The clinic on the outskirts of Lagos did not look like a place where a life could be purchased. That was the first thing Victoria thought.
It was a narrow two-storey building painted a tired shade of cream, with a blue sign promising maternal care and family health. A woman carrying a sleeping toddler passed Victoria on the steps. Inside, the reception smelled of disinfectant and baby powder.
For one absurd moment, Victoria wanted something sinister. A locked gate. Dark windows. A warning that would make leaving feel sensible. Instead a receptionist asked her to sit.
Mrs. Eze received her twenty minutes later. She was in her mid-fifties, thick-waisted and unsmiling, with calm eyes that suggested she had seen every form of human desperation and learned which ones could be profitable.
"Mrs. Adebayo."
Victoria's spine stiffened. "You know who I am?"
"You gave your name at reception."
"Of course."
Mrs. Eze did not smile. "Sit." The office was small. A framed certificate hung behind the desk. Beside it was a photograph of Mrs. Eze in nursing whites from years earlier. She looked younger but no kinder.
"You said you need a child."
Victoria clasped her handbag on her knees. "Yes."
"Adoption?"
"No."
Mrs. Eze waited.
Victoria's heart began to pound.
"There are women who cannot keep their babies," she said. "Sometimes arrangements are made."
"Arrangements."
"I was told you might know someone."
Mrs. Eze leaned back. "You understand what you are asking me?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
Victoria looked at her.
"I just did."
"No. You used three polite words so you can go home later and tell yourself you asked for paperwork." Mrs. Eze folded her arms. "Say what you want."
Heat climbed Victoria's neck.
She almost stood.
She imagined David coming home to find her gone from this place and never knowing how near she had come to becoming someone else.
Then Chief's voice returned.
The controlling interest passes to Kunle.
Not because David had failed. Because she had.
"I need a baby," she said.
"People who come to me usually do."
"A boy. A newborn. Healthy."
Mrs. Eze's expression did not change. Victoria forced herself to continue. "And everyone must believe I gave birth to him."
The words remained in the room after she finished speaking. Mrs. Eze tapped one finger against the desk.
"This is not buying a dress. You cannot return a child when fear catches you."
"I won't."
"It is expensive."
"I can pay."
"It is dangerous."
"I said I can pay."
"Money is not the only danger, Mrs. Adebayo."
Victoria held her gaze. "I have already lost enough. I will not lose my marriage too." Something like recognition passed through the older woman's eyes. Not sympathy. Recognition.
"There may be someone," she said.
Victoria's stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"Her name is Amara Okafor. Twenty-three. Seven months pregnant. Unmarried. Staying with a cousin in Mushin after trouble with the baby's father."
"Does she want to give the child away?"
Mrs. Eze's pause was brief.
Too brief for Victoria to challenge without also challenging herself.
"She wants security."
"That isn't what I asked."
"You came for a child, not a biography. People pay me because they do not want the biography."
Victoria looked down at her handbag. Mrs. Eze continued. "The father is out of Lagos for now. Papers can be arranged. A doctor can be paid. Your pregnancy would need to begin immediately."
"I do not want to meet her."
This time Mrs. Eze smiled.
It was not pleasant.
"That makes this easier for you?"
Victoria did not answer.
Mrs. Eze opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper with numbers written on it.
The amount made Victoria inhale.
"Half now," the woman said. "Half after delivery."
Victoria stared at the figure.
There it was: a price attached to the line she had crossed.
She could still stand up.
She could go home and tell David everything. Tell him she had almost done something unforgivable because she was terrified of becoming the reason he lost the future his father had built for him.
Instead she opened her handbag.
"How soon do you need the first payment?"
Mrs. Eze's eyes settled on her.
"Now you are asking the right question."
Victoria transferred part of the money before leaving. In the corridor she passed a young woman holding an antenatal card and laughing into her phone. For one dizzy second Victoria wondered if it was Amara.
She stopped.
The woman turned. She was older than twenty-three and visibly only a few months pregnant. Not Amara.
Relief came first.
Victoria hated herself for it.
Outside, she sat behind the wheel without starting the car. Mrs. Eze had given her instructions about dates, clothing and the doctor who would confirm a pregnancy that did not exist. Victoria placed both hands on the steering wheel. She had expected crossing a moral line to feel dramatic.
Instead Lagos traffic moved past the clinic gates as if nothing at all had happened.
She drove home carrying a receipt she would later burn.