The road did not succumb to weakness.
It stretched endlessly, grey and impatient, humming with engines, heat, and the desperation of people who needed to be somewhere else. Vehicles hissed past like insults—buses packed with sweat and urgency, okadas darting through gaps with reckless confidence.
A young man waves off another unyielding bike man. He stood at the roadside, shifting his weight from one foot to another, sweat soaking through his singlet. His phone showed the time. He was late. Again.
“How person go dey charge me seven hundred for place wey two-fifty go reach?” he muttered, bitterness pressing against his tongue. “This life no balance, aje.”
He raised his hand at passing bikes. None stopped. They saw him, assessed him, dismissed him in the same glance.
Then a beggar fell into his line of attention.
The man sat a few feet away, back curved, head lowered. His clothes were torn but clean enough to suggest effort. His mouth was twisted permanently downward, not in performance, not in plea—just a deep, settled frown, like one who had long stopped asking for mercy.
A nylon bag rested in his lap.
Money dropped into it – Not dramatically. Not ceremoniously.
People slowed, reached into pockets, released coins and notes as if compelled by something they themselves did not understand.
The young man frowned. “With that kind face?” he whispered. “So na vex dey sell pass hunger now?”
He watched closely.
The beggar did not thank anyone. Did not look up. Did not bow.
He simply sat, existing. Just like a duty.
And the money kept coming.
Something stirred in the young man’s chest—not pity, not anger, but calculation. Serious calculation.
The sharp, dangerous kind.
What if suffering itself was currency? What if a happy face is a deal breaker?
To be continued…
Get real time update about this post category directly on your device, subscribe now.