Green as her eyes

A woman’s envy of her friend’s success grows until it destroys them both.

When Adaobi first met Chika, the girl had a laugh that filled the room like church bells on Sunday morning. They met during their final year at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, two business students who shared a love for late-night study sessions, roasted corn, and talking about the kind of lives they wanted after school.
Chika was the loud one, always ready with a joke or a dance move. Adaobi was quieter, the one who reminded Chika to carry her ID card or to sleep before dawn. People used to say they balanced each other out, like pepper and salt.
After graduation, they both came to Lagos to chase something bigger. They rented a single room in a yellow building on Bode Thomas, sharing the rent and the noise from the mechanic workshop below. Every night, they whispered their dreams before sleep. Chika wanted to buy a car before she turned thirty. Adaobi just wanted stability, something that would let her mother rest from worrying.
When they both got internship offers at Crown Meridian Bank, they danced barefoot in their room, arms flailing, laughter echoing down the corridor. Life, it seemed, was finally opening its hands to them.
Lagos was cruel and dazzling. It tested them from the first week: the endless traffic, the landlords who shouted about “maintenance fees,” the smell of diesel and ambition that hung over the city. But they survived. Adaobi cooked most nights, saving every naira she could, while Chika found a way to make friends with everyone, even the grumpy HR officer who frowned at interns.
In the beginning, Adaobi loved how Chika carried herself. She admired her courage, her bold lipstick, and her ability to walk into any office and start a conversation. But over time, admiration began to feel heavier, harder to carry.
It started with little things.
Their manager, Mr. Hassan, would call Chika’s name first in meetings, praising her “presentation flair.” When the team got free lunch coupons, Chika always seemed to get one extra. “You know how these people like fine girls,” Uju from Accounting said one day, half-joking.
Adaobi smiled tightly, pretending not to care. But something shifted inside her that day, a tiny crack forming under her ribs.
When the confirmation list came out, Chika’s name sat neatly near the top. Adaobi’s was farther down. Chika screamed when she saw it. She grabbed Adaobi’s hands and spun her around. “We made it!”
Adaobi laughed, but the sound came out thin.
That evening, Chika treated her to amala and ewedu at a restaurant near Ojuelegba. She was full of plans: how they would move to a bigger apartment, how she would start her master’s soon, how Adaobi should come along.
Adaobi listened, smiling in all the right places, but her mind kept circling back to one thought: Why her first?
Weeks passed. Chika rose quickly. Her laughter seemed louder, her perfume richer. The supervisors began to rely on her more. When she got her first official position, Project Coordinator, the announcement came with applause.
Adaobi clapped too, but the envy had already begun to grow roots.
At first, it was a flicker of discomfort. Then it became a shadow that followed her everywhere: to the bus stop, to her desk, even into her dreams. She would lie awake, scrolling through Chika’s Instagram posts, her fingers cold, her heart burning.
She told herself it was nothing. She told herself she was proud. But pride had begun to rot from the inside.
“Ah, Ada,” Chika would say, handing her a piece of suya or a new hair tie. “Don’t frown like that. You know good things will come for you, too.”
Adaobi forced a smile. “I know.”
But she didn’t know anymore. Every time she saw Chika’s growing ease; the way she greeted their boss, the way she dressed, the way men turned when she walked past. Adaobi felt smaller, as though her own life were shrinking to make room for Chika’s.
The day Chika bought her first car, a small blue Corolla, Adaobi felt her heart twist painfully. Chika had come to the office parking lot glowing with pride. Everyone gathered around, taking pictures, laughing. Adaobi stood slightly apart, her palms sweating.
“Come and enter now!” Chika called. “You’re my first passenger.”
Reluctantly, Adaobi climbed in. The seat smelled new and expensive.
“I told you this city will bow for us,” Chika said, smiling.
Adaobi laughed, but her throat was tight.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Rain drummed on her zinc roof, and she thought about the years she had spent doing everything right: obeying her parents, saving money, praying, waiting. Yet somehow, Chika’s path seemed smoother, faster.
By morning, envy had hardened into something sharper. She began to avoid Chika subtly, arriving at work early to dodge the ride offers, skipping lunch when Chika invited her. But Lagos was small; their worlds kept crossing.
