Ene stood under the glaring sun, her eyes fixed on the funeral poster fluttering slightly in the breeze. It read, “Painful Exit.” The words felt like a cruel understatement. She thought about how painfully true they were, but not in the way others at the service might imagine. To them, it was the loss of a friend, a brother, a colleague. For Ene, it was the loss of her partner, her rock, and the father of her three young children.
Her chest tightened as she thought, They’ll never really understand what this means. None of them will leave here wondering how to put food on the table tomorrow, or how to explain to three little ones that Daddy isn’t coming back. The tears she had been holding back threatened to spill, but she clenched her fists, forcing them to stay put. There was no room for vulnerability now. The world didn’t stop because her heart was breaking.
As the priest spoke about her husband’s kind nature and unwavering dedication, Ene’s mind wandered to the endless challenges that lay ahead. The medical bills from his illness had drained their savings. Their rent was overdue. The children’s school fees loomed ominously, and her salary from the Ministry of Education was barely enough to cover their basic needs even before this tragedy.
Looking around at the faces of mourners, some crying softly, others whispering among themselves, Ene felt a pang of bitterness. Their grief would fade in days or weeks. But for her, the pain would linger in every missed milestone, every moment when her children cried for their father, and every quiet night spent wrestling with the overwhelming burden of carrying on alone.
The burial ended, and as people offered their condolences, Ene could only nod politely, their words blurring together. “Be strong.” “God will provide.” “You’ll be fine.” They all meant well, but none of them could offer the one thing she needed most: a way out of the suffocating reality she now faced.
By the time she returned home that evening, Ene had already started making mental calculations—budgeting, planning, and bracing for the sacrifices she knew were inevitable. Her grief would have to wait. Life, no matter how unforgiving, demanded that she keep moving forward.
Returning to work after her husband’s death was one of the hardest things Ene had ever done. The once-familiar office now felt alien, every corner tinged with the absence of the life she had lost. Her colleagues were kind, offering gentle words of sympathy and understanding glances, but their compassion only served as a reminder of the void she carried inside. She buried herself in tasks, hoping the routine would numb her pain. Yet, each evening, as she clocked out and headed home to her children, the weight of her new reality bore down on her. The bills kept piling up, the demands of single parenthood were relentless, and the cracks in her carefully constructed facade grew wider with each passing day.
The financial pressure on Ene worsened when her aging mother fell seriously ill. While her siblings contributed to the medical expenses, Ene was still responsible for covering her share of the costs, which stretched her already tight budget to the breaking point. It was during this turbulent period that an anomaly in her salary payments began. Each month, Ene noticed her salary was significantly higher than usual. At first, she assumed it was a long-overdue promotion or an adjustment to her allowances, but the sums were far too generous to ignore.
Ene sat on the edge of her bed one evening, staring at her phone before finally summoning the courage to call her elder sister, Ada. As the phone rang, Ene’s mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. She already knew what she should do, but part of her desperately wanted validation to do otherwise.
Ada picked up on the third ring. “Ene! How are you holding up? Is everything okay?”
Ene hesitated before responding, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ada, there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s… unusual.”
Ada’s tone shifted to concern. “What is it? Are the kids okay? Mama?”
“It’s not about them,” Ene said quickly. “It’s about my salary. For the past few months, I’ve been getting paid much more than I’m supposed to. I think it’s a mistake. Maybe some sort of clerical error.” She paused, then added, “I don’t know if I should report it.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment before Ada responded. “Ene, you’re telling me they’ve been paying you more money, and you think it’s a mistake?”
“Yes,” Ene said, her voice trembling. “I know I should probably say something, but with everything happening right now… Mama’s hospital bills, the kids’ school fees, the rent… Ada, I don’t know what to do.”
Ada’s voice softened. “Ene, do you think this is just a coincidence? Maybe it’s not a mistake. Maybe it’s the will of God. You’ve been through so much—maybe this is His way of easing your burden.”
Ene swallowed hard. She wanted to believe those words so badly. “You really think so?”
“Yes,” Ada replied firmly. “God works in mysterious ways. If He’s providing for you like this, why question it? Use it to take care of your family. You deserve some relief.”
The conversation ended shortly after, but as Ene sat in the quiet of her room, a small voice rose within her, soft yet piercing. “But if it’s the will of God, won’t it come by righteous means?”
The question startled her, and she clenched her fists, shaking her head as if to physically push the thought away. This isn’t what I need right now, she told herself. I don’t have time for second-guessing.
She stood up, determined to keep going as she had been, using the extra funds to keep her family afloat. In that moment, the voice of reasoning fell silent, drowned out by the weight of her desperation.
Over time, the overpayments accumulated to an alarming sum: One Million, Seven Hundred and Five Thousand Naira (₦1,705,000). Ene’s conscience gnawed at her relentlessly, but the demands of survival silenced its voice.
Then the day of reckoning came.
The small, dimly lit conference room was suffocating. Ene sat alone on one side of the long table, facing three members of the Ministry’s audit board. Their stern expressions and the silence that hung in the air made her heart pound like a drum.
The head of the board, a middle-aged man with glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, finally broke the silence. “Mrs. Ene Umeh,” he began, his voice clipped and formal, “we’ve conducted a thorough audit of payroll records, and it has come to our attention that you have been receiving salary payments far in excess of your entitled amount. These overpayments amount to ₦1,705,000. Do you have any explanation for this anomaly?”
Ene’s hands trembled in her lap as she looked down. She swallowed hard before replying, her voice barely above a whisper. “It… it was a mistake, sir. A mistake I noticed… but I didn’t report.”
The woman to his right, a stern-faced auditor, leaned forward. “You noticed it was a mistake and did nothing? You mean to say you knowingly received and used public funds that did not belong to you?”
“I—I didn’t mean to exploit anything,” Ene stammered, tears welling in her eyes. “I was desperate. My mother was sick, and I had bills… school fees… rent…” Her voice cracked as the weight of her confession pressed down on her.
The man with glasses adjusted them, his expression unreadable. “Mrs. Umeh, desperation is not an excuse to compromise integrity. Did you ever attempt to reach out to HR or payroll about this discrepancy?”
Ene shook her head, guilt and shame twisting her features. “No, sir. I—” she hesitated, then blurted out, “I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. The money… it felt like a lifeline. But I know it was wrong. I know that now.”
The third board member, a younger man who had been silent until now, spoke up, his tone slightly softer. “You’ve repaid ₦1,000,000. That leaves a balance of ₦705,000. Are you able to remit this amount immediately?”
Ene’s head shot up, panic flashing in her eyes. “No, sir. I can’t. I’ve used everything I had to repay what I could. Please… please, I’m begging you. Let me pay the rest in installments from my salary. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just give me time.”
The stern-faced auditor frowned. “Mrs. Umeh, your actions constitute gross misconduct. It’s clear that you knowingly benefited from funds that did not belong to you. This is a serious offense, one that warrants termination and possible legal action.”
Tears streamed down Ene’s face as she clasped her hands together. “Please, ma’am, I’m not denying what I did. I just… I was overwhelmed. I was trying to survive. Please don’t take my job. I’ll pay back every kobo, I swear it. My children… they depend on me.”
The room fell silent again as the board members exchanged glances. The head of the board finally spoke, his tone resolute. “Mrs. Umeh, this matter will be escalated to higher authorities for a final decision. In the meantime, you are hereby suspended from duty, effective immediately.”
Ene gasped, but the man continued, “You will also be required to provide a written statement admitting to the misappropriation of funds. Further steps will be determined following legal consultation. You may leave.”
Feeling the weight of their words crush her, Ene rose shakily from her chair. She opened her mouth to plead again but stopped herself. The cold finality in their faces told her it was pointless. With trembling legs and tears streaming down her face, she walked out of the room, knowing her life would never be the same.
Ene sat on the cold, hard cot of her cell, staring at the faint cracks on the damp concrete wall. The clamor of the prison around her—distant shouts, the clang of metal doors—faded into the background as her mind replayed the events that had led her here. Stripped of her job, her dignity, and her freedom, she was now a shadow of the woman who had once prided herself on resilience. She awaited her trial, the uncertainty of her future looming like a dark cloud. Yet amidst the despair, a small ember of hope flickered within her—that perhaps, even in the depths of her failure, there might still be a chance for redemption.
