06/04/2026
Double Door
Chapter One: The Landlord
Oh Landlord, why have you chosen to be Lord over money?
Oh Landlord, where have you thrown your conscience?
Money is good. Money is important. But money is not Lord.
Oh Landlord, all fingers are important but not equal.
Oh Landlord, nothing comes from where anything goes.
Oh Landlord, nothing can come from nothing.
Oh Landlord, the wealth you acquire today can never give you health.
Oh Landlord, do not forget the Landlord of your soul.
The yard sat at the edge of town, its walls painted in peeling white. The air hung heavy with the smell of fried yam and rotting leaves, a scent that clung to clothes and skin alike. Here, people of different characters lived under one roof—the so-called landlord presiding as a king over a kingdom of disorder.
The yard had two names: one official, one whispered. Officially, it was Any Way You Like It. Among tenants, it was simply Anything Goes. And indeed, it did go—every sin, every folly, every petty ambition found space in that yard.
In this yard, the learned and unlearned coexisted uneasily. The middle class and the poor rubbed shoulders. But the landlord had a singular devotion: money. It was the object of his worship, his obsession, his god. No prayer, no conscience, no morality could divert him from this pursuit.
Mr. Chimauche, a taxi driver, was one of the tenants. Though small in stature, he carried the weight of responsibility in his broad shoulders. Every day he drove his small, battered cab, answering to a car owner who cared little for his struggles. After paying rent for the car, the driver’s meager earnings barely fed his family. He often returned home exhausted, knowing that the landlord’s shadow awaited him, demanding payments that no small income could satisfy.
Their home—if one could call it that—was a single bedroom apartment shared by sixteen tenants. Inside, the floor was worn and uneven. The bathroom was shared among three families, with a single pit toilet serving the rest. Privacy was nonexistent; laughter, quarrels, and cries blended into a daily cacophony. A child’s wail echoed, a husband’s argument ricocheted, and the landlord’s threats loomed over them all.
It was in this harsh, crowded environment that Akwaugo grew up. Her father feared for her future. In a yard where men exploited women, where children were corrupted by bad habits, where nothing sacred survived, raising a young girl with values was an uphill battle. But Mr. Chimauche was determined. He spoke often to Akwaugo:
"Never let your eyes lose sight of honor, my child. Never trade your conscience for comfort. Remember, the world will try to pull you into the dirt, but you are meant for better."
Yet the landlord had his ways. He was a man of charm, deceit, and cruelty. He slept with tenants’ wives, demanded extortionate rent, and punished those who dared defy him. Mr. Chimauche owed eight months’ rent—a debt that the landlord used as a weapon. One afternoon, as Mr. Chimauche rested under the shade of a mango tree, the landlord appeared, looming like a storm cloud.
"Pay me by tomorrow," he demanded, voice low and menacing. "Or leave."
Mr. Chimauche begged for mercy, explaining that he had children to feed, bills to pay, and a heart burdened with responsibility. The landlord’s expression softened momentarily, but only to harden again. That night, Mr. Chimauche returned to his room to find his few belongings thrown into the yard. Plates, pots, mattresses, and clothes—everything scattered, as though a storm had passed.
It was a moment of despair. He walked among the scattered remnants of his life, thinking of his daughter Akwaugo, whose childhood innocence he had tried so desperately to protect. He could no longer provide her the shelter she deserved. His mind turned to Amatta, a nearby town where wealthy families resided. Perhaps there, someone would sponsor her education and safeguard her future.
The next morning, with a heavy heart, Mr. Chimauche carried Akwaugo to Chief Omenjo’s house. He had heard stories of the man’s wealth, but not of his cruelty. Desperation guided his steps more than discernment. The decision was made in hope: if the girl was to have a future, it had to be now.
"Take care of her," he pleaded, eyes glistening. "Educate her. Protect her."
Akwaugo, unaware of the world’s harsh realities, clutched her father’s hand, trusting that the man before her was a guardian. Little did she know, her path was about to be riddled with trials that would test her resilience and shape her destiny.
As Mr. Chimauche returned to his village, the yard behind him faded into memory, but its lessons remained—a stark reminder of survival, poverty, and the corrupting power of greed.
That night, under the soft glow of a flickering lantern, Akwaugo sat in her new room. She listened to the whispers of the house, the creaking floors, and the distant hum of the city. She wondered about her future, about school, about the strange man who now claimed responsibility for her. Her thoughts drifted to her mother’s stories—tales of courage, honor, and wisdom—and she clung to them as a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.
And so began Akwaugo’s journey: a path through shadows toward light, where the forces of greed, ambition, and power would collide with innocence, courage, and the will to survive.
