TWENTY FOUR HOURS
The knock was loud and angry.
“Madam Ada! Open this door, you stupid woman!”
I pressed my back against the cold wall of our one-room apartment in Mile One. My hands were shaking.
Grace looked up from the floor, where she was drawing with the last stub of her pencil.
“Mummy, who is that?”
“Nobody, baby. Go back to your drawing.”
The knock came again, harder this time.
“We know you’re inside! The landlord said today is the last day!”
Four months' rent.
₦190,000.
I had only ₦5,000 in my purse and one pack of Indomie in the cupboard.
Grace's school fees were due next week.
If we were thrown out, where would we go?
Back to my father's house in Aba?
Back to the woman who looked at my daughter like she was a burden?
“Please,” I whispered toward the door. “Just give me one more week, sir.”
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Walking away.
I exhaled shakily. My knees gave out, and I sank onto the floor.
Grace immediately climbed into my lap. She smelled like soap and crayons.
“It’s okay, Mummy,” she whispered, patting my cheek. “We will be fine. Jesus will provide.”
I stