Save a life, gain a life 1
744 Words
Every day, he woke up to the same view.
Same cracked ceiling.
Same dim light filtering through the torn curtain.
Same stillness, broken only by the creaking of the bedframe beneath him.
Twenty years, and the cracks on the ceiling had only gotten wider. They ran like dried-up rivers across the surface, splitting and branching as though mocking the life beneath them.
He often imagined the roof finally giving in and crashing down on him. It would be quick, painless—maybe even poetic.
The thought made him chuckle quietly.
The laughter startled his wife. She turned to stare at him, eyes wide with suspicion, like he'd grown another head. A larger, uglier one.
“Shey no be madness be this?” she asked, voice sharp with irritation. “Na God go deliver you o, this man. Abi time never reach for you to stand up? Your mates don enter road dey hustle, you dey here dey laugh like say person dey c***k joke for here.”
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t feel the sting anymore.
Years of hearing the same thing had built a wall between him and her words. They bounced off, mostly. Most days.
This was their morning routine. Some days, all he had to do was breathe, and that alone was enough to trigger her fury.
He sighed and turned to face the wall, letting the silence absorb her voice.
He whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. It was soft, worn out, but sincere. He committed the day to God, like he did every morning, even on days when his faith felt thin.
Then he stood, stretched the stiffness out of his back, and reached for the nylon bag of toiletries and his faded towel — always kept by the door, ready.
He walked to the public bathroom at the back of the compound. The floor was wet, the walls stained. He rushed in and out, barely spending five minutes.
She was right, after all. His colleagues would already be out — some of them didn’t even sleep properly. They worked late and started early, like the fatigue didn’t matter.
He changed into his clothes quickly, grabbed his helmet, and stepped outside.
His motorcycle, old but loyal, stood waiting. He kicked it to life and took off, leaving the house behind.
The farther he got, the lighter he felt.
It was ironic, heading to another long day of work but feeling freer with every mile. That house wasn’t a home. It was a weight. A reminder of dreams deferred, of promises broken.
But the road — the road was different.
The wind against his face.
The still-dark sky stretching above.
The silence, unbroken by nagging passengers or greedy toll touts.
For a moment, he was no longer just a man burdened by bills and aging bones.
He was a boy again.
He had dreams again.
He remembered what it felt like to hope.
He smiled, coasting through the quiet roads. It was the highlight of his day, every day. That small window of peace before the chaos.
Then, something caught his eye.
At first, he thought it was another bike — maybe a fallen rider. But as he got closer, the shape became clearer, stranger.
It was a car.
But not just any car.
It was a Ferrari.
And it was upside down.
His heart skipped. The car looked out of place — foreign, expensive, wrong. Broken glass glistened on the road like scattered diamonds. Smoke curled out from under the hood like a warning.
He rode past it at first. Then something tugged at him — instinct maybe, or conscience. He slowed, turned around.
The car wasn’t burning. Not yet. But it looked close.
Without thinking, he jumped off the bike and rushed to the driver’s side. The door was jammed, bent at the hinges. He forced it open with all his strength, his hands shaking.
Inside was a young man — barely 25, bleeding and unconscious.
He pulled him out carefully, cradling the man’s head like it was glass.
They were halfway back to the motorcycle when it happened.
The car exploded.
The blast lit up the sky, and he froze, shielding the young man with his own body.
His ears rang. His chest pounded.
But they were alive.
He looked down at the boy in his arms — breathing, still alive.
He had saved a life.
For the first time in a long time… he felt alive too.
- Writer
