You Can Get Back at Them by Peace Anazodo
Synopsis
“Osas is back, this time she’s got a plan.”– Bookause Reviews.
“Anazodo lays out the plot beautifully, you will never see the next scene coming.”– Ray Anyasi.
Osas Ediku is a woman forged in the fires of betrayal. Still reeling from the public humiliation orchestrated by the elite, she is haunted by the ghosts of her past: Edafe’s cold-blooded treachery and the deafening, soul-crushing silence from Bayo—the one man she thought would stand by her side.
Isolated and desperate, Osas clings to Esther, her only remaining ally. But Esther’s friendship comes with a price—a constant, suffocating pressure to turn her back on the dark, corrupt world of the ultra-wealthy. As Osas struggles to find an honest livelihood that would make her mother proud, she begins to wonder: Is Esther protecting her, or is she hiding something?
The game changes when a cryptic invitation from her mother pulls Osas back to the volatile heart of Nigeria. There, beneath the glittering surface of high society, she is ushered into a world of buried secrets and dangerous leverage. For the first time, Osas isn’t the victim—she’s the hunter.
With a “precious opportunity” to dismantle the empires of the men who broke her, Osas must decide how much of her soul she is willing to trade for vengeance. In a world where power is the only currency, she’s finally ready to collect her debt.
1
The service elevator at the Royal Meridian groaned as it descended. Osas peeled off her damp latex gloves, her fingers wrinkled and smelling of industrial bleach. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the fifth time in twenty minutes.
Esther: Osas babe! Tell me you’re on the Jubilee line already. I can’t do Selfridges alone, the queue for the personal shoppers is insane today!
Osas wiped a smudge of glass cleaner off her forehead, leaning against the cold metal wall of the lift. She typed back with trembling thumbs.
Osas: Just clocked out. On my way.
Esther: Perfect! Don’t forget, we still have to look at the suitcases. I can’t leave anything behind. Abuja isn’t ready for me!
“Abuja isn’t ready for me,” Osas muttered, her voice flat. She shoved the phone into her bag, right next to her folded-up Master’s certificate she’d been carrying around for a “lucky charm” that had clearly run out of magic.
She burst through the staff exit into the biting London air. The 4:00 PM deadline felt like a countdown. She sprinted toward the tube station, weaving through crowds of commuters who didn’t give the girl in the faded hoodie a second glance.
The apartment in Canary Wharf smelled of expensive candles and leather. Open suitcases littered the floor like open wounds, spilling out designer labels and stiff, new traditional fabrics, aso-oke and lace that cost more than Osas’s monthly rent.
Esther stood in the centre of the chaos, holding up two different pairs of gold heels. “You’re late! But thank God you’re here. I’m literally drowning in options.”
“The bus was stuck at Elephant and Castle,” Osas lied, trying to catch her breath. Her lungs still burned from the run.
“Ugh, London transport is becoming so ghetto, I won’t miss it,” Esther said, tossing the shoes onto a pile of silk. She grabbed Osas’s shoulders, beaming. “Can you believe it? Two days. I’m heading straight into the theatres with little time to settle in. But I’m not complaining. Osas, the allowances are life-changing.”
Osas felt a familiar, bitter heat rise in her chest. She forced a smile, the skin around her eyes tight. “That’s… that’s huge, Esther. Truly.”
Esther turned back to her closet, missing the way Osas’s jaw tightened. “Anyway, enough about me. Help me choose. Which of these says, ‘I’m the new sherif in town’ but also ‘I’m humble enough to be here?”
Osas looked at the mountain of wealth on the bed. She thought of the bleach stains on her own jeans. “The gold ones,” Osas said, her voice dropping an octave. “They’re harder to ignore.”
They hit the street shortly after. The afternoon was a haze of heavy glass doors and the scent of expensive perfume. They moved through Bond Street like two different species, Esther, the predator, hunting for the perfect aesthetic for her new life; and Osas, the peasant, carrying the bags.
“Oh, Osas, look at this unit!” Esther squealed in a boutique hair salon, holding up a Swiss lace wig that felt like spun silk. “This is ‘Chief Medical Director’s favourite surgeon’ hair, don’t you think?”
