Sunlight streams in through bloody white blinds, over a man on a matching bed whose head is a punctured can of tomato soup.
It rests on hands shoving bundles of crisp naira notes into a black duffel bag spacious and sturdy enough to carry a drugged virgin into the offshore home of a man who enjoyed her watermelons, her tightness, her defiance.
She tucks a warm gun in the waistband of her jeans and grabs the duffel bag.
Every day for the trafficker, one day for the pregnant girl who shoots him in the head. Or isn’t that the saying?