THE GIRL THAT SELLS YESTERDAY

The Oshodi Market smelled like smoke, sweat, and yesterday. Amara sat on a small blue stool behind the bridge, her wrapper tied tight around her waist. She was 23, but hunger had made her look 30. In front of her, a small cardboard sign: "I CARRY YOUR PAIN. PAY WHAT YOU CAN." A woman in faded ankara knelt in front of her. "My husband beat me again last night. I can't forget his face. Please." Amara nodded. "Give me your hand." The woman gave her hand. Amara closed her eyes and touched her. Hot pain shot through Amara's chest. She saw the slap, heard the insult, felt the woman's shame like it was her own. The woman gasped — her face became light. The memory was gone. Amara carried it now. Her chest pounded. She would carry this woman's yesterday for three days, crying in her small room in Yaba at night. "Go. E don go." The woman dropped 500 naira and ran, free. Amara bent her head, shaking. She had taken four pains already today. Her body was shaking. That was when a shadow covered her. Expensive perfume cut through the Oshodi smoke. A man stood there. Tall. Dark skin. Black native with no cap. Face like stone. Eyes like he hadn't slept in 19 years. Dayo Ajibade. Even Amara in Yaba knew that face from billboards. Ajibade Oil. The billionaire heir. He was staring at her sign. Then at her shaking hands. "What nonsense is this?" His voice was low, cold, tired. Amara tried to stand. Her legs failed. He bent down. "Are you sick?" "I'm fine. I'm used to it." "You take people's pain?" he asked. Amara nodded. "Can you take mine?" he whispered, like a beggar. She reached out her shaking hand. "Give me your hand." He stared, then placed his large, cold hand in hers. The moment their skin touched — Amara did not feel pain. She saw tomorrow. She saw herself — belly big, pregnant, crying in a hospital. She saw this same man — standing on the edge of Third Mainland Bridge at 2am, about to jump. And she heard a child crying — calling her Mummy — but the child had his eyes. Amara screamed and pulled her hand back, falling off her stool. Dayo caught her arm before she hit the ground. "What did you see?" he asked, his cold eyes suddenly wide, alive for the first time in years. Amara stared at him, terrified. For the first time in 11 years of selling yesterday — she could not take his pain. And for the first time, her gift had shown her the future. "Your yesterday," she whispered, "is going to kill you tomorrow."