Chapter 4 Pressure has a name

Cynthia-Rose woke up to a silence that didn't feel normal. No radio from the neighbor's room, no sound of her mother moving around, no morning noise. For a second, she thought light had gone and everyone was just managing quietly, but then she heard it, the uneven sound of breathing coming from the living room. Her heart skipped.

She rushed out of her room and froze. Her mother was on the floor, back against the wall, wrapper loose, face shiny with sweat. Her eyes looked tired, distant.

"Mama" Cynthia-Rose whispered, kneeling beside her. "What happened?"

Her mother tried to wave it off. "I just fainted a bit but I'm fine now."

"You're not fine" Cynthia-Rose said, already shaking. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Before her mother could answer, Chuka stepped out of his room. His eyes were red, his voice low. "She collapsed while praying," he said. "She told me not to call you."

Cynthia-Rose swallowed hard. "Mama, you can't protect me by hiding things like this."

Her mother avoided her eyes.

They took her to a small private clinic nearby. The doctor didn't shout or panic, but his tone was serious enough to scare Cynthia-Rose. High blood pressure, stress, fatigue. Words that sounded simple until he added, "If this happens again, it could be fatal."

"How much are the drugs?" Cynthia-Rose asked quietly.

The nurse wrote the amount on a paper and slid it across the table, ₦250,000.

Cynthia-Rose stared at the figure. Her mind went blank. She nodded slowly, pretending strength. "We'll find a way."

Outside the clinic, her mother held her arm tightly. "Please don't do anything because of me," she whispered.

Cynthia-Rose forced a weak smile. "Mama, everything I do is because of you." By the time they got home, her phone wouldn't stop buzzing. There were unknown numbers, missed calls and messages she didn't open. Then she saw his name, Chief Fredrick Mba. Her chest tightened, but she answered.

"I heard your mother is unwell," he said calmly.

"How did you know?" Cynthia-Rose asked sharply.

"I pay attention," he replied. "I've settled the hospital tests."

Her breath caught. "You did what?"

"I paid for it," he repeated. "The drugs will be delivered today."

Anger rushed through her. "We didn't ask for your help."

"No," he said evenly. "But you need it."

"This is pressure," she snapped. "You're forcing me."

There was a pause. "Life is forcing you," he said quietly. "I'm just standing where you can see me."

She ended the call with trembling hands.

Later that afternoon, the drugs arrived. Paid for. Neatly packaged. Her mother cried openly. Chuka thanked God. Neighbors whispered and peeked through curtains. Cynthia-Rose sat on her bed, staring at the wall, feeling like something inside her had cracked but refused to break completely.

That evening, Chief Fredrick Mba came himself. No convoy. No drama. Just a calm knock. The air in the room shifted the moment he stepped in.

"I hope you're feeling stronger," he said to her mother.

"Thank you, Chief," her mother replied, voice trembling with gratitude.

Cynthia-Rose stood stiffly. "Why are you here?"

"To speak with you," he said simply.

They sat. Silence filled the room until it became uncomfortable.

"I didn't plan this," he said eventually, looking at Cynthia-Rose. "But I won't pretend I didn't expect it. Poverty doesn't ask permission. It just takes."

Her jaw tightened. "So now you're explaining my life to me?"

"No," he replied calmly. "I'm explaining why hesitation is expensive." She stood up, anger spilling over.

"You think money makes you almighty." He looked at her steadily.

"No. It just makes suffering optional." The words landed hard.

"You're using my family," she said, voice shaking.

"I'm just protecting them" he replied. "It's up to you to like my methods or not."

Her mother spoke softly, "Cynthia, please."

Chief Fredrick Mba stood. "I'll be clear before I leave," he said. "Say no, and I walk away completely. No money, no protection, no silence from the world."

Her heart pounded. "And if I say yes?"

"This struggle ends." he said. "Immediately."

Silence swallowed the room. Her mother reached for her hand. "Whatever you choose, God knows your heart."

That night, Cynthia-Rose sat on her bed, scrolling through old pictures on her phone. Smiling photos, dreams, interviews where she spoke about independence. She laughed quietly. "What a life." she whispered.

Her phone buzzed. 'Have you decided?'

She typed, deleted, and typed again. 'What happens after I say yes?'

The reply came quickly. 'You stop fighting survival and start living with consequences.'

Another message followed. 'I won't rush you, but time isn't your friend.'

She looked at her sleeping mother, at Chuka's books stacked neatly on the table, then at the cracked walls that had witnessed their struggles for years. "I'm tired" she whispered.

She picked up her phone again and typed slowly. 'I need guarantees.'

The reply came after a pause. 'Come tomorrow. We'll talk.'

Cynthia-Rose dropped the phone and lay back, staring at the ceiling. She hadn't said yes. She hadn't said no either. But deep down, she knew the truth.

In life, hesitation was just another form of agreement.