Osas checked the price tag. It was more than two months of her rent in Peckham. “It’s beautiful, Esther. It’ll suit the Abuja humidity.”
“Exactly!” Esther beamed, tossing it into the ‘yes’ pile without a second thought.
They moved to a makeup studio where Esther bought kits as if she were stocking a pharmacy. Then came the perfumes, heavy ouds and delicate florals. By 6:00 PM, Osas was draped in shopping bags, the cords cutting into her palms, which were still tender from the morning’s scrubbing.
At the Nail Bar – South Molton Street. The salon was a sanctuary of white marble and soft lo-fi beats. Esther settled into a plush velvet throne, her feet already sinking into a warm, rose-petal-infused bath.
“Seriously, Osas,” Esther said, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. “Sit down. Get the deluxe pedicure. My treat. Look at your cuticles, babe—London winter has been colonizing your hands.”
The nail technician looked up, waiting for Osas to take the seat.
Osas looked down at her hands. They were raw, the skin around the nails stained by the faint, stubborn blue of the industrial cleaner she’d used at the hotel. If she put her hands in that water, the bleach would probably sting. But more than that, she couldn’t bear the thought of Esther “charitably” scrubbing the stains of Osas’s failure away.
“I’m fine, Esther,” Osas said, her voice stiff. “I don’t need those. I’ll just wait.”
“Don’t be like that! It’s just a pedicure. We used to do this all the time at Uni.” Esther leaned back, closing her eyes as the technician started filing. “You’re so stubborn lately. It’s like you’re punishing yourself just because things are a bit slow for you right now.”
Slow. The word echoed in Osas’s head. My life is a stagnant pool, and you think it’s just a slow tide.
“I’m not punishing myself,” Osas said, sitting on a hard wooden stool near the window, far from the pampering. “I’m just staying focused. Besides, I have a lot of work to do when I get home.”
Esther shrugged. Osas watched a drop of red polish fall onto Esther’s toenail. It looked like a bead of blood.
After they were done with the shopping and beauty fix, they drove back to Esther’s. The atmosphere in the Canary Wharf flat had shifted from the frantic energy of the shops to a heavy, artificial intimacy. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Thames, the city lights reflecting like scattered diamonds—a view Osas knew she’d never see from her own cramped room in Peckham.
After their showers, the air smelled of Esther’s expensive Moroccan oils. They sat on the oversized bed, surrounded by the open suitcases that looked like gaping mouths waiting to be fed.
Esther leaned back against a mountain of pillows, her freshly manicured hands cradling a glass of wine. She looked at Osas, who was sitting at the edge of the mattress, still feeling the phantom ache of the mop in her shoulders.
“You know, Osas,” Esther started, her voice soft, almost maternal. “I really have to say it. I respect you so much for how you’ve handled these last two years.”
Osas didn’t look up from the suitcase she was helping to zip. “Respect me? For what?”
“For the hustle. For the dignity,” Esther said, gesturing vaguely. “A lot of girls in your position, Masters degree, no job, London rent staring them in the face, they would have crawled back. They would have called Edafe or his father and begged. Or worse, they would have let those boys use them just to get a flight back home.”
Osas felt a sharp spike of heat behind her eyes. “You think I’d beg them?”
“I’m saying I’m glad you didn’t,” Esther sighed, swirling her wine. “Because I’ll be honest with you, those boys? Edafe, Bayo, even my brother, Paul? They have zero respect for you, Osas. After they cut the deal for the Ministry positions, the way they talked about you… it was disgusting. To them, you weren’t much of a thing to care about. You were just the ‘fine girl’ they hung out with. They see women as objects, or ornaments. Especially now that they have a little power.”
Osas finally looked at her, her gaze icy. “Is that what they said? That I was just an ornament?”
“And more,” Esther whispered, leaning in as if sharing a sacred secret. “They thought you were ‘easy.’ Edafe told them about that night. They figured if you got desperate enough, you’d eventually come to one of them for a ‘favour.’ Cutting them off for good, taking that cleaning job… it was the most dignified thing you could have done. You kept your soul, Osas. Even if you have to scrub floors for it.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Esther meant it as a compliment, but to Osas, it sounded like a eulogy for her career. Esther was essentially saying: I’m glad you’re poor and scrubbing toilets, because at least you aren’t a slut like they thought you were.
