CHAPTER 9: BREAD AND SWEAT
746 Words
Amara didn’t move.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the shadow in front of her.
Her heart beat so loudly she was sure the person could hear it.
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“You can’t sleep here,” the voice said again.
This time, clearer.
Not harsh.
But not soft either.
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Amara slowly lifted her head.
The figure stepped slightly into the light.
A woman.
Not young. Not old.
Tired eyes. Strong face.
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“This place is not safe,” the woman said.
“Area boys will come at night.”
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Amara swallowed.
“I didn’t know where to go,” she said quietly.
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The woman studied her for a moment.
“You’re new,” she said.
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Amara nodded.
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The woman sighed.
Not in anger.
More like she had seen this before.
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“Stand up,” she said.
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Amara hesitated.
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“If you want to stay alive here, don’t sit like that,” the woman added.
“You must move.”
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Slowly, Amara stood.
Her legs felt weak.
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The woman pointed down the road.
“There’s a market not far from here. Early morning, people start work before sunrise.”
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Amara listened carefully.
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“If you’re serious,” the woman continued,
“go there. Ask for work. Carry things. Clean. Anything.”
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“Will they give me work?” Amara asked.
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The woman looked at her.
“If you stand and beg—no.”
She paused.
“If you offer to work—maybe.”
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That word again.
Maybe.
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Amara nodded.
“Thank you,” she said.
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The woman didn’t smile.
But her voice softened slightly.
“Don’t thank me yet. Lagos is not kind.”
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She turned and walked away.
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Just like that.
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Amara stood there alone again.
But something had changed.
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Now—
She had direction.
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She didn’t sleep much that night.
Only small moments.
Short, broken.
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As soon as the sky began to lighten—
She stood up.
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Her body protested.
Her legs were heavy.
Her eyes tired.
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But she moved anyway.
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The market wasn’t hard to find.
Even from a distance—
She could hear it.
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Voices.
Movement.
Life.
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Amara stepped closer.
Carefully.
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People were already working.
Setting up stalls.
Arranging goods.
Calling out to each other.
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No one noticed her.
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Good.
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She walked up to the first woman she saw—carrying a basket of tomatoes.
“Please… can I help?” Amara asked.
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The woman barely looked at her.
“No.”
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Amara stepped back.
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She tried again.
Another stall.
Another person.
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“No.”
“Go away.”
“Not now.”
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The rejections came quickly.
Easily.
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Amara’s chest tightened.
But she didn’t stop.
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She moved again.
And again.
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Finally—
A woman arranging yams paused.
Looked at her.
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“You can carry?” the woman asked.
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Amara nodded quickly.
“Yes.”
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The woman pointed to a sack.
“Take that to the other side.”
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Amara didn’t hesitate.
She bent down—
Struggled—
Then lifted it.
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It was heavy.
Too heavy.
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But she didn’t drop it.
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Step by step—
She carried it.
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Her arms burned.
Her back ached.
Her legs shook.
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But she kept moving.
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When she finally dropped the sack where the woman had pointed—
She breathed hard.
Sweat running down her face.
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The woman watched her.
Then nodded slightly.
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“Good,” she said.
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At the end of the morning—
The woman handed her something.
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A small piece of bread.
And a few coins.
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Amara stared at it.
Her chest tightened.
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Not from pain.
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From something else.
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Relief.
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She held the bread tightly.
Like it might disappear.
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Then she took a bite.
Slowly.
Carefully.
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It was the best thing she had tasted in days.
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Not because it was special.
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But because—
She earned it.
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Amara sat down briefly.
Her body tired.
Her hands shaking slightly.
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But her eyes—
Focused.
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Because now she understood something important.
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Lagos would not give her anything.
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But if she worked—
If she endured—
If she refused to stop—
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She could take something from it.
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