ANGELICA

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Angelica glances at her phone to check the time. She’s not used to being out this late. Clutching her rosary for protection, she whispers her Hail Marys as she makes her way through the valley of darkness.

"Have mercy on me, Lord. Please send a car my way."

As if on cue, a car pulls up and stops. Without hesitation, she rushes inside, exclaiming, "Thank you, God!"

"Please, I’m stopping at the library," she informs the driver.

As a "JJC" unfamiliar with the city, she’s heard countless warnings about entering a stranger’s car. Realizing her mistake too late, she grips her rosary tighter, making sure the driver sees it.

Oh, Angelica, isn’t it too late for that?

Sensing her discomfort, the driver chuckles. "Calm down. I don’t bite. I’m just offering a ride. It’s too late for a lady to be standing alone on the road."

She reddens in embarrassment but relaxes slightly. That doesn’t mean you should stop praying, Auntie!

She arrives at her stop, thanks the driver, and hails an "Okada."

"400 naira," the bike man states.

"Ahn! For a street that’s just right here? Oga, if you’re not taking 250, please go."

"Oya, bring 300, and we move."

Angelica wants to argue, but the night is too dark for that. The ride usually costs 200, but she won’t risk walking or losing this driver over 100 naira.

"Let’s go."

On her way, her thoughts drift to the proposals from the 'big boys.'

"What’s the worst that could happen? I wasn’t born to suffer, abeg."

She gets off the bike, pays the driver, and storms into her house. Tossing her rosary and purse onto the bed, she picks up her rubber-banded Nokia. Seeing the missed calls, she hisses.

"Imagine! Good girl no dey pay, abeg!"

She takes a recharge card from her bag and dials a number. As the call connects, she glances in the mirror, her reflection staring back at her. Tears prick her eyes, but she blinks them away, forcing a smile.

"Hello…"

Angelica... She attends Catholic meetings with the devotion of St. Bernadette of the Immaculate Conception.

"Ave!"

"Maria!" she exclaims, waving to fellow Legion of Mary members. She steps into the chapel, removes her sandals, and bows before the altar.

Dear Angelica, does the Lord know what you’re doing?

She picks up a Bible and makes the sign of the cross.

"Angel!"

The loud whisper startles her. No one calls her that here. Ignoring it, she resumes her meditation.

"ANGEL!"

Oga, her name is Angelica, not Angel.

She pretends not to hear, but he moves closer.

"I knew it was you, Angel."

She stiffens.

"I’m sorry, you must be mistaken," she replies sharply.

"Oh no… It’s you. You’re known as the—"

Before he can finish, she turns to him, eyes blazing.

"I dare you to complete that sentence, and I will make sure you lose everything and everyone you care about."

With that, she rises abruptly, forgetting to genuflect before storming out.

How dare he?

Oh, Sister Angelica! The model Christian. The ideal wife for the brothers. The daughter-in-law every old woman prays for. Even the priest sees a Sister in her.

"Sister! Antho—"

"Padua!" she snaps, disappearing through the church doors.

Angelica... the stunning secretary, glides out of the elevator with coffee and files in hand. Her steps synchronize with Nina Simone’s "See Line Woman."

"Oh, Nina must have written this just for me," she muses, admiring her reflection in the glass doors.

"Hey, baby."

"Hey, darling," she responds effortlessly, as men hold their breaths watching her.

"Such a queen," they whisper.

This is her moment. She is who she believes she is.

Even the women take notice—some with admiration, others with envy. She doesn’t care.

"ANGELICA! My office. Now!"

Her supervisor’s voice cuts through the moment.

As she hurries forward, a familiar voice stops her.

"Hello, Angel. Nice thighs."

She stiffens.

Turning, she locks eyes with a smirking man.

Standing tall, she discreetly zips down her slit, covering her tattooed thighs, and walks into her boss’s office, pen and notepad in hand.

Angel…

"Gentlemen, the moment we’ve all been waiting for… Give it up for the Queen of the Night, QUEEN ANGEL!"

Smoke fills the stage as a tall, golden-skinned goddess emerges in a black leather coat, an afro wig framing her face, and a gold mask concealing her identity.

"Marry me, Angel!"

"I love you, Angel!"

Men throw wads of cash into the air as Tiwa Savage’s "Wanted" plays. She removes the coat, revealing golden lingerie against her glowing brown skin. She is a Nubian queen, captivating all.

Her eyes lock onto a familiar figure—one who watches intently, sipping his drink.

Descending the pole gracefully, she approaches him, grinning mischievously.

"Hi, Angel," he murmurs. "I’ve missed you. How about a private room? Give me that treatment only you’re best at."

He grasps her waist, whispering in her ear.

Taking his hand, she leads him away while he slips a wad of cash into her palm.

Angelica…

Our beloved, devout, hardworking, talented Queen sits alone.

She gazes out her window, lost in thought. How did she get here?

Her eyes fall on the heap of pills on her bed.

Can she continue? Should she? What is left of her?

To the world, she’s a "Baby Girl"—living the life. Yet, she doesn’t understand how she ended up like this.

What went wrong?

Oh, Angelica, you did this to yourself.

She glances at the pills once more.

"What use am I to myself?"

She stands, stepping toward the mirror—the place where it all began.

Looking at her reflection, she whispers,

"I’m sorry."

So am I, Angelica. So am I…

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