One evening, Chika found her waiting for a bus. “Ada! What is this? You’d rather stand in the rain than let me drop you?”
Adaobi forced a laugh. “You know I like the air. It clears my head.”
Chika studied her face for a moment, frowning. “You’ve changed.”
“Me? No.” Adaobi turned away. “Just tired.”
That night, Adaobi sat by the window, watching lightning flash across the clouds. Her reflection stared back from the glass, her face drawn, her eyes shadowed. She hated how she looked. She hated how she felt.
At work the next week, the company posted a new project lead opening. Chika applied, of course. Everyone expected her to win. Adaobi told herself she wouldn’t care. But when the official email came—“Congratulations to Chika Okafor, Lagos Expansion Project Lead”—Adaobi’s stomach twisted until she felt sick.
She left the office early, walked the long way home through the heavy evening air, and sat outside the compound with a bottle of malt. The neighborhood smelled of rain-soaked earth and roasted corn. Children ran past, chasing a deflated ball, their laughter sharp in the fading light.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Chika read: My sister! Drinks on me this weekend. I can’t wait to celebrate with you.
Adaobi typed a reply, erased it, typed again. Finally, she settled for: Congratulations. You deserve it.
But she didn’t mean it.
In the days that followed, Adaobi noticed every detail, the way people talked about Chika in admiration, the way the new interns stared at her like she was something holy. Each compliment felt like an insult, a reminder that Adaobi was ordinary.
She began to question everything: her faith, her patience, her worth. Her prayers became half-hearted. Her laughter faded. The bitterness inside her had become a living thing, whispering whenever Chika entered the room.
One morning, Chika came to her desk with her usual brightness. “Ada, please help me double-check this report. I want it perfect for the board meeting.”
Adaobi took the flash drive with a stiff smile. “Of course.”
She opened the file after everyone left that night. The report was spotless, every figure in place. Her hands hovered over the keyboard. A small thought rose like smoke: One mistake, and she will stumble.
Adaobi closed the laptop quickly, as if the thought itself could burn her. She turned off the lights and sat in the dark for a long time.
But the whisper didn’t leave.
It followed her home, into her sleep, into her dreams, until one day it no longer sounded like temptation. It sounded like justice.


The following Monday, Lagos woke to a heavy sky. The kind that promised rain but refused to deliver it. Adaobi moved through her morning routine like a ghost. The kettle whistled, her tea steeped, her bread toasted, but nothing tasted of anything.
At work, she could feel the air tightening around her. Chika had become even more radiant lately, her clothes more elegant, her tone more confident. Mr. Hassan now called her Madam Project Lead in jest, but there was respect beneath his laughter.
And Adaobi? She had become invisible.
That evening, she stayed behind again under the pretense of finishing reports. The office emptied slowly, the hum of the air conditioner steady as a heartbeat. Chika’s flash drive sat on the desk beside her, innocent and silver.
She opened the report. The numbers stared back, unblemished.
Her chest tightened. A war began inside her.
Why should she have everything? A voice asked. You were here too. You worked hard too. Maybe she doesn’t deserve it all.
Another voice—fainter, weaker—pleaded, Do not do this. God sees you.
Adaobi’s fingers trembled. She adjusted one figure in the spreadsheet, only by a few decimal points, enough to make the projections appear suspicious. Then another. Then one more.
By the time she was done, her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might faint.
She saved the file, returned the flash drive, and left the office with shaky hands.
That night, rain finally came angry, lashing the city with wind and thunder. Adaobi sat by her window again, her stomach in knots. She thought of Chika’s smile, her easy warmth, her generosity. Guilt clawed at her throat, but the deed was done. She told herself it was harmless, that no one would even notice.
She was wrong.
Two days later, the department gathered for the weekly review. The board members sat around the long table, and Chika stood at the front, confident as ever.
As she began her presentation, murmurs started from the end of the room. One of the senior managers frowned, tapping his pen.
“These figures do not align with last month’s report,” he said sharply.
Chika blinked, confused. “Sir, I double-checked everything.”
