Ouchi’s stomach growled again. Not the polite kind—the angry “you have not fed me since yesterday” kind. She stood in her tiny one-room apartment, barefoot on cold tiles, holding an empty pot like a trophy of poverty. “Don’t worry,” she muttered to the pot. “If shame could cook, you’d be full by now.”
The room was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that reminded you that you were alone, broke, and very hungry. The curtains were thin, the fan old, and the mattress looked like it had survived three recessions and one heartbreak. Ouchi was a graduate—not almost—a full graduate with a certificate and dreams. Yet here she was, arguing with cookware.
She walked into her so-called kitchen and opened the cupboard. Nothing. She opened it again, just in case food had appeared out of respect. Still nothing. Rice finished. Beans finished. Indomie finished. She counted on her fingers. Then she sighed deeply. “Even salt has relocated.”
Just as she bent down to check the pot one last time—because miracles sometimes hide at the bottom—her phone rang.
“Landlord!” Her heart jumped to her throat. “Got to beg,” she whispered before answering.
“Ouchi,” the voice thundered. “You think I’m running charity? This is my final warning. If I don’t see my rent this week, carry your load and leave my house.”
She tried to speak. The line went dead.
She stared at her phone, then at the pot, then back at the phone.
Slowly, like a robot with low battery, she walked back to her bed and sat down, still holding the empty pot. Minutes passed. Her mind traveled everywhere—her parents, job applications, rejection emails, unpaid bills, and her landlord’s loud voice echoing like a national anthem.
She didn’t even realize tears were rolling until one dropped inside the pot.
“See,” she sniffed. “Even the pot is crying with me.”
Taking a shaky breath, she picked up her phone. “I will beg him again,” she said, nodding to herself. “Begging has no expiration date.”
She typed carefully, pouring her soul into the message:
“Good evening, sir. Please, I’m begging you. I’m a graduate still searching for a job. Please give me small time. I will surely pay. Please don’t throw me out. God will bless you.”
She reread it twice, then pressed send.
A second later, she glanced at the contact name.
Her eyes widened. Her blood froze. Her soul left her body briefly and came back.
“This… this is not my landlord.”
She jumped up from the bed. “No, no, no.”
She checked again.
Unknown number.
She screamed. “I have begged a stranger!”
She fell back on the bed dramatically. “What kind of suffering is this? Even my shame is misbehaving.”
In a luxurious Nigerian interior that looked like it belonged in a magazine, Damalair Adabio stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, water dripping from his hair. The room smelled like wealth and expensive cologne.
Billionaire. CEO. Tycoon. And currently tired of life.
A new message. Unknown number.
He frowned and read.
Then he paused.
Then he read it again.
“Please don’t throw me out.”
He chuckled softly. “Landlord,” he muttered. “Since when did I own tenants?”
He leaned against the wall, suddenly serious.
The message wasn’t fake. It wasn’t desperate for fun. It was real.
And for the first time in weeks, his heart felt something other than betrayal and stress.
“Wrong number,” he said quietly. “But maybe right timing.”
He walked toward his bed, sat down, and stared at the phone. A trusted PA had betrayed him. A Dubai business dinner was approaching, and every billionaire would arrive with a woman by his side.
He exhaled.
Then typed.
Ouchi was busy insulting herself. “See you, university graduate that can’t even save number properly. Tomorrow you will mistakenly send ‘I love you’ to NEPA.”
Her phone beeped.
She ignored it.
It beeped again.
She hissed. “If it’s the landlord again, I will cry live on the phone.”
She looked.
Her eyes nearly popped out.
She read once. Twice. Thrice.
Her mouth opened slowly.
“Seven million dollars.”
She stood up sharply.
“The rainbow has seven colors,” she whispered with trembling lips. “That means my life is about to be colorful.”
She sat down again, breathing fast.
“This must be a scam.”
She paused.
“But if it’s a scam, let me be scammed small.”
“Oh, Ouchi,” she whispered to herself, “this money will change your life. I will get a new beautiful house and good food to eat. My landlord won’t disturb me again.”
She replied, accepting the contract.
Damalair sent her the location of his office.
They would meet so she could sign the agreement and start the job.
Ouchi did not sleep that night.
How could she?
Every time she closed her eyes, seven million dollars stood up, waved at her, and shouted, “Don’t dull!”
She sat on her bed, phone in hand, rereading the message for the twentieth time.
“This must be a scam,” she whispered again.
She reread it.
“But if it’s a scam, it’s a very polite scam.”
By morning, she had made up her mind.
She opened her wardrobe.
Correction. Her wardrobe opened itself in shame.
Two dresses. One faded. One more faded.
She held up the first. “No.”
The second. “No.”
She sighed. “Okay. We will manage.”
She wore a simple knee-length dress, neat but old, paired with her only decent flats. She tied her hair back carefully and stared at herself in the cracked mirror.
“Ouchi,” she said seriously, “today you are going to a billionaire’s office. Behave like somebody that has sense.”
Her stomach growled again.
“Later,” she hissed.
When she arrived at the address, she almost turned back.
The building was too tall. Too shiny. Too rich.
She tilted her head back until her neck hurt.
“Ah. Is this an office or heaven’s waiting room?”
The security man looked at her suspiciously.
“Who are you here to see?”
She swallowed. “Um, Mr. Damalair Adabio.”
The guard raised an eyebrow, looked at her slippers, then at her face.
“Do you have an appointment?”
She nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. Contract.”
The word “contract” entered his ear and unlocked the gate.
“Thank you, Jesus,” she whispered.
Inside, the air conditioning felt like it could erase sins. Glass walls. Italian furniture. People walking with purpose.
Before she could speak at reception, a deep voice came from behind.
“You must be the landlord message.”
She turned and froze.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Expensive suit. A face that looked like it had never begged anybody for anything.
Her brain short-circuited.
“I… I’m Ouchi.”
He smiled slightly. “I know. Please come in.”
She followed him like someone entering an exam hall she didn’t prepare for.
They sat.
“So,” he said calmly, “tell me. Why did you think I was your landlord?”
She laughed nervously. “Sir, hunger affects vision.”
He chuckled. “Fair answer.”
He explained everything clearly—PA duties, public appearances, Dubai trip, fake fiancée clause.
When he mentioned the money again, Ouchi blinked rapidly.
“Sir, please let me ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure this is not a prank? Because my village people are very active.”
He laughed.
“I assure you, Miss Ouchi, this is very real.”
She exhaled dramatically. “Okay. Because my heart was doing press-ups.”
He slid the contract toward her.
She read it carefully. Slowly.
Then she signed.
The moment her pen left the paper, she whispered, “Goodbye suffering.”
“What was that?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir. I was greeting my past.”
As she stepped out, a perfectly dressed woman leaned toward her.
“Don’t think because you’re new you can seduce the CEO.”
Ouchi blinked, then smiled politely.
“Madam, I came here to work, not to fall in love. Love does not pay rent.”
The woman scoffed.
“Also,” Ouchi added softly, “I’m tired. Please allow me rest.”
From his office, Damalair watched her walk away.
“She’s different,” he murmured.
And somewhere in Lagos, an empty pot sighed in relief because destiny had officially clocked in.