The Unspeakable Things Saddam Hussein Did During His Reign

The Unspeakable Things Saddam Hussein Did During His Reign

It’s hard to believe, but there was  a time when Saddam Hussein was popular   with a lot of people in Iraq.

He came to  power in the 1970s as the “man behind the   throne” of Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr, the  fourth president of Iraq, and in 1979,   pushed an aging al-Bakr out of office  and became president himself.

Hussein began spending millions of dollars on  infrastructure and education.

He nationalized   Iraq’s oil production, which did not please  many people outside the country, but gained   himself and his country immense wealth.

Hussein’s vision for Iraq was of a secular   Arab republic which included Syria, with whom he  was allied for a time, and to achieve his goals,   he was willing to do anything – spend money –  and kill or punish millions of people.

Welcome to History on Fleek! Today we’ll be  telling you about the incredibly vicious dictator   of Iraq, Saddam Hussein.

Saddam’s rise to power   Hussein was born in Tikrit, Iraq, the town  near where he was found in a hole in the group   in 2003 by US troops during the American  invasion of Iraq.

When Hussein was born,   Iraq and much of the rest of the Middle East  was controlled by European powers.

Iraq was   controlled by the British through a puppet king,  Faisal II.

Neighboring Syria was controlled by   the French.

In both of these countries, large  nationalist movements developed after WWII.

Saddam was a “Baathist,” an international  party or organization that called for a   unified Arab republic running westward from Iraq  to Egypt.

Some Baathists hoped that someday the   Middle East and mostly Arab North Africa  would be united under their banner.

In the second part of the 1950s, Arab  nationalism swept the Middle East.

The   movement’s icon was Egyptian president Gamel  Abdel Nasser, himself an Arab nationalist,   and an avowed enemy of Israel – the “new” Jewish  state created in 1948.

Arab anti-Semitism was a   uniting force in the Arab world, and the  Iraqis and Saddam were part of it.

On July 14th, 1958, general Abd al-Qasim  overthrew the Iraqi king and took power   himself.

Though he was not a Baathist,  Qasim included them in his cabinet,   and enjoyed their support – for a very short time.

In October 1957, a Baathist assassination team,   which had included an untrained Saddam at  the last moment, tried to kill Qasim because   he had announced an alliance with the Iraqi  Communist Party, at that time a major force,   at least in the capital, Baghdad.

The communists  were opposed to the Baathist idea of pan-Arabism,   and that put Qasim in the Baathist’s sites.

We know that Saddam was one of the men who   pulled the trigger, and they thought they had  killed Qasim, but had only wounded him.

By all   independent accounts, Saddam could have killed  him but began to panic and his shots were wild.

Believing they had killed Qasim, the Baathists  fled, only to find out he had survived.

Saddam   and the others.

Hussein fled to Syria, then to  Egypt.

Six members of the killing squad or the   plot against Qasim were arrested, and sentenced  to death, but spent years in prison instead.

In Egypt, Saddam finished his high school  education and pursued a career as a lawyer,   but never passed the Egyptian equivalent of the  BAR exam.

One good thing happened for Hussein,   though.

In Egypt, he met one of the founders  of the Baathist movement, fellow Iraqi   Michel Aflaq.

He became close to Aflaq, which  protected him from a purge in the Baath Party   after the botched assassination attempt.

In 1968, the Baath Party replaced the military   as the rulers of Iraq.

By the mid-1970s, Saddam  was actually a popular figure, at least among many   Arabs in the country.

He had been put in charge of  strengthening the party’s position in the country,   which he did through internal maneuvering  but also a series of domestic programs,   including education and more job opportunities  for women.

The Baathists also limited the role   of religion in government and the law.

But, Iraq wasn’t and isn’t a completely Arab   country, and many of the conservative religious  elements in the nation disliked the Baathists’   policies towards religion and women.

Moreover,  within Iraq, there had long been divisions:   Kurdish people wanting independence or autonomy,  Sunni against Shi’a Muslims, clan rivalries and   local conflicts, nomad herders against farmers,  communists against everyone else, and more.

Baathism was a secular, pan-Arab movement, and  what’s more, as time went by, the idea rose in   Iraq, mainly with Saddam, that Iraq should be  the center of a Baathist Arab nation – as he   and many others believed that Iraq, home of the  some of the earliest civilizations in history,   was also the birthplace of the Arabs.

This  frequently put him at odds with his off-and-on
ally, Syria, which eventually became an enemy.

Baathism did not tolerate opposition and is   commonly compared to Nazism and fascism in many  ways, especially involving ethnic pride.

The schism between Sunni and Shia Muslims is  a long and bloody one, but suffice it to say   Saddam and most of the Baathists were Sunni.

This  disadvantaged Saddam, at least in numbers – about   62% of Iraqis are Shia.

Sunnis make up most, about  30-34%, with the rest consisting at the time of a   small percentage of Christians and Jews as well  as other Muslim and native belief systems.

Not being a democratic party, the only way for  the Baathists to remain in power was through   fear.

