place, “Who is Amina?”
Chidera doesn’t answer. She pulls out her phone, holding the notebook close like it’s a shield, and dials the number.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then a calm female voice answers. “Hello?”
Chidera’s voice trembles, but she forces strength into it. “Is this… Amina?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“My father… Okafor. He’s gone. He left something. They came here just now. They want to lock my shop.”
Amina’s voice sharpens, not loud, just focused. “Where are you?”
“Onitsha Main Market,” Chidera says. “They say interest has grown daily.”
Amina exhales once, controlled. “Do not sign anything. Do not agree to new terms under pressure. Tell them you want a full breakdown, and tell them you have requested a restructuring.”
Chidera sighs. “They say I don’t have options.”
Amina continues, voice steady. “You have options. Real options. But we must move quickly.”
Chidera’s grip tightens around the phone. “Options like what?”
“Asset-backed funding. Trade finance with clear profit, not compounding punishment,” Amina says. “If your business is real, it can be financed ethically. I’ll explain more soon.”
Chidera’s heart hammers, “Okay.”
Outside, the market noise continues like nothing is happening. That is the cruelty of public humiliation, life keeps moving while you are drowning.
Amina’s voice lowers over the phone. “Listen. If they lock your shop, you lose leverage. If you have their phone number, call them and tell them you want to meet them tomorrow morning at a neutral location with your accountant. Do not let them force you into a new rollover.”
Chidera swallows. “Okay.”
She ends the call and dials the number that called her earlier in the day to remind her of the payment. “I want to see a full breakdown tomorrow, and I want to meet at the chairman’s office. With witnesses.”
The person on the other end chuckles dryly. “Madam, you get live ooo”
Chidera swallows hard. “I’m only protecting myself.”
The line goes quiet for a few seconds. “Tomorrow,” he says. “But if you play smart, people go watch your disgrace.”
Chidera exhales shakily after hanging up.
Emeka looks at her. “Chi… who is Amina?”
Chidera looks back down at her father’s notebook. At the line: they have started.
“I don’t know yet,” she whispers. “But Daddy knew something was coming.”
Her phone buzzes.
A new message.
Unknown number.
Welcome, Chidera. Your father owed us. Now you do.
Her blood turns cold.
She looks out at the market, noisy, alive, normal, and she realizes; the fire has already started.
