The Hidden Heir

Dami’s life smelled of smoke — not the rich kind from suya or party jollof, but the bitter one from firewood that made your eyes water. Every morning, he squatted by his bent metal stand, roasting yam that never looked right. Too hard, too soft, or just confused. People passed by, shaking their heads, and Dami would force a smile, hiding hunger behind small jokes. The rain had stopped, but the ground in Agege still smoked with puddles. The air carried that mix of roasted corn, exhaust fumes, and wet dust — the perfume of Lagos survival. Dami squatted beside his rusty metal stand, fanning the fire with one hand and scratching his head with the other. The yam on the grill was half-burnt, half-raw — the kind that could only be eaten by someone very hungry or very forgiving. “Ah! See as this one don black pass my future,” he muttered, turning the yam with a bent fork. The children hanging around laughed, not because it was funny, but because Dami’s face twisted like a Nollywood actor in part three of a sad film. He smiled back at them, teeth flashing white against the soot on his cheeks. “You people think I’m playing, abi? This yam na limited edition — half charcoal, half potato. Balanced diet!” The children giggled louder. A woman passing shook her head. “This boy, hunger never finish you. You go use joke cover everything.” But Dami’s stomach grumbled, loud enough to remind him that laughter did not fill bellies. He pressed his hand against it and forced a grin. “At least the smoke dey drive mosquito away,” he whispered. Somewhere inside, though, he wondered if life would always be like this — patching joy with humor, roasting hope on half-dead flames. Yet still, he fanned the fire. The smoke climbed into his eyes, making him cough. He waved it away and hissed. “See this fire, e be like say you join cult. Always against me.” He leaned closer, adjusting the firewood with the seriousness of a surgeon. The yam cracked on one side, sending out a smell that was neither sweet nor sour — just confused. Dami stared at it. “God, is this how my destiny be? Half done, half useless?” He shook his head, but before sadness could settle, another thought jumped out. “At least I no dey like the yam wey raw inside but burn outside. Me, I still get balance small.” Two little boys nearby clapped and laughed. Dami bowed like a stage comedian, his hand stretched out like he was collecting imaginary tickets. “Thank you, thank you! Show continues tomorrow — same yam, same nonsense!” He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. Hunger made his hands weak, but pride kept him standing. Sometimes he thought about giving up, but then Mama’s voice would come back like a flashback: > “Dami, never let hunger collect your laughter. Na poor man’s weapon be that. If you fit still smile, e never defeat you finish.” He swallowed hard. She was gone, but her words roasted in his heart the way yam roasted on his stand — slowly, uneven, but sure. Then his friend Taju strolled up, holding a nylon of bread and akara. The smell alone nearly made Dami dizzy. “Dami, how far? You don sell any yam today?” Taju asked, tearing into the bread like life had no problem. Dami raised one eyebrow. “Sell ke? Na miracle remain. If anybody buy this yam, na to open church straight. I go call am Ministry of Burnt Sacrifice and Divine Provision.” Taju burst out laughing, almost choking on his food. He slapped Dami on the shoulder. “You no go ever serious.” Dami eyed the bread hungrily but smiled. “If I serious, who go entertain una? Life don too hard. If I no laugh, I go cry. And crying no dey fill belle.” As Taju chewed, Dami’s stomach growled again. He slapped it softly and whispered, “Calm down, partner. Food is coming — one day.” Taju noticed the way Dami’s eyes followed the bread like a hawk watching chick. He tore a small piece and held it out. “Take jare, before your eyes carry am by force.” Dami grabbed it, but instead of rushing it into his mouth, he held it up dramatically like it was gold. “Ladies and gentlemen, behold… the bread of life. One slice, one destiny.” He sniffed it, closed his eyes, and said in a pastor’s tone, “If you believe, shout amen!” The children around chorused, “Amen!” before bursting into laughter. Dami finally chewed it, slowly, like royalty dining at a five-star hotel. The taste wasn’t special, but hunger made it taste like paradise. He hummed as he ate. “Hmm, bread wey suppose be ordinary dey do me like honeymoon. God, you really sabi joke.” Taju shook his head, laughing. “You go die for comedy, I swear.” “Die ke? I dey live for am,” Dami replied with a grin. “If hunger no kill me, na laughter go keep me alive.” A silence sat between them for a moment, broken only by the hiss of firewood and the sound of rainwater dripping from a nearby zinc roof. Then Dami’s eyes clouded, just a little. “You know sometimes I dey wonder,” he said softly, “if this na how I go dey forever — roasting yam, joking with hunger. Mama talk say no condition permanent, but e don tire me, Taju. Even permanent things dey last shorter than my suffering.” Taju looked at him, mouth full of akara, unsure what to say. But before pity could land, Dami forced a grin again. He lifted the burnt yam with his fork. “But see, this yam still get lesson. Life fit roast you black, e fit half-cook you, but as long as you never scatter completely, person fit still chop you. Meaning say as long as I never die, God still fit use me.” He took a bite, winced, and laughed through the bitterness. “Hmm! Na only strong teeth fit eat destiny.” The kids laughed again. Even Taju smiled, shaking his head. “Dami, one day your mouth go put you for trouble.” “One day e go also put me for blessing,” Dami replied. “Life no dey play fair, but me sef no go play fair. If e throw stone, I go build house with am.” And just like that, he fanned the fire again, smoke rising into the Lagos air like an offering no one asked for. A keke napep rattled past, splashing muddy water across his slippers. Dami jumped back and hissed. “See ehn! Lagos get PhD for wahala. Even water wey fall from heaven no dey respect me.” The kids laughed louder. One of them shouted, “Uncle Dami, you no vex?” He bent low, squinting at his wet slippers. “Vex? For what? At least now my leg don bath. Free water, no detergent.” He lifted his leg like a runway model, and the children clapped. Taju shook his head. “Guy, na only you fit turn disgrace to performance.” But inside, Dami’s chest tightened. He was tired. Hungry. Ashamed. Yet he refused to show it. Mama’s words echoed again like thunder: > “No let life collect your laughter.” He looked at his yam — burnt edges, raw middle, smoke refusing to behave — and sighed. “If this yam be human being, e for don sue me for wickedness. But na my partner in suffering, so e no get choice.” Suddenly, a tall man in a starched white shirt stopped, eyeing the yam. He looked like the type who lived in Lekki but got lost in Agege by mistake. “How much?” the man asked. Dami froze. Nobody had asked that question all morning. His mouth opened and closed like faulty generator. “Eh… sir… the yam is — uhm — special edition. One hundred naira only.” The man raised a brow. “Special edition?” “Yes na! Limited stock, half black, half original. Na destiny yam. If you chop am, your future go balance. One side sweet, one side bitter — just like life.” The man chuckled, shaking his head, and surprisingly pulled out a hundred naira note. “Give me.” Dami’s eyes widened. He quickly wrapped the yam in old newspaper like he was packaging treasure. “Thank you, sir! May your enemies burn like this yam, and your blessings remain soft inside!” The children roared with laughter. Taju nearly dropped his akara. The man walked away, smiling and still shaking his head. Dami raised the note high like a trophy. “Ladies and gentlemen, miracle has happened! Ministry of Burnt Sacrifice don finally receive first offering!” The street echoed with laughter, but deep in Dami’s heart, a small flame of hope flickered. For the first time that day, he believed maybe Mama was right — no condition is permanent. As Dami admired his hard-earned hundred naira, Taju whistled. “Ehen! Man don hammer. You be big boy now.” Dami spread his arms wide like a preacher. “Yes o! Na so billionaires dey start. Today one hundred, tomorrow one million. Watch out for me on Forbes list — number one yam roaster in Africa!” The children screamed with laughter. A little girl shouted, “Uncle Dami, na me go be your PA when you blow!” He winked at her. “No wahala, my future secretary. Your salary go be two slices of yam per week.” More laughter rippled through the crowd. For a moment, the street forgot its stress. Bus conductors stopped shouting, even okada riders slowed down to glance at the boy who turned poverty into theatre. But as the laughter faded, Dami sat back on his stool. He rubbed the note between his fingers like it was fragile. The money felt too light compared to the weight of his dreams. One hundred naira couldn’t buy freedom, but at least it bought proof — proof that he wasn’t