“They really think I’m that weak?” Osas asked, her voice dangerously calm.
“They’re boys with money, Osas. They don’t think,” Esther said, reaching out to pat Osas’s hand—the hand that was still red from bleach. “But don’t worry. I’m going to be right there in the Abuja. I’ll keep an eye out for you when opportunities arise.”
Esther drifted off a few minutes later, the wine and the exhaustion of shopping finally pulling her under. She left her phone charging on the nightstand, right next to Osas’s head.
Osas stayed awake. She watched the green light of Esther’s phone pulse in the dark. Dignified. Soul. Objects. The words tumbled in her mind.
She realized then that Esther wasn’t just a bystander; she was the beneficiary of their sexism. She had stayed “in” not by playing their game but by naturally belonging, while Osas was out because she was a threat.
The dim light of the bedside lamp cast long, amber shadows across the room. Esther took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes trailing over Osas with a mixture of pity and genuine admiration.
“Have you heard from Yelen lately?” Esther asked, her voice dropping into that gossipy, late-night register. “Your old roommate? I saw her posting from a yacht in Dubai last week. Head-to-toe Chanel.”
Osas felt a familiar pang in her chest, not of jealousy, but of a deep, hollow exhaustion. “Yelen? No. She hasn’t picked up my calls in months. Since she made that… ‘arrangement’ with Edafe, she’s been avoiding me like I’m a debt collector.”
Esther gave a dry, knowing chuckle. “I’m not surprised, babe. Yelen knows what she did. She traded her loyalty for a seat at the table, and now that she’s a ‘rich girl,’ she can’t look you in the eye because you’re a walking reminder of her conscience.”
Osas looked away, staring at her own reflection in the darkened window. “I don’t get it, Esther. Why does everyone treat me like I’m disposable? Like I’m some bridge they cross and then burn behind them?”
Esther set her glass down and turned fully toward Osas, her expression softening. She reached out, tucking a stray braid behind Osas’s ear.
“It’s because you’re a threat, Osas. Look at yourself,” Esther said, her voice firm. “I’ve always said that Kelly Rowland is the most beautiful woman alive, but you? You’re Kelly Rowland with insane curves. You have that face that makes people stop talking when you walk into a room.”
Osas opened her mouth to protest, but Esther held up a hand.
“No, listen. It’s a curse in our world. Girls envy you because they know they can’t compete with that kind of natural presence. They see you and they want to dim your light just so they can feel seen. And the men?” Esther sighed, a look of genuine disgust flickering across her face. “Men like Edafe and Bayo… they don’t know what to do with a woman who is both brilliant and beautiful. Their brains short-circuit. They can’t think of anything else to do with you other than sexualize you. They’d rather keep you at a distance, or under their thumb, than admit you’re smarter than them. To them, you aren’t a colleague. You’re a prize they couldn’t win, so they decided to break it instead.”
Osas sat in silence, the words sinking in like lead. She had spent two years wondering what was wrong with her strategy, her CV, her approach. She hadn’t realized that to the “group,” her very existence was an affront to their ego.
“So that’s it then?” Osas whispered. “I’m just a ‘prize’ that’s currently at the bottom of a bargain bin?”
“For now,” Esther said, yawning as she slid under the heavy duvet. “But that’s why you have to stay dignified. Let them see you’re not for sale. Eventually, someone will value the brain behind the face. Just… give it time.”
Esther’s breathing slowed as she drifted off, leaving Osas alone with the hum of the air conditioner and the weight of the “compliment.”
Osas looked at her hands, the bleach-stained hands of a woman with a Master’s degree. She wasn’t Kelly Rowland. She wasn’t a prize. She was a woman who had been systematically erased by people she once called family.
Esther had asked Osas against the wishes of every cell in her body to accompany her to the airport. Osas said yes instantly but inside she was screaming and kicking. The drive to Heathrow was a haze of grey London sky and the constant, rhythmic hum of tires on the asphalt. Esther was in the passenger seat, a whirlwind of nervous energy, checking her passport every ten minutes and scrolling through photos of the apartment her family had secured for her in Maitama.
