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At Mangero, most people thought they knew me.46Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpD8TCIbiwM
“Quiet boy,” they would say.46Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8zmkQkI52b
“Always dull, always shy.”
That was their version of me—the reserved figure who spoke little, who kept to himself, who carried cartons of bottled water without fuss or laughter. But that was not who I truly was.
Once upon a time, before life hardened me, I had been open, lively, quick to make friends. I used to love talking, connecting, sharing. I used to trust. But prison had killed that version of me. Behind those walls, I learned silence was safer than words, and trust was a currency too expensive to spend. When I came out, I carried the silence like a shield. Then came the betrayal of the girl who made my heart beat, and the shield grew heavier.
It was around this time my mother’s words began to haunt me: “Most girls in Owerri are akunakuna.” At first, I had dismissed it as one of her exaggerations. But Mangero began to prove her right in ways I could not ignore.
I watched as some of the guys enticed the girls with sweet words and promises. They didn’t even hide their intentions—every laugh, every compliment was bait. And too often, it worked. The girls gave in, and by the next day, the whispers would spread like smoke. During breaks, I heard the men boast, their voices low but filled with pride.46Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5h0wk03iFX
“Na inside storeroom o,” one would brag.46Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz6jX44f6hO
The others laughed, slapping his back. “My guy, you too sharp!”
At first, I thought these were just empty words, men exaggerating to show off. But one night, while returning to fetch something from the factory floor, I saw it with my own eyes. In the dim light of the back storeroom, two shadows moved where no one should have been. At first I thought it was thieves—but the muffled giggles told another story. Coworkers. Married. Both of them.
I froze, shocked, my heart pounding, then quietly walked away. But I could not unsee it. The very same woman who prayed loudly in the mornings, who quoted Bible verses, was the one I had just caught pressed against a wall in secret sin. And the man with her? He was the same one who often judged others, calling them irresponsible.
It didn’t happen once. It happened many times. Different faces, different corners of the factory—hidden between stacks of cartons, in the shadows of the machines. By day, they were workers; by night, they were lovers of convenience.
The hypocrisy was overwhelming. The same people who mocked others for small mistakes were the ones living lives steeped in betrayal. The married women who should have been examples of virtue became stories whispered in shame. The men who pointed fingers at others were themselves drowning in their own lies.
And through it all, I stayed silent. Not because I was weak, but because I had seen enough in prison to know that exposing people only paints a target on your back. So I kept to myself, quiet, dull, shy—at least in their eyes.
What they didn’t know was that my silence wasn’t emptiness. It was armor. I was watching, observing, learning the truth hidden behind their masks.
Mangero was more than a workplace; it was a theater. Everyone wore a mask. Everyone played a role. And slowly, I realized a bitter truth: people are rarely who they pretend to be.
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and then Add to home screen.