Chapter 1: Harmattan Night

Penniless and thrown out from Chief Musa’s house, I almost freeze for street, almost turn ice block—if not for one strict soldier wey carry me go im house, come help me.

E no ever look me less because I dey sing highlife, or say I don old and no fine again. As for me, I cherish the small pikin wey im late wife leave behind—Chinonso.

Sometimes I dey wonder how God take cross our path for that harmattan night. Soldier wey fit waka pass, but e no close eye; e see me for gutter, weak as I dey shiver with Chinonso. That kain kindness, e rare for this Lagos. I still dey thank God, even as we dey manage anyhow.

As I dey struggle to trust, the soldier stop, look me well, then open im bag, bring out bread and flask of hot tea. "Madam, chop small, no fear." My hand dey shake as I collect am, heart still dey doubt, but hunger no dey hear pride. I sip small, and for that moment, I begin believe say maybe good people still dey.

So, na so three of us dey live quietly, just dey manage our life.

Evenings, we go siddon for veranda, drink garri with groundnut, Chinonso go recite im times-table, sometimes Mr. Garba go play draughts outside. The peacefulness, e small, but na our own.

But one day, my stepson mistakenly offend the most pampered young master for the Chief’s house. As I kneel beg for am, the young master eye come red with vex, e spit talk:

"No wahala. If you no wan make am kneel, you go kneel instead."