“Oh, Osas, look at the kitchen!” Esther shoved her phone toward Osas’s face while she was trying to navigate a tricky lane change near the M25. “Marble countertops. I told my mum I wouldn’t move into the staff quarters unless there was a borehole and a dedicated transformer. I’m dread the ‘Up NEPA’ life, honestly.”
“It’s beautiful, Esther,” Osas said, her voice on autopilot.
Inside, Osas was drowning. Every mile closer to the airport felt like a mile further away from her own life. She thought about the shift waiting for her tomorrow, the smell of ammonia, the heavy carts, the “invisible” status she wore like a second skin.
Environmental Sustainability. That was what her degree said. She had spent a year researching carbon credits and oil spill mitigation in the Niger Delta, dreaming of working for Chevron, Shell, or a massive NGO like the UN Environment Programme. She had sent out over two hundred applications. Some ignored her; others sent automated rejections that felt like tiny stabs to the heart.
Is this it? she wondered, gripping the steering wheel. Is the universe telling me that my brain doesn’t matter?
She glanced at Esther, who was now reapplying her Dior lip oil. Esther was a surgeon; her path was set. But Osas knew she couldn’t stay in this cleaning loop much longer. Her pride was beginning to fray at the edges.
Then, the thought she had been fighting for months finally took hold: Yelen.
Yelen had been her roommate during the first half of the Master’s program. She was sharp, ambitious, and, crucially, not Nigerian. She didn’t have the baggage of the “childhood friend” group. She hadn’t been part of the betrayal two years ago; she had simply stepped into the vacuum they left behind. When the boys offered Yelen a way in, she took it. Now, Yelen was “International Consultancy money” personified.
She’s a woman, Osas reasoned, her mind racing as they pulled into the Departures drop-off zone. She won’t ask me for what the boys would ask for. She knows how hard I worked. Maybe if I just… swallow my pride. Maybe if I plead.
“We’re here,” Osas said, the car idling.
“Don’t look so sad!” Esther chirped, leaning over to give Osas a scented hug. “I’ll be back to visit, or better yet, I’ll be sending for you soon. Keep your head up, Kelly Rowland with the curves.”
Osas watched Esther haul her designer suitcases onto a trolley and disappear through the sliding glass doors of Terminal 5.
Standing by the car, surrounded by the fumes of jet fuel and the rush of people going places, Osas pulled out her phone. She opened her chat with Yelen. The last message was from six months ago, a “Happy Birthday” from Osas that had been “Read” but never answered.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
“Hey Yelen. I know it’s been a while. I’m in a tight spot and I was wondering if we could talk? I’m looking for openings in the sector…”
She deleted it. Then she typed:
“Yelen, I need a way out. Please.”
The ping of the notification felt like an electric shock. Osas was still in the car, idling in the short-stay parking lot, when the three dots appeared and vanished, then reappeared.
Yelen: Tomorrow. 2:00 PM. The Wolseley, Piccadilly. Don’t be late, I have a flight to Milan at 5.
Osas stared at the screen. The Wolseley. It was a place where billionaires had breakfast and high-stakes deals were signed over silver teapots. It was the polar opposite of the supply closet at the Royal Meridian.
Her heart hammered. She checked her work schedule. Tomorrow at 2:00 PM, she was supposed to be deep-cleaning the spa showers on the fourth floor. Martha had already warned her about her “wandering mind”; asking for a shift change now was professional suicide.
She didn’t care.
She opened the employee portal and found Martha’s number.
Osas: Martha, I’m so sorry, but an urgent family matter has come up for tomorrow afternoon. I won’t be able to make my 12-6 shift. I can make it up on Saturday.
She hit send before she could talk herself out of it. The reply was almost instantaneous.
Martha: If you aren’t here at 12, don’t bother coming in on Monday. Or ever. We have ten people lined up for your spot, Osas. Choose wisely.
Osas looked at Martha’s threat, then back at Yelen’s invitation. One represented a mop and a paycheck that barely covered her groceries; the other represented a door, however narrow, back into the world she belonged in.
“I choose me,” Osas whispered to the steering wheel.