When Saddam became THE power in Iraq by the  later 1970s, he set up a cult of personality – and   a police state that many historians consider  totalitarian.

It was said that 1/3 of the country   was always watching the other two-thirds.

Saddam had a wide-ranging intelligence and police   network.

The most feared institution was the  “Mukabarat” – the secret police and its many   branches.

From 1978-1991, Saddam used a “carrot  and stick” approach to ruling.

He bribed many and   ensured monies and projects were distributed to  his core followers, or people he believed could   be won over.

He used tremendous amounts of oil  money in the late 70s and 80s to enrich himself   and his close and extended family.

He also began a  vast military buildup and a costly war with Iran,   which had become a Shia-dominated Islamic  state in 1979.

The war cost upwards of 500,000   lives or more and ended with the borders and  the governments of the two countries remaining   precisely the same as before the war.

The war did not make Saddam a popular man,   and opposition to him increased, partially funded  by Iran and Syria.

It’s important to note that   Iran was a bitter enemy of the United States  and that the US had sent millions of dollars   in weapons to support Saddam in his struggle  against Iraq.

Donald Rumsfeld, who would serve   in both Bush administrations, visited Iraq and,  on at least one famous occasion, met with Saddam   and shook his hand.

In 2003, Rumsfeld would be  Secretary of Defense, spearheading the effort to   invade Iraq and topple Saddam.

Punishment and Killing   Some of Saddam’s oldest and most dedicated enemies  were religious leaders.

One of them was the Shia   leader Mohamed-Sadiq al-Sadr, father of the  leader of one of today’s most powerful political   and religious groups in Iraq.

Al-Sadr and his  followers wanted to set up a government based   on the teachings of Islam, something which the  Baathists and especially Saddam and his family,   now holding immense power and wealth in their  hands, were vehemently opposed to.

Once Saddam had control of the police and  the military, opponents and dissidents began   to be killed, many of them publicly.

At the beginning, these killings were   somewhat limited and targeted.

A man would  be gunned down in the street by the police,   or Baathist spies close to the target would  take him out.

This was the case with al-Sadr,   who was killed, along with two of his sons in a  drive-by shooting as they were leaving a mosque.

This had the effect of increasing divisions  within Iraq between the two main Muslim sects,   religious figures and the regime, and also within  large and complicated clan relationships.

This killing and others caused many people  to flee the country and criticize and oppose   the regime from overseas.

That’s  when things get really bad.

Saddam began ordering the kidnapping and  punishment of family members of overseas   opposition figures in an attempt to silence  them.

Wives were sexually assaulted – sometimes   in front of their families.

These assaults were  often videotaped and sent to opposition figures   overseas.

Amnesty International recorded instances  of carts full of eyeless, pale bodies being   dropped off at the homes of family members.

Anyone suspected of opposition to Saddam was   arrested and most often punished.

1000’s of  people were taken and never seen again.

By the   late 1980s and early 90s, Saddam’s two sons, Uday  and Qusay, had been given immense power, though   the quieter and more menacing Qusay was the real  power – he controlled the secret police and many   other government organizations, including a large  paramilitary and the famous “Republican Guard,”   the elite branch of the military.

Uday was thought  to be mentally disturbed – an arrogant psychopath
who derived pleasure from killing and punishment.

Saddam cared for Qusay.

He apparently barely   tolerated Uday and at one point was reported  to have told a trusted adviser that one day he   would kill his son.

It’s likely that Saddam is the  cause of many of this son’s problems – after all,   when they were teens, he forced them to execute  his opponents in front of him.

Of course,   in 2003 when they were killed in a gunfight to US  troops, Saddam acted as if they were the greatest   martyrs in the history of the country.

Other punishments included: sleep deprivation,   mock executions, witnessing punishment of  innocent family members, electrocution,   starvation, beatings, being repeatedly dragged  over rough concrete causing cuts and infection,   cigarette burns, and worse were only  the most “popular” methods.

It seems that the favorite with the secret  police was to suspend a victim from a pole   behind their knees and by the wrists, and  beat the bottom of their feet with a hose or   metal bar.

This is a stunningly painful form of  punishment.

But that wasn’t all.

Some survivors   recounted being left like this and punished  for three days.

Many did not survive.

After the First Gulf War in 1991 and until the US  invasion of Iraq in 2003, Saddam’s regime became   even more bloody and cruel.

Suspected opponents  were often arrested and executed publicly – by the   sword, most often by beheading.

Many times, those  living close to the suspect were ordered out into   the street to watch – those who refused were often  killed or arrested and punished as well.

Gas and Genocide The use of poison gas is   recognized as a crime against humanity by almost  every nation on Earth, but Saddam used it as early   in the 1980s against the Iranians, though he  didn’t become known for it until the infamous   Halabja Incident of 1988.

Halabja is a town in a  large majority Kurdish area of northern Iraq and   during the 80s, many independence-minded Kurds  rebelled against Saddam’s regime.

In response,   Saddam waged a war of terror on the Kurds, which  resulted in many massacres, the most infamous of   which was the bombing of Halabja.

