Chapter 20: We were a business model

Two days later, we meet in a quiet hotel lounge tucked behind one of Victoria Island's newer business towers. The kind of place people come to close deals or hide from the world. It feels right for what we're about to do.

Four of us. Four women. Each one a version of me.

Mariam and Gloria sit with us, flanking the meeting like warm bookends—firm, steady, protective.

The other women arrive one after the other. First is Jumoke, a soft-spoken dermatologist with tired eyes and a carefully structured composure. Then Hauwa, a real estate broker from Abuja who flew in wearing silence like armor. And last is Toyin sharp, feisty, almost defiant her voice the first to break the air.

"Well," she says, folding her arms as she sits. "I don't know if I'm more embarrassed or angry. But I figured I'd feel both better and worse if I met the rest of you."

I offer a small smile. "I think we're allowed to feel both. That's part of what they counted on our silence. Our shame."

Hauwa clears her throat. "I almost lost my home. Sold my car. Had to explain to my teenage son why we couldn't afford his school fees anymore. Because I trusted someone who told me I was brilliant. Because I believed a lie wrapped in attention."

The pain in her voice rings sharp and unfiltered.

"I gave Kolade access to my business account," Jumoke adds, her voice barely above a whisper. "He said he'd help me grow. That he had silent investors who liked to support female-owned clinics." Her hands tremble slightly. "I thought I was being smart."

"You were," I say softly. "You are. That's what makes this hurt more. We weren't foolish women. We were targeted ones."

The silence that follows is thick. Heavy with stories we haven't said yet, and wounds we still wear under expensive perfume and powder foundation.

"We weren't just marks," Toyin mutters. "We were a business model."

Mariam leans forward. "We have enough to build a joint legal case. I've already begun drafting a consolidated fraud suit. If you all sign on, it strengthens the impact. This becomes more than justice. It becomes precedent."

I nod. "We can't erase what they did. But we can decide what happens next."

There's a shift in the air then subtle, but real.

The women begin to talk more freely. We sip tea. Share timelines. Pieces of emails. Screenshots. We compare notes like survivors mapping a crash site.

By the end, we've formed something I didn't expect to find: a sisterhood. Born of fire, yes but bonded by truth.

+++

Back home that night, I sit in the study again.

The journal waits for me, half-filled already.

I open it and write:

Today, I met three women who survived the same storm I did. Each wore their pain differently, but we all carried the same wound. And none of us bled alone anymore. That matters.

I underline the last part twice.

Then I turn the page and begin drafting the opening for a workshop I've been quietly planning in the back of my mind a financial empowerment seminar for women, especially professionals who've lost everything and are starting again.

Maybe it's too soon.

Maybe it's exactly the right time.

I don't know yet. But I do know this: I can use what happened to build something stronger than the fall. A softer, sharper version of power. One rooted not in control or image but in wisdom.

+++

It's nearly midnight when my doorbell rings.

I check the camera. Gloria.

She's barefoot, hair in a scarf, holding a bottle of cold Zobo and a face full of panic.

I rush to open the door. "Gloria? What happened?"

She steps in, throws her arms around me, and hugs me tight.

I freeze for a second. Then slowly return the embrace.

She pulls back and whispers, "I was just overwhelmed. I needed… a place that felt safe. You don't have to say anything."

I guide her to the couch. "You came to the right place."

We sit in silence, side by side. Eventually, she begins to speak. About an ex. A moment she buried. A betrayal she never told me about. Different names. Same ache.

And suddenly I realize—maybe I'm not the only one learning how to turn a wound into a window.

+++

The next morning, I wake to sunlight and stillness.

No nightmares.

No sudden jolts of grief.

Just… morning.

I dress simply. Soft cotton top. Slacks. Flat shoes. No makeup.

I look in the mirror.

I see myself again.

Not the version I used to dress up in for meetings. Not the haunted eyes I wore for weeks. Just… me.

And I look enough.

I whisper, "Let's go."

And I step into the day, not with certainty but with courage.