invisible. Mama’s voice again, floating through memory — > “Dami, no let anybody tell you say you no fit matter. Small light still dey chase darkness. Shine your own, no matter how tiny.” He blinked fast, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. He would never cry in front of these children. Instead, he forced a grin. “Ladies and gentlemen, the yam market is officially open! Who wan buy destiny again?” This time, nobody answered. The laughter was gone, and Lagos had returned to its usual noise — danfo horns, hawkers screaming, babies crying. Taju nudged him. “Guy, you try. At least you don sell one.” “One?” Dami scoffed, tossing the fork aside. “Na history I don sell. Tomorrow, na headlines: ‘Local Yam Roaster Turns Market Upside Down.’” Taju chuckled. “Na you sabi. Just don’t roast your destiny join.” Dami shook his head with a sly smile. “If my destiny wan roast, I go pepper soup am before e pepper me.” The boys burst into another round of laughter. But behind the smile, Dami felt the emptiness crawling again. One yam, one hundred naira, one miracle — yet his stomach still echoed. He looked at the sky. The clouds were parting slowly, like God himself was peeping at him. “Oga upstairs,” Dami whispered, “I don’t mind joke o, but abeg, let this one turn good joke. I dey wait.” And with that, he fanned the fire again — not just for the yam, but for the hope that refused to die. The smoke curled upward, stinging his eyes again. Dami coughed, then laughed at himself. “See as I dey cry smoke instead of onion. Na my life be this — free tears, no reason.” The kids giggled, and one boy clapped like he’d just watched a circus. Taju shook his head. “Omo, one day you go just run mad for this street.” Dami spread his hands dramatically. “If I run mad, na Lagos fault. This city dey roast people pass my yam. But no wahala — na stylish madness I go run. People go pay gate fee to watch me.” They laughed again, but hunger still pressed him like a stubborn landlord. He picked a smaller yam slice and blew on it. The thing was black like midnight, but he bit it anyway. The bitterness made his face twist until even the kids couldn’t hold their laughter. “Hmm!” he cried. “If I survive this yam, I fit survive heartbreak. This one bitter pass break-up.” The little girl who wanted to be his PA squealed. “Uncle Dami, you dey craze!” “Yes na!” he declared proudly. “Craze is my middle name. Normal no dey pay again.” For a moment, the street was alive with joy, like Dami’s fire had lit more than yam. But then, from the corner, a man in a brown kaftan stood watching him closely. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t smiling — just staring. Dami noticed and frowned. “Wetin? You wan buy yam or you wan borrow my madness?” The man didn’t answer. He just nodded slowly, like he’d found something he’d been searching for. Then he walked away, disappearing into the crowded street. Taju followed him with his eyes. “You sabi am?” Dami shook his head, still chewing. “No. Maybe na EFCC. Them wan arrest me for over-roasting.” Everybody laughed, but somewhere inside, Dami felt a strange chill. Like the yam stand was no longer just a stand. Like his fire was about to cook something bigger than hunger. The laughter of the street slowly faded, but Dami’s mind didn’t. That strange man’s eyes stayed with him. They weren’t ordinary Lagos eyes — not the type that measured yam by size or mocked poverty. No, those eyes had weighed him like market scale, as if Dami himself was the item for sale. He shook his head quickly and smacked his lips. “Abeg, make I no dey imagine rubbish. Na hunger dey talk.” Still, he caught Taju staring at him. “Guy, you no notice something?” Taju asked, lowering his voice. “Notice wetin? Say this yam bitter? Everybody notice that one.” “No be that,” Taju pressed. “That man. The way him look you. Like person wey know something.” Dami hissed, throwing another stick into the fire. “My brother, leave matter. If man dey find problem, na Lagos full ground. Maybe him dey think how I go still survive roasting rubber.” The kids laughed again, but the joke felt thinner this time. He chewed the last bite of his yam, ignoring the sting in his teeth. Hunger no dey wait for prophecy. But when the evening sun slanted across the street, painting everything gold, Dami caught himself whispering: > “Mama, abeg o… if destiny dey pass, make e no waka go without me.” Dami forced a laugh with the others, but inside, one thought refused to leave him — why did a stranger’s eyes feel heavier than hunger?