Beneath His Wings

Chapter 8 Beauty's Quiet Resolve

The restaurant smelled of fried oil and weary patience. The fluorescent bulbs above flickered faintly, buzzing as though they too were tired from the long day. Beauty Ola stood behind the counter with her apron tied tight around her slender waist, her hands scrubbing at the last pile of greasy plates. At twenty-two, she carried herself with a quiet grace that did not fit the faded uniform she wore. Her coworkers often whispered that she had the mannerisms of someone who had once belonged to a different world—a world of lectures, books, and dreams.

“Beauty, you’re still here?” one of the older waitresses called from the doorway. She had already changed into her casual clothes and was ready to leave.

“Yes, Aunty Peace,” Beauty replied with a tired smile. “I’ll just finish this, then I’ll go.”

The woman nodded and left. One by one, the others trickled out until only Beauty remained, her soft hum filling the empty space. She worked carefully, almost lovingly, because this job was more than a wage; it was survival. The little she earned here went straight into her family’s household purse—a purse already stretched thin and frayed at the seams.

By the time she untied her apron and slipped out of the back door, the city had already softened into its evening rhythm. Eden City’s skyline glittered with lights far away, in neighborhoods she had only ever admired from a distance. Her own side of the city told a different story—rows of old shops, cracked pavements, and buses honking impatiently at every corner.

She crossed the street to the bus stop, clutching her small handbag close to her chest. She could have taken a keke, which was faster, but it was also costlier. The bus was cheaper, even if it meant sitting in cramped, stuffy air with strangers who all smelled of sweat and fatigue.

The bus rattled as it lurched forward. Beauty pressed her forehead to the window, watching shadows of hawkers darting between cars. She thought of how every corner of the city carried a hustle: women balancing trays of groundnuts, young men with buckets of chilled water sachets, children selling plantain chips when they should have been home studying. Her heart tightened.

She was once like them, but with books instead of wares.

Back in her university days, she had walked campus grounds with hope in her eyes, her steps brisk, carrying textbooks heavier than her own body. She had chosen Computer Science because she was fascinated by the idea of making machines bend to human will. She remembered long nights spent in dimly lit labs, learning how to write loops, debugging code that refused to run, and feeling a thrill each time a program finally worked.

Programming was like magic. A set of invisible instructions could transform into something powerful and useful. She dreamed of building software that could simplify life for people like her parents, who struggled with daily survival.

But that dream ended abruptly in her third year.

Her father had sat her down one evening with eyes darkened by helplessness. “Beauty,” he had said, his voice cracking, “I can’t pay this semester’s fees.”

She had tried to argue, to plead, but the truth stood immovable. He simply didn’t have the money.

“Maybe… maybe you can find someone to help,” one of her roommates had suggested gently, her meaning clear. Beauty had felt something twist inside her. She had seen other girls accept phones, cars, and even trips abroad in exchange for themselves. She would not follow that road.

With quiet resolve, she withdrew from the semester, then from the university entirely. That day, she had folded away her notebooks and promised herself that dignity was worth more than any certificate earned by compromise.

The bus hit a pothole, jolting her back to the present. Beauty blinked away the sting in her eyes. She couldn’t afford to drown in what-ifs.

At the next junction, a vendor shoved a pile of newspapers through the window. “Today’s paper! Big news inside! Billionaire heir back in town!”

Beauty waved him off at first, but curiosity tugged at her. She handed him a few naira and took one paper. The headline screamed in bold letters:

“ETHAN OBI RETURNS TO EDEN CITY—The Heir to Obi Group Home After Years Abroad.”

Beneath the title was a polished photograph of a tall, broad-shouldered young man in a tailored suit, his eyes sharp, his expression carved in cool confidence.

Ethan Obi.

She had heard the name before. Everyone in Eden City had. Obi Group controlled shipping, construction, real estate, oil and even hospitality. They were the kind of family who lived in gated mansions guarded by soldiers, who dined with politicians, whose children were sent abroad for the best education money could buy.

Beauty studied the picture for a second longer before folding the paper closed. Men like him lived in a different universe entirely, one she had no interest in chasing. She tucked the paper into her bag, her stop approaching.

When she stepped down from the bus, the air was thick with the smell of roasted corn and exhaust fumes. She navigated narrow alleys until she reached the modest compound where her family rented a single room. The landlord’s towering house loomed nearby, its windows dark, but his shadow still pressed heavily on her mind.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of kerosene and dried crayfish. Her mother, Mama Ola, sat on a low stool, peeling beans for moi-moi. Her face looked older than her years, the stress of survival etched into every line.

“You’re late again, Beauty,” her mother said softly, though without accusation.

“The customers stayed long,” Beauty replied, kneeling to greet her before sitting beside her. “How are you feeling, Mama?”

Her mother’s hands slowed. “I keep thinking of my market goods, Beauty. All those things scattered, wasted. Years of sweat gone in one day.”

The landlord had thrown her wares into the mud after she failed to pay the new, inflated rent. Beauty’s chest ached at the memory of her mother standing helplessly as passersby stepped over ruined goods.

“We will find another way,” Beauty said firmly, her hand covering her mother’s. “Maybe not selling again, but something different. I will help you think.”

Her mother gave her a tired smile. “You always sound older than me.”

In the corner, her father was mending a worn pair of shoes by candlelight. He looked up briefly and gave his daughter a nod. His silence carried the weight of his shame—that he could not provide enough, that his children had to shoulder burdens meant for him.

“Papa,” Beauty said gently, “don’t worry too much. God sees us.”

He sighed but said nothing.

Later, when the family gathered on the thin mat to share a simple meal of moi-moi and pap, the conversation turned to the landlord again.

“We gave him what we had,” her father muttered. “But it’s only part. He said if we don’t complete it next month, he’ll throw us out.”

Beauty swallowed hard. She thought of her meager salary and how it vanished almost as soon as she received it. Still, she placed her hand over her father’s. “We will manage. Somehow.”

That night, long after everyone else had fallen asleep, Beauty lay awake staring at the rusted ceiling fan above her. The newspaper rested beside her pillow. She pulled it out, unfolding it again, her eyes returning to Ethan Obi’s photo.

The sharp lines of his suit, the unyielding pride in his eyes—he seemed untouchable, a figure sculpted from a different destiny. Beauty traced the headline with her finger, then set it aside with a faint laugh.

“Not my world,” she whispered to herself.

She turned on her side, closed her eyes, and let the fatigue drag her into sleep.

But even in her dreams, lines of code danced before her eyes, whispering promises of the future she still believed could be hers—if only she kept fighting.