I was not pondering motherhood on the afternoon of Friday, November 6, 2020; I was pondering the heat. The other storey buildings around my Lagos home made the flow of air impossible. The security personnel downstairs were playing loud music and arguing goodnaturedly in a language that switched between Arabic and Hausa. I was annoyed as I scrolled through Facebook and WhatsApp, loading statuses and ignoring messages. Then I saw an interesting status update that piqued my interest. “Egg Donors wanted, the pay is reasonable,” it read. Until that point, I never knew egg donation happened in Nigeria and so, naturally, I had questions. What did it entail? How much was a reasonable payment? How did anyone become an egg donor? There was only one way to get answers so I responded to the status. David* wouldn’t tell me much except drop the number of the woman I was to text. I don’t like texting anyone I’m not familiar with, so already we were crossing invisible boundaries I had set for myself but I was curious. I gave in and sent a text. I got your number from David’s status about egg donors? I waited for a response for about thirty minutes and dropped my phone to face other tasks. She responded two hours later. By then I was already questioning whether or not this was something I would do. I found nothing online that told me exactly what the egg donation process would be like, the drugs I’d take, and how my eggs would be extracted. Most of the information I found online were fertility clinics in places outside Africa extolling the virtues of egg donors. When I typed in How much does an egg donor make? Google said, “$5000 – $10000 per cycle.” I knew there was no way Nigerian hospitals were paying that much. The woman—who turned out to be a former donor seeking new donors for a cut—asked for my name, genotype, blood group and a picture of me. I sent the details. My curiosity had won me over and I decided to go through with it. I’m not sure why, only that it felt unfair that nobody else had done so. The woman asked if I was a virgin. I said no, wondering what that had to do with anything. She told me she’d forward my details to the nurse at a clinic and signed off from the conversation. It was only then I remembered she’d never told me her name and I hadn’t asked. She texted me four days later with more follow-up questions. Was I done with school? Yes, I was. What were my educational qualifications, B. A or B. Sc? I said it was an LLB. How old was I? Twenty-five at the time. Did I know Festac? No, I didn’t. Lagos traffic typically discouraged me from sightseeing. She told me I would be going to a clinic in Festac in four days for an interview with the head nurse. I was hesitant. What did an interview entail? Now that I was going to a clinic, it dawned on me that I still didn’t know anything about the process. Yet I had been given an address and ordered to show up. The woman encouraged me to ask my friends if they might be interested in donating. As doubt crept up on me, I summoned the courage to air my questions. What did the process entail exactly? How much was I getting paid? I was on oral birth control at the time – Levofem – that I had stopped taking as soon as I decided to be a donor. Were there going to be any issues? She answered via voice note to say I would be given injections and scanned three times. After the third scan, I would be given 5,000 Naira (around $13.15 at the time) for transport and my eggs would be harvested. The injections were not painful, she insisted. The entire process was mostly painless and stress-free. Heranswers didn’t put my mind at ease. The fact that I was going to Festac, an unfamiliar place, made me even more uneasy. She assured me that all would be fine. I was to be paid 120,000 Naira ($315.78) but she would take another 10,000 Naira ($26.31) and the nurse – this one functioned as an agent and worked in the clinic – whose candidate I was would take 10,000 Naira ($26.31). That meant I would only be getting a 100,000 Naira net payment, a far cry from $5,000 for sure. At this point, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to chicken out, but in for a penny as my mother would say, so I went to Festac . I had been warned to dress well and speak well. I was not to tell any lies to the head nurse because she could sniff them out. I did my best to fulfil these requirements. I donned a burgundy jumpsuit that both clung to my curves and was modest. I borrowed my sister’s wig because it was more “professional” than my unstyled Afro. I took a cab so I wouldn’t be sweaty and stressed when I got there. I had with me two passports, my ID card and a pen. I was told to be there at midday. It was hot, almost the end of the year and no harmattan in sight.