Agu did not answer.
That day passed like every other.
Sarah returned under the bridge.
She ate garri soaked with tears.
And Agu returned to his mansion and lay awake at 2 a.m. wondering again:
Is my mother truly gone?
Little did either of them know, destiny was already shifting the wind.
Their paths, a world apart, were slowly turning, aligning, and moving toward a collision that would rewrite everything.
Sarah woke before dawn.
But something was different.
Her bones did not just ache—they burned. A strange heat crawled through her chest, and her breath came in shallow gasps. She reached for her wrapper and wiped her forehead. It was soaked with sweat. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. Her lips were cracked. Her throat was dry as harmattan wind.
She tried to sit up beneath the bridge, but her head spun and the world blurred for a moment.
Still, she forced herself up.
“I have to hawk today,” she muttered. “No money, no food.”
She reached for her wheelbarrow.
It was empty.
She had sold her last banana the previous afternoon. There was nothing left.
She limped toward the edge of the bridge, her joints trembling beneath her. The street lights still flickered above like tired sentinels. Smoke from roasted corn drifted up from a nearby gutter, mixing with the sharp smell of urine and petrol.
She ignored it.
At the junction where she usually bought bananas to resell, the fruit trader, Madam Chika, noticed her stumbling in.
“Mama Bridge, your eyes are red. Are you okay?”
Sarah tried to smile. “I’m a little sick. Just give me small bananas. I’ll sell and bring your money later.”
Madam Chika hesitated, then shook her head. “Mama, your hands are shaking. You have a fever. Go and rest. No bananas today.”
Sarah’s lips quivered. Her legs buckled.
“Please,” she whispered. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
Madam Chika sighed and reached into a cooler, pulling out a sachet of water. She handed it to Sarah.
“I know. I won’t give you bananas on credit, but take this. Go and buy medicine. You can die outside.”
Sarah took the water gratefully and drank every drop.
Her hands still trembled.
Her vision blurred.
She turned and began the slow walk toward the small chemist shop by the roadside.
It was not a proper pharmacy—just a wooden kiosk with faded drug posters peeling off the walls. A young man sat inside, earphones in, scrolling through his phone.
When Sarah arrived, she leaned against the wooden frame.
“My son, please. I have fever. My body is hot. I don’t have much money.”
The young man looked her over and rolled his eyes.
“Old woman, I’m not a doctor. I’m just an attendant.”
“Please, just give me anything. Small medicine. My head is spinning.”
He pointed at a shelf. “How much do you have?”
Sarah brought out a small black nylon bag and unwrapped it slowly. Inside was a bundle of crumpled notes—the last of her savings.
“900 naira. This is all I have.”
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