On March 16th,  exactly 35 years ago as we write, Iraqi bombers   dropped a combination of mustard gas, nerve  agents, and chlorine gas on the town of 60,000   people.

Five thousand people died within days.

Another ten thousand more were blinded, maimed,   disfigured, or damaged internally by the gas.

It  was amid the outcry over the Halabja massacre that   the United States began opposing Saddam rather  than aiding his effort against Iran.

After the First Gulf War, Saddam ordered  gas attacks in the south of the country,   against the Shia “Marsh Arabs” a minority cultural  group whose people had lived in the marshes of   southern Iraq for thousands of years.

Saddam  wished to punish the Marsh Arabs because of   their uprising against him during the First Gulf  War.

Not only did he use gas and bullets, but he   destroyed the rice crop, killed or stole cattle,  and prevented other food from going into the area.

Starvation became common.

Worse still, he  drained the marshes, which turned to area   into a desert and caused many Marsh Arabs to  flee the country.

Others were arrested, killed,   or moved to other parts of Iraq.

In a couple of  years, Saddam had erased two thousand years or   more of history.

Today, however, water was been  redirected and many Marsh Arabs have returned to   the area – but Saddam is said to have killed  or forced out over 1/3 of the people.

And all of that is why, after his discovery  in a hole in the ground in 2003, Saddam was   found guilty by an Iranian tribunal  and hanged.

Some people were outraged   that it was televised.

Many cheered.

This is History on Fleek.

We’ll see you next time.

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Billionaire’s Fiancé Orders In Foreign Language To Humiliate The Poor Waitress, Then This Happened

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Alice Noanko.

She was 28 years old, and she worked as a waitress in the most expensive dining lounge in the city.

If you walked into that place at night, you would think you had entered another world.

The lights were soft and warm, like golden oil.

The tables looked like they had never seen dust.

The glasses were so clear, they almost looked like air.

Every few seconds you heard the gentle sound of crystal touching crystal.

Small, proud clinks that sounded like rich people laughing without using their mouths.

The air smelled of expensive food, sweet wine, and perfume that stayed behind even after people walked away.

And on nights like that night, when service was peing, the staff moved like soldiers, not because they were proud, because they were afraid.

They rushed between tables with straight backs and tight smiles.

Careful not to spill anything.

Careful not to breathe too loudly.

Careful not to make a mistake that would be remembered.

Alice moved with them too, but her own movement was different.

>> Here you are.

>> She was careful.

Not slow, just careful because every step hurt.

She had been standing for 10 hours.

10 hours of carrying trays.

10 hours of bending and rising.

10 hours of smiling at people who did not smile back.

10 hours of hearing her name spoken like it did not matter.

Her back was burning the way dry wood burns.

Quietly but steadily, like the pain had decided it would not stop until she stopped breathing.

But she did not stop.

She could not stop.

Under her neat uniform, her body was tired.

Under her polite face, her mind was tired, too.

and her shoes.

Her shoes were a story by themselves.

They were cheap knockoffs she bought from a street store because she needed something that looked proper.

From a distance, they looked fine, black, simple, almost respectable.

But inside, they were already broken.

The sole of the right one had started splitting at the bottom, like a mouth that could not stay closed.

Each time she crossed the kitchen floor, which was always wet, always slippery, always smelling of soap and heat.

Moisture pushed in through the opening.

Not enough to soak her foot, just enough to remind her every time that she was wearing something that was falling apart.

It was a small thing, but small things can break a person when they happen again and again.

Alice passed through the kitchen doors with a tray in her hand, and she heard the voice that ruled the night.

Vance, move.

The voice was sharp, fast, and impatient.

Victor Adabio, the floor manager.

He was standing near the service station, watching everything like a hawk that believed mistakes were sins.

Victor did not speak the way other people spoke.

His words came out like commands.

Table three needs their food carved in front of them.

>> They said the last waitress did it like she was cutting firewood.

He turned his head slightly, eyes scanning again.

And table five is complaining the toppings are too thin, too thin, as if we are feeding them from our own pockets.

His mouth tightened with anger, but it was not anger for the customers.

It was anger for the staff because their complaints fell on the workers like stones.

Alice came closer, her arms steady, even though her waist felt weak.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly.

Her voice was steady, not because she was strong, but because she had learned that if you sound tired in a place like that, people will use it against you.

Victor looked at her quickly, not like someone looking at a human being, but like someone checking a tool.

“Don’t waste time,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Alice repeated.

She turned away and continued moving, careful not to let the tray shake, careful not to let the pain in her feet show in her face.

Around her, laughter floated over the tables.

Soft music played.

People talked about money like it was air, like it would never finish.

But Alice did not hear their words properly.

All she heard was her own heartbeat and the quiet ugly sound of her shoe soul opening again on the wet floor.

And she kept walking.

Because when you are poor, you learn early that pain does not stop bills.

It only follows you while you work.

She stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining area again, and the noise swallowed her like water.

Glasses clinkedked.

Cutlery tapped plates.

Soft laughter rose and fell like music.

The rich guests sat comfortably, leaning back in their seats, speaking slowly as if time belonged to them.

