THORNY CROWN

Last year, I reconnected with Juliet, my high-school classmate. She sent me a message after seeing my works on Instagram, praising my skills and creativity. Maybe that was the grandest day of my life since Mum died. I felt like Queen Elizabeth on a parade—important, celebrated, enlarged. My shoulders felt taller, my head lighter, as though even my small room had expanded to contain my sudden relevance.

She asked for my number and later requested a meet-up. I couldn’t believe it. Juliet had been the centre of attraction in secondary school. Teachers adored her. Her brain worked with lightning speed, and her beauty carried the softness of butter mixed with the fragrance of roses. Her voice sounded like the whisper of an angel. She drew every boy’s attention, and her parents’ wealth iced the layered cake of her person. I used to imagine myself as her until reality reminded me of my poor street life. I was only privileged to sit at the edges of such class because the household I served wanted an educated maid and, for the sake of reputation, sent me to Abela High School.

Juliet introduced me to her friends, and I always knew because whenever I tried to introduce myself, they would smile and say, “Oh, we’ve heard a lot about you.” Each time, it felt like a dazzling crown had been placed on my head. I would smile sheepishly and say thank you. Not long after, Juliet began requesting my portraits. I trusted her and sent them without any agreement. She invited me to meetings but asked me to remain silent and take notes while she spoke, explaining that she was trying to help me. I felt uneasy, but I brushed the feeling aside—after all, angels were never wrong.

Gradually, the changes appeared. Her smiles became smirks. Her tone grew harsh, her looks irritated. She spoke with a commanding gaze, issued threats casually, and rebuked me openly. Still, I kept quiet. I told myself that once I got the breakthrough, I would walk away. After all, she had paid for the first batch of portraits. According to her, the remaining three were still in transit.

After I sent the last set of portraits—worth more than a million naira and produced with money I had borrowed to meet her demands—I tried to reach Juliet again and again. Slowly, reality settled in: she had blocked my line.

Months later, I saw on Facebook that Juliet had left Nigeria.

“Ah! I have been scammed!” I screamed.

I couldn’t understand how the child of a wealthy man could be a scammer. I called another classmate to ask questions, and that was when the truth emerged. The Juliet I had known was not the Juliet I met. Her parents had lost everything after a fire destroyed their warehouses and claimed her father’s life. This Juliet was hustling to survive.

I sat on my bed and wept like a child, asking myself again and again how I could have been so foolish. But as I turned away from my phone, hoping the story would somehow change, I caught my reflection in the mirror leaning against the wall. In that moment, I realised I had lost more than portraits.

I had lost my identity.

I had lost the consciousness of my acceptance in Christ for the fizzling glory of hers.