She came after Papa fell from a palm tree and died. Mama had died of food poison a decade earlier.
Aunty Okwukweka came with a navy-blue Highlander that day, and changed my life instantly — exotic clothes for me and a promise to sponsor my education once we get to France.
It was a Dickensian building, with a reggae music blaring downstairs. A bevy of indecent girls were swaying their hips to the rhythm, along the hallways, and some johns were slapping their butts as they walked past.
After Aunty Okwukweka introduced me to them, they all chorused, ”Welcome, sister.”