Alice passed between their tables with a tray balanced on her palm, her shoulders tight, her face calm.

And as she moved, she noticed the same thing she noticed every night.

They did not look at her.

Not really.

Some people looked through her.

the way you look through a glass window when you are more interested in what is outside.

To them, she was not a person.

She was a moving tray, a hand that brought food, a body that cleared plates, a voice that said, “Good evening and enjoy your meal.

” Then disappeared.

A woman in a long dress turned her head slightly, not to greet Alice, but to avoid brushing against her as Alice passed.

The woman’s eyes did not hold any apology.

It was the same expression people used when they moved away from a wet wall.

A man lifted his finger without looking up.

Hey.

Alice stopped beside him, polite smile already in place.

He didn’t say her name.

He didn’t ask her name.

He didn’t even try.

You there? He said, still looking at his phone.

Tell them to bring more napkins.

Yes, sir.

Alice replied.

Another table called out.

Girl.

The word hit her ear like a slap, even though it was spoken casually, like it meant nothing.

She was 28, not a girl.

She had bills older than some people’s marriages.

But she still turned because she needed the job.

“Yes, Ma,” she said, because Ma was safer than silence.

As she leaned slightly to place a plate down, a small movement of her head caught the light.

And for a second, the scar near her eye became visible.

It was small, close to the left side, near the corner of her eye.

A faint line that looked like it had healed, but never truly went away.

It came from a day two months ago when she had fainted from exhaustion right inside the kitchen.

She had been standing too long, eating too little, working too hard.

Her body simply gave up.

When she fell, her face hit a sharp corner of a prep table.

She woke up on the cold floor with her head spinning, her cheek burning, and Victor’s voice above her saying, “Stand up.

Don’t embarrass us here.

There was no, “Are you okay?” No.

Let me call someone.

Just stand up.

Even now, when Alice touched that scar with her fingers in the quiet of her room, it reminded her of something she did not like to admit, that she was breaking slowly.

But she still kept going because she had no choice.

She needed this job.

She needed the money that came with the job, even if it was small.

She needed it because there were things waiting for her outside that lounge.

Real things, heavy things, things that did not care whether her feet hurt or her back burned.

And as she moved from table to table, collecting empty plates and placing fresh cutlery, she felt something tightening inside her chest.

Not anger exactly, just tiredness.

The kind that comes when people refuse to see you properly.

She was tired of being girl.

Tired of hey you.

Tired of you there.

Tired of standing close enough to people to smell their perfume and expensive wine, yet still being treated like she did not have a name.

Her name tag said Alice in bold letters.

But most nights it felt like it was invisible, too.

Alice forced her face to stay calm.

She forced her voice to remain gentle.

She picked up another tray and she kept moving.

Because in her world, even dignity was something you had to postpone until you could afford it.

But as she walked, something heavy sat inside her mind.

Not the food, not the trays, a memory.

It came quietly, the way old pain often comes.

Not with noise, just with weight.

Because the truth was simple.

She wasn’t always here.

Two years ago, if someone had told her she would be standing in a dining lounge for 10 hours a day, smiling at strangers who called her girl, she would have laughed.

Not because she thought life was easy, but because she had plans, real plans.

Two years ago, Alice Noanka was a scholar.

Not the kind people just say to sound big.

She was the kind who stayed awake at night reading, not because she wanted to impress anyone, but because her mind refused to rest when it meant something interesting.

She studied linguistics, words, language, the way people spoke, the way people were treated based on how they spoke.

And she was good at it.

So good that when she applied for a prestigious scholarship, she got it.

It was the kind of scholarship that did not come easily.

the kind that made people call to congratulate you as if you had won an election.

It was her chance to travel, to see the world, to sit in classrooms where nobody laughed at your accent, to meet people who also loved thinking, people who would not look at her like she was strange because she liked books.

For the first time, Alice felt like her life was about to open, like a door was finally unlocking.

She remembered that day clearly.

She had been sitting in the small office of her supervisor, Dr.

Grace Ez, a woman who did not waste words.

Dr.

Ezi looked at her printed proposal for a long time.

The room was quiet except for the sound of paper shifting gently under her fingers.

Alice’s heart was beating fast.

Then Dr.

Ezer raised her eyes and said slowly as if she was measuring each word before she released it.

Alice, this work is rare.

Alice held her breath.

Dr.

Eza nodded once.

It is authentic and you are thinking out of the box.

Those words entered Alice’s body like warmth because praise from doctor Edsir was not something you got easily.

Dr.

Aza was not the type to clap for you just to encourage you.

If she praised you, it meant you deserved it.

Alice’s research was not just about grammar and spelling.

It was about power.

It was about Nigeria, about the way people were treated depending on the way they spoke.

about how some people were mocked in public because their English was not fine.

About how someone could enter an office, speak with a strong village accent, and suddenly everybody would look down on them, even if they were intelligent.

About how a child could grow up speaking a language at home, then start feeling ashamed of it because school taught them that only English sounded educated.

about how certain local languages were slowly disappearing from some homes.

Not because the languages were useless, but because people were afraid their children would be judged.

