CHAPTER 3: THE WORD CALLED LAGOS
759 Words
That evening, the air felt different.
Not cooler. Not lighter.
Just… heavy.
Like something was about to happen.
Amara sat beside her mother’s small roadside stand, watching the last customers of the day drift away. The sun was sinking slowly, painting the sky in deep orange and tired gold. Dust floated in the air, glowing softly in the fading light.
Her mother fanned the charcoal gently, trying to keep the last few cobs of corn warm.
“Maybe one more person will come,” Ada murmured.
Amara didn’t reply.
She had learned something—hope could be dangerous when it stretched too far.
⸻
Two men stood a few steps away, talking loudly as they waited.
Their clothes were cleaner than most in the village. Their shoes didn’t carry mud. Even the way they stood—relaxed, unbothered—felt different.
Amara noticed them immediately.
Not because they were special.
But because they didn’t look like they belonged to struggle.
“You just came back today?” one of them asked.
“Yes,” the other replied. “From Lagos.”
Amara’s ears sharpened.
Lagos.
The word landed in her mind like a stone dropped into still water.
“What’s it like there now?” the first man asked.
The second man laughed softly, shaking his head.
“My brother… Lagos is not this place.”
Amara leaned slightly closer, pretending to arrange the corn.
“In Lagos,” the man continued, “if you’re sharp, you won’t suffer. Money moves. People hustle, yes—but if you know what you’re doing, you can make something.”
Something.
The word echoed.
“What kind of work?” the first man asked.
“Anything,” he said. “Selling. Carrying. Helping. Even small-small jobs. But at least… you see results.”
Amara felt something tighten in her chest.
Results.
That was the difference.
Here, they worked.
But nothing changed.
⸻
Her mother handed the men their corn.
They paid and walked away, their conversation fading into the evening noise.
But for Amara, it didn’t fade.
It stayed.
⸻
That night, the house was quiet again.
Too quiet.
No rain.
No wind.
Just silence—and the familiar emptiness that came with it.
Amara lay on the mat, staring at the ceiling.
Lagos.
She whispered the word in her mind, testing it.
Lagos.
A place where:
* People worked and saw results
* Money moved
* Survival wasn’t just waiting
Her stomach tightened again.
Hunger.
But this time, it wasn’t just physical.
It was something deeper.
A need.
⸻
“What are you thinking about?” her mother’s voice came softly from the darkness.
Amara hesitated.
“Nothing,” she said.
But Ada shifted slightly.
“I know that kind of silence,” she said. “It means your mind is far away.”
Amara swallowed.
“Have you ever been to Lagos?” she asked quietly.
There was a pause.
Then—
“Yes.”
Amara turned slightly.
“What is it like?”
Ada didn’t answer immediately.
When she finally spoke, her voice carried something Amara couldn’t fully understand.
“It is big,” she said. “Fast. It doesn’t wait for anyone.”
“Is there money there?” Amara asked.
Ada let out a small, tired breath.
“There is money everywhere,” she said. “But not for everyone.”
The answer stayed in the air.
Not for everyone.
⸻
Amara turned back to the ceiling.
Her mind was no longer in the room.
It was on a road she had never walked.
In a city she had never seen.
In a life she had never lived.
⸻
If it’s not for everyone…
Then maybe it’s for someone who tries.
⸻
She closed her eyes.
But sleep didn’t come.
Instead, images formed in her mind:
Tall buildings.
Busy streets.
People moving with purpose.
A version of herself—stronger, faster, different.
Not waiting.
Not hoping.
Doing.
⸻
Beside her, Chike shifted in his sleep.
He made a small sound.
Amara opened her eyes again.
She turned toward him, watching his small chest rise and fall.
Her expression softened.
“I will fix this,” she whispered.
She didn’t know how.
She didn’t know when.
But for the first time—
She believed it could be done.
⸻
Outside, the night stretched endlessly.
The village slept.
But Amara didn’t.
Because something had already changed.
Not around her.
Inside her.
⸻
A word had entered her life.
A simple word.
A dangerous word.
A powerful word.
⸻
Lagos.
- Writer
