Beneath His Wings

The last rays of sunlight bled into the crowded streets of Lagos as Beauty lingered in the small restaurant, wiping down tables that no one would notice were already clean. It was her daily ritual—waiting until the city calmed, until the night buses started rolling, because they were cheaper and stretched her meager wages a little further. Most of the other workers had rushed home long ago, eager to leave behind the clatter of plates and the oily scent of fried food. Beauty, however, moved slowly, dragging her feet as if she owned the place. She didn’t, of course, but her heart had long attached itself here. The restaurant was not just where she worked; it was her second home, the one place she could imagine herself belonging. She paced across the floor, towel in hand, tapping her forehead as though she carried the weight of billions. That was her habit—pretending to think like the rich she saw on TV or overheard customers gossiping about. She wondered, What would it be like to have a life where money wasn’t a problem? Where my family could eat without measuring garri with trembling fingers? “Beauty!” The sharp call yanked her back to reality. She spun around to see Madam Bola, her employer, arms crossed and watching her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Beauty, wetin you dey do since? I don call you tire.” Beauty quickly straightened, embarrassment flashing across her face. “Sorry, ma. I was…arranging the table the customers scattered when they fought earlier.” Madam Bola shook her head, muttering something under her breath, then softened. She was not like other employers Beauty had seen. There was steel in her, yes, but also a kindness rare in Lagos business owners. Many treated workers like disposable rags. Madam Bola treated hers like younger siblings. “No forget to lock this place well o,” she said, gathering her handbag. “You know say thieves no dey smile these days. So no smile for them join.” Beauty grinned faintly. “Yes ma. You can count on me.” Without warning, Madam Bola reached into her purse and pressed two thousand naira into Beauty’s hand. “Take this, add am to your TP. Greet your people for me.” The note felt heavier than its value. Beauty dropped to her knees with a thud, gratitude spilling from her lips. “Thank you, ma. God bless you abundantly.” Madam Bola waved her off and hurried out into the dusk. The restaurant fell silent, save for the distant honking of danfos and the hum of generators springing to life around the street. Beauty tucked the money safely into her bag, sat by the door, and waited. Night buses were risky, but they were cheap, and for a girl from an average home, every naira mattered. She had learned the art of stretching coins until they begged for mercy. A familiar honk sounded, and she looked up. Ayo’s bus rolled to a stop, its headlights cutting through the darkness. “Beauty! Let’s go!” his voice rang out, warm and confident. She stood quickly and hurried toward the bus. Ayo was only twenty-four, a hustler like the rest, but somehow different. He carried himself with a calm assurance that set him apart. He didn’t need to shout or fight for passengers the way other drivers did; people simply gravitated toward him. Sliding into the front seat, Beauty stole a glance at him. His tall frame fit snugly behind the wheel, his eyes sharp but kind. His dark skin glowed with the sweat of the day, his thick lips curved in an easy half-smile. There was something about him—something she couldn’t name. “How market today?” he asked as he shifted gears. “Fine,” she said simply, clutching her bag. She wasn’t much of a talker, but he never seemed to mind. The bus hummed along the uneven roads, weaving past hawkers still shouting last-minute deals. They drove six kilometers before pulling up outside Beauty’s compound, a weathered building with peeling paint and cracked walls that bore witness to years of struggle. She jumped down quickly. “Thank you, Ayo. How much?” She reached into her bag to pay, but he shook his head. “No worry. I make plenty money today. Keep your own.” Beauty hesitated, then smiled shyly. She loved free things, but she also hated feeling like a burden. Still, his generosity warmed her heart. “Thank you. God go bless you.” “Na so,” he replied, already turning his attention back to the road. She pushed open the rusty gate to her family’s compound, humming faintly to herself. But the sound died the moment she stepped into the yard. The scene before her froze her in place. Her mother sat on the bare veranda, clutching her chest, her wrapper loose and sweat dripping down her face. Her father, usually strong and composed, knelt beside her, his expression carved with worry. Her three younger siblings huddled together, wide-eyed and frightened, their school uniforms still on as though they hadn’t been able to change. Beauty’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Mama? Papa? What happened?” The words stuck in her throat as the reality of the scene hit her like a wave. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. And for the first time that day, her dreams of billions vanished. All she could think was: How much more can we survive?