Alice wrote about the way we used language as a weapon in Nigeria.

How we used it to divide ourselves.

How we used it to decide who was smart and who was nothing.

How a person’s voice could determine whether they got respect, a job, or even simple kindness.

She wrote about how dialects within the same language were laughed at.

How some people changed the way they spoke just to survive.

How slowly, year after year, communities began to lose parts of themselves, not through war, but through shame.

And when her scholarship came through, Alice felt like the world was finally agreeing with her, that her voice mattered, that her mind mattered, that she was not just a girl.

That day, she did not even wait to get home.

She stood outside the department building with the scholarship email open on her phone.

her hands shaking.

Then she called her father, “Mr.

Nanko.

” Her father was a quiet man, the kind who worked hard and did not talk too much, the kind who carried burdens silently so the people he loved would not feel them.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Alice,” he said, his voice already careful, as if he was listening for both good news and bad news.

Daddy, she whispered because her throat was tight.

It came.

There was a pause.

Then another.

What came? He asked though his voice was already changing, already hopeful.

The scholarship, Alice said, and her voice broke.

Daddy, I got it.

On the other end of the phone, there was silence again, but it was not empty silence.

It was the kind that happens when a grown man is trying not to cry.

Then she heard it, a soft, shaky breath and then her father’s voice thick with emotion.

“My brilliant daughter,” he said.

Alice swallowed hard.

“Daddy, I knew,” Mr.

Nanquo said, and now he was crying openly.

“He didn’t even try to hide it.

I knew God would not waste your brain.

” Alice stood there with tears rolling down her face, holding the phone close as if she could hold his love with it.

Her father kept speaking between tears.

“My brilliant daughter,” he repeated, “you will go far.

You will see the world.

You will meet your kind of people.

You will not suffer like me.

” And in that moment, Alice believed him.

She believed she was leaving this kind of life behind forever.

She didn’t know yet that life can turn suddenly.

Sometimes in one phone call, sometimes in one night.

It happened when everything still felt bright.

When Alice was still walking around with that scholarship letter in her head like a song that refused to stop playing, she had already started planning.

What to pack, what books to take, who to message, how to prepare her mind for a new world.

Even her father’s voice was different in those days.

Lighter, hopeful.

Then one night, the phone rang.

It was late.

The kind of late that makes your heart jump before you even pick up.

Alice stared at the screen and saw a number she didn’t know.

She answered quickly.

Hello.

A woman’s voice came through shaky and rushed.

Alice, is this Alice Noo? Yes.

Who is this? It’s Mrs.

Akmed from your father’s workside, the woman said, breathing hard as if she had been running.

My dear, don’t shout.

Don’t panic.

But your father, he collapsed.

Alice’s body went cold.

collapsed.

“What do you mean collapsed?” she asked, already standing up, already moving without knowing where she was going.

“He just fell,” Mrs.

Akmed said.

“One minute he was working, the next minute he was on the ground.

They carried him.

They are taking him to hospital now.

Alice’s mouth opened, but no sound came out at first.

Then she forced the words out.

” “Which hospital?” Mrs.

Akmed told her.

Alice didn’t even end the call properly.

Her hand was shaking so much the phone almost slipped.

She stood there for one second, the room spinning.

Then she moved fast.

She grabbed her bag, her phone charger, anything her hands touched.

She didn’t think about makeup.

She didn’t think about clothes.

She didn’t think about anything except one thing.

Her father must not die.

On the way, she called her mother.

Mrs.

Nangquo, the woman who had raised her with tough love and tired eyes.

Her mother had not always been the way she was now.

Before, she was strong, loud, full of energy.

But life had taken its own share from her.

Years earlier, after Alice’s younger brother died from a sickness they did not have money to treat properly, something in her mother changed.

She became quieter, more careful, like someone who had learned that joy can be punished.

She still lived with Mr.

Noanko, still cooked, still cleaned, still did small trading when she could.

But her heart always looked like it was holding fear.

So when Alice called her that night, her mother picked up with panic already in her voice.

Alice, what is it? What happened? >> How could this happen? >> Daddy collapsed, Alice said and her voice broke.

They are taking him to hospital.

There was a sharp breath on the line.

Then her mother began to cry.

>> How could this happen? >> Jesus.

Jesus,” she kept saying, like saying it could stop what was coming.

Alice found herself begging, even though she didn’t mean to.

“Mommy, please meet me there.

Please, I’m coming,” her mother said quickly.

“I’m coming now.

” By the time Alice arrived at the hospital, the air inside the emergency area felt thick.

Bright lights, fast footsteps, people sitting on benches with tired faces, the smell of sweat, antiseptic, and fear.

She saw her mother first, standing with her wrapper tied tight, her eyes red, hands shaking.

“Alice,” her mother whispered as if speaking too loudly would make it worse.

“Where is he?” Alice asked, already crying.

They led her to a door.

She saw her father on a bed.

His eyes were open, but he looked far away.

One side of his mouth drooped slightly.

His left arm lay strange, as if it didn’t belong to him.

His speech was not clear.