“Double-check again,” another manager said coldly. “This looks like falsified data.”
The room fell silent. Chika’s eyes darted across the table, panic rising. She scrolled through her slides, stammering. “I—I don’t understand. I’m sure the data was accurate.”
Adaobi sat still, her palms damp. Every breath felt like a stone pressing against her chest.
Mr. Hassan’s voice cut through the silence. “Chika, I suggest you step out for now while we verify this.”
Chika nodded shakily and left the room. Her heels clicked down the corridor, fading into silence.
Adaobi’s vision blurred. She could hear her own heartbeat echoing in her ears.
The review dragged on. Eventually, the senior managers confirmed inconsistencies. Chika’s credibility was suddenly in question. By the next morning, rumors had spread like wildfire: The new project lead messed up. Falsified numbers. Disappointed the board.
When Adaobi arrived, the office felt colder. Chika sat at her desk, staring blankly at the screen.
“Ada,” she whispered when their eyes met. “They think I lied. Can you believe it? I don’t even understand what happened.”
Adaobi forced herself to nod. “It will be fine.”
But her voice broke halfway through.
That evening, Chika was called into HR. By the time she came out, her eyes were swollen. She didn’t speak to anyone. She just gathered her things, placed her ID card on the table, and walked out.
Adaobi followed her outside, heart pounding. “Chika, wait!”
Chika turned, rain starting to drizzle. Her makeup had run down her cheeks. “They suspended me, Ada. After everything I’ve done.”
“I’m so sorry,” Adaobi said weakly.
Chika gave a bitter laugh. “You know what’s funny? I can’t even be angry. I just feel... tired.”
Adaobi wanted to confess right there. To fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness. But the words wouldn’t come. Her throat was locked tight with shame.
Chika turned away, her shoulders trembling. “Pray for me, Ada. I don’t know what I’ll do next.”
Then she walked into the rain, her umbrella forgotten.
That night, Adaobi didn’t sleep. The silence in the room felt heavier than the air before a storm. Chika’s bed was empty, her pillow still dented.
For the next few days, she heard nothing. Calls went unanswered. Messages left on “read.” She went to Chika’s old church, to her favorite suya spot, even to her cousin’s flat in Surulere. No one had seen her.
Guilt consumed her. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t pray. Her reflection became a stranger—eyes hollow, lips cracked.
One afternoon, while she was leaving work, Uju from Accounting ran up to her, breathless. “Did you hear? About Chika?”
Adaobi froze. “What happened?”
Uju hesitated. “They found her body near the Third Mainland Bridge this morning. Police said it looked like suicide.”
The world tilted.
Adaobi dropped her bag, her breath catching in her throat. Her vision went dark for a moment, the sounds around her fading.
Later, she found herself at home, still in her office clothes, unable to cry. Rain tapped gently against the window again, softer this time, almost kind.
She sat on Chika’s bed and picked up the scarf her friend always wore on bad hair days. It still smelled faintly of perfume and coconut oil.
Tears came then, violent, shaking, unstoppable.
Days turned into weeks. The office moved on, as Lagos always does. A new project lead was appointed. Chika’s name became a whisper.
Adaobi visited her grave once, at the small cemetery near Yaba. The air was thick with heat and sorrow. She knelt before the headstone, unable to speak.
A part of her wanted to confess aloud, to tell the truth and face whatever came. But her mouth betrayed her.
Instead, she whispered, “I’m sorry,” again and again until her voice cracked.
That night, she returned to their room and found Chika’s old photo album on the shelf. Pictures of them laughing, eating corn, posing by the lagoon, dreaming. She traced Chika’s smiling face with her thumb and whispered, “You were right. Good things did come for me. But I ruined them myself.”
From that day, Adaobi stopped wearing bright colors. She went to work, came home, and cooked for one. Her laughter never returned.
Sometimes, at night, she thought she heard Chika’s voice soft, teasing, forgiving. Sometimes she saw her reflection shimmer in the window glass, smiling the way she used to.
And sometimes, when she looked too long into those eyes of memory, she swore they glowed green.
Green as envy.
Green as her eyes.


Word Count: 2366