When he tried to say her name, it came out slow, broken.

“Uh, Lee.

” Alice held his right hand and started shaking.

>> “Daddy, I’m here,” she said, forcing strength into her voice.

“I’m here.

” The doctor came out soon after, calm, but not kind, not cruel, just tired, like a man who had said the same thing too many times.

“He had a stroke,” the doctor said.

Alice’s head rang.

>> A stroke? She repeated.

The doctor nodded.

The left side is affected.

Speech may be affected too.

We will do our best, but recovery is uncertain.

He needs proper care, medication, and therapy.

Alice swallowed hard.

How much? She asked even before she could fully understand the diagnosis.

The doctor looked at her then looked away.

You need to make payment first, he said like it was the most normal sentence on earth.

Alice blinked.

Payment first? Yes, he said.

Bring money first.

Alice felt something crack inside her chest.

But he is lying there, she said, her voice rising.

He just collapsed.

You can’t.

The doctor’s face remained the same.

Madam, I understand, he said, but his tone did not carry understanding.

That is the process.

That night, Alice learned a hard Nigerian truth again.

In many places, sickness is not only about the body.

It is also about money.

If you don’t have it, you beg.

If you don’t beg well, you lose.

They asked for money for tests, money for drugs, money for scans, money for admission, money for oxygen.

Every time Alice thought, “Okay, we have paid,” another paper came.

Another list, another amount.

Pay before treatment.

Buy the medication outside.

Bring the money for physiootherapy.

Bring money for nursing care.

Bring money for this one.

Bring money for that one.

And her father was still lying there trying to breathe properly, trying to move a hand that was not moving.

Alice didn’t sleep.

She didn’t even sit properly.

She stood in corners making calls, calling people she hadn’t spoken to in years, calling old friends, calling aunties who like to gossip, calling classmates, calling anybody that could send anything.

Some people promised and didn’t send.

Some people sent small amounts and apologized.

Some people didn’t pick up at all.

Alice’s mother sat on a bench, pressing her fingers together, whispering prayers like her life depended on it.

At one point, her mother held Alice’s hand and said quietly, “We will not lose him.

We cannot lose him.

” And Alice nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks.

Because even if she was scared, she refused to accept death.

Not her father.

Not the man who cried and called her my brilliant daughter.

She used her scholarship money.

The money meant for flights, for books, for a new life.

She watched it disappear into hospital bills.

One payment, then another, then another.

She sold what she could.

Her small laptop, her wristwatch, the gold chain her mother had kept for years for emergency.

This was the emergency.

She borrowed money from neighbors, from church women, from one lecturer who remembered her and took pity.

Still, it was never enough because with sickness, money finishes quickly.

And the worst part was not even the bills.

The worst part was watching her father struggle.

Watching him try to speak and fail.

Watching him try to lift his left hand and nothing happened.

Watching his eyes look at her as if he was trying to say, “I’m sorry.

My sickness is ruining your life.

” Alice would squeeze his right hand and whisper, “Don’t think like that.

Just stay alive.

” Because that became her new prayer.

Not scholarship, not travel, not the world.

Just this.

Let my father live.

And she meant it with everything in her.

But prayers do not pay bills.

Time passed.

The hospital did not stop counting days.

And money did not stop finishing.

So Alice did what she had to do.

She took the job.

Now back in the present, Alice’s life was nothing like the life she once planned.

She lived in a tiny one- room place.

One of those face me, I face you houses.

A long building with many rooms lined up like matchboxes.

One narrow walkway in the middle.

Doors facing doors.

If you opened your door, you were opening it into someone else’s life.

You could hear everything.

Someone frying pepper, someone arguing with their spouse, someone’s baby crying, someone coughing through the night.

You didn’t need to ask how your neighbors were doing.

Their problems entered your room by themselves.

There was usually a shared bathroom at the end of the passage, a shared tap outside, a shared bucket somebody always forgot to return.

Privacy was something you imagined, not something you had.

Alice’s own room was small.

A thin mattress on the floor.

A plastic wardrobe that leaned to one side.

One standing fan that made noise like it was suffering, too.

a small table close to the wall serving as kitchen counter, study desk, and everything.

That was where her life sat now.

On that table, there was one envelope, not fancy, just an old brown envelope, the kind people use for documents.

Alice had written on it herself with black marker.

Money for daddy.

The writing was bold because she needed to see it every day, so she would not forget why she was suffering.

so she would not spend the money on something else and later regret it.

Inside the envelope was a small amount, not enough to rest, not enough to breathe, just a small amount she had saved from humiliation, from 10-hour shifts, from fake smiles, from being called girl by people younger than her, from standing until her legs went numb.

Barely enough for one week of proper medication.

One week.

That was how her life was measured.

now.

Not in months, not in years, in weeks, sometimes in days, because her father was still in the hospital, still there, still fighting.

And the doctors were not doing charity.

The truth was simple and sharp.

If payment stopped, treatment would stop.

If treatment stopped, her father’s hope of recovery could disappear.

There were hospitals where they would look at you and say it without shame.

If you cannot pay, take your person home.

As if a sick man was a bag of rice.

As if hope could be carried in a nylon bag.

Alice could still remember that fear clearly.

The fear of her father being pushed out because money finished.

So she worked every day.

Even when her back burned, even when her shoes opened at the sole, even when she woke up with tiredness still sitting inside her body, she used to believe the job was temporary.

She used to tell herself, “Let me just do it for some months.

Once daddy gets better, I will go back to my life.

” But months became one year.

One year became almost two.

And instead of improving, everything began to feel like a trap because she was not truly saving.

She was not building.

She was only surviving.

Barely saving.

Barely surviving.

The money entered her hand and before she could breathe, it left again.

Bills, transport, hospital, medication, therapy, food and again.

And again.

Sometimes when she returned from work late at night, she would sit on the mattress in the dark and stare at that envelope.

Not because she liked it, but because it was the only proof that her suffering meant something.

Then she would count the money slowly with tired fingers.

And every time she counted it, the same thought would come into her mind.

Quiet but heavy.

God, please let this be enough to keep him there.

Because if her father lost that hospital space, he might lose everything.

And Alice knew it.

That was why she woke up again the next day.

That was why she wore the uniform again.

That was why she kept smiling at people who did not see her.

Because there are some things that make a person endure anything.

And for Alice Noanko, that thing was simple.

Her father must not be sent away.

That was why she woke up again the next day.

That was why she wore the uniform again.

That was why she kept smiling at people who did not see her.

That night, the lounge was full again.

The kind of full that made the air feel heavy.

The kind of fool that made trays feel heavier.

Alice had just finished dropping off plates at one table when she heard Victor’s voice again.

But this time it wasn’t only sharp.

It was tense.

The kind of tension that comes when someone important has entered the room.

Alice, he called.

>> Calm her down.

>> And for once he used her name.

>> Sir, right away.

>> Come here.

>> Do it quietly.

>> Alice walked quickly to him, careful not to show how tired she was.

Victor Adabio stood by the host stand.

his ties straight, his face tight.

He was the floor manager, mid-40s, always smelling faintly of cologne, always acting like the lounge was his personal kingdom.

He believed mistakes were sins and staff were the easiest people to punish for them.

He leaned closer to Alice, lowering his voice like what he was saying was a secret.

“The he said, “You will handle them personally.

” Of course, this is Alice nodded immediately.

Understood.

I’ll take care of it.

Okay, sir.

Victor’s eyes narrowed.

“I mean it,” he said.

“No mistakes, no attitude, no drama.

” Alice’s stomach tightened.

“Yes, sir.

” Victor looked past her toward the entrance and then back at her again.

“These are not normal rich people,” he added, his voice tight.

“This is serious money.

” “Serious money?” In Victor’s mouth, those words meant only one thing.

“If anything goes wrong, you will be the one to pay for it.

” Before Alice could ask anything else, a slim young man appeared beside her, almost bouncing with excitement.

To table 7, he whispered.

This was Toby O’iki, 19 years old.

New staff, still wearing that wideeyed look of someone who believed the world was fair if you worked hard.

He worked as a junior staff, refilling water, clearing small plates, running quick errands.

He loved listening to rich people’s conversations like it was free entertainment.

His face was glowing like he had just seen a celebrity.

“Alice,” he whispered again closer “now.

” “Do you know who just entered?” Alice kept her eyes forward.

“Who?” Toby swallowed.

“It’s him.

” “Him who?” Toby’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper like the walls were listening.

“William.

” Alice blinked.

The name wasn’t strange.

Even if you were poor, you still heard certain names.

William was one of those names that moved around like news itself.

Always appearing headlines, always connected to big deals, big buildings, and big money.

Toby leaned in even more, almost vibrating.

“That man is a billionaire,” he whispered.

“The real kind, always in business news.

Big man with better doing.

” The way he said it made it sound like a praise name.

Alice didn’t respond, not because she didn’t believe him, but because billionaire or not, it was still another customer.

And she had learned that rich people could be the softest or the worst.

Sometimes you didn’t know until they opened their mouth.

As Alice started toward the service station to prepare table 7’s menus, another woman touched her arm briefly.

Alice, it was Sandra Ibrahim, the bartender.

Sandra was in her early 30s, slim and sharpeyed, with a calm face that looked like it had seen too much and learned not to panic.

She had worked in places like this long enough to understand people.

She could tell trouble before it arrived.

Her voice was low.

>> You be careful, Alice, >> Sandra said.

>> I will.

I promise.

>> Alice paused.

Why? Sandra glanced toward the entrance, then back at Alice.

He didn’t come alone, she said.

Alice’s chest tightened.

Who came with him? Sandra’s lips pressed together before she spoke the name like it tasted bitter.

Cynthia Muka.

Alice didn’t know the woman personally, but the way Sandra said the name told her everything.

Sandra continued quietly, her words controlled.

“That woman is arrogant,” she said.

She behaves like everyone is beneath her.

Alice’s fingers tightened slightly around the menu folder.

Sandra leaned closer.

She came here before, she added.

She rejected dishes like she was tasting poison, insulted the lounge like it was a roadside place.

She spoke to the servers like they were not human beings, like they were slaves purchased from the open market.

Alice felt heat rise in her stomach.

Not because she was surprised, but because she understood.

Some people didn’t need to hit you to hurt you.

They used words.

They used money.

They used your position.

Sandra squeezed Alice’s arm gently, like a warning and comforting one.

“Just do your job,” she said.

“Don’t let her pull you into anything.

” Alice nodded slowly.

“Okay.

” As Alice turned to walk away, she passed the kitchen doors and caught sight of the head chef.

Chef Mike Aayi, a thick set man in his late 40s, clean shaven, always serious.

He ran the kitchen like a disciplined man who believed food was dignity.

Staff feared him, but they also respected him because he was fair, strict, but fair.

Tonight, Chef Mike had stepped slightly out of the kitchen, his chef coat bright under the light.

He was looking toward the dining room, and he had gone still.

His hand rested on the door frame.

His face was tight, his eyes didn’t move.

It was the look of a man who could smell trouble from far away.

Alice followed his gaze and saw them.

A tall man in a well-cut suit walking in with slow confidence.

Beside him, a woman dressed like money and pride, her chin raised slightly as if the room should be grateful she entered.

Even before Cynthia Maduka spoke a word, Alice could feel it.

This table was not going to be normal.

And Victor’s warning echoed in her mind again.

Table 7.

Handle them personally.

No mistakes.

Alice took one slow breath.

Then she walked toward table 7 with the menus in her hand and her smile ready, steady on the outside, careful on the inside, like a person entering a place where one wrong step could cost her everything.

As she got closer, she could feel eyes turning.

Not everyone, but enough.

The table carried weight, the kind of weight that made other people lower their voices without knowing why.

Alice reached the table and stopped at the right distance, the way she had been trained.

She placed the menus down gently, one in front of the man, one in front of the woman.

Her smile stayed in place, professional and calm.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Welcome.

My name is Alice.

I will be attending to you tonight.

” The man barely moved.

William Adi sat with the posture of a man who had never been told no.

Back straight, shoulders relaxed, one arm resting on the table like the table belonged to him.

His eyes moved slowly, not in a rush, not curious, just certain.

He didn’t smile, but he didn’t need to.

He carried confidence the way some people carried perfume.

>> Beside him sat Cynthia Meduka.

>> Sandra was right.

>> Cynthia was dressed like money and pride.

>> Oh, it’s absolutely.

>> Her dress looked expensive in a quiet, dangerous way.

Smooth fabric that caught the light as she moved.

Jewelry that didn’t shout, but still made people look.

Her makeup was perfect.

Her hair was neat, laid down like every strand knew its place.

She had loud confidence, but it was the kind that came with control, the kind that said, “I will not raise my voice because I don’t need to.

” As Alice stood there, Cynthia’s eyes moved over her.

Slowly, not like a normal glance, like inspection.

Her gaze dropped to Alice’s name tag first.

Alice.

Then her eyes slid down all the way to her shoes.

The cheap black knockoffs that tried to look respectable.

The same shoes that were already splitting underneath.

Cynthia’s lips curved slightly.

Not a warm smile.

A small smile that looked like someone had just found something to play with.

Alice kept her face calm.

She did not look down.

She did not shift.

She had learned that if you show shame, people will press it deeper.

Still, her back burned as she stood there.

Her feet throbbed inside the broken shoes, and she could feel Cynthia’s gaze like a finger poking a bruise.

Alice opened her mouth again, keeping her voice steady.

“May I offer you something to start with? We have fresh.

” Cynthia cut in immediately, her voice sweet like sugar.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said with a bright, polite laugh.

Just take your time.

Alice paused slightly, then nodded.

Yes, Ma.

Cynthia raised one hand, still smiling.

And please, she continued, her tone soft, almost friendly.

Try not to shake too much when you’re carrying things.

Okay.

The words landed gently, but they were not gentle.

They were the kind of insult that came dressed as advice.

the kind of insult you couldn’t fight without looking like the problem.

Alice’s smile stayed on her face, but it tightened at the corners.

“Yes, Ma,” she said quietly.

Cynthia’s eyes flicked to the name tag again, like she was reminding herself that Alice had a name, but she would not use it.

Then she leaned back slightly and added, “Still with that same fake sweetness.

” “You people work so hard sometimes.

I wonder how you do it, standing all day like that.

” She glanced at Alice’s shoes again and gave a small chuckle.

It must be very challenging.

William said nothing.

He simply sat there looking at the menu as if none of it mattered.

As if Alice was only part of the furniture.

Alice felt heat rise in her chest.

Not wild anger, just that quiet sting that comes when someone tries to reduce you in public.

But she swallowed it because she needed this job.

She needed her father to stay in that hospital.

So Alice nodded slightly like she had not heard the insult hiding inside the smile.

“Yes, Ma,” she said again.

Then she opened the menu gently and began calmly as if she had a shield around her voice.

“Our specials tonight include >> chain.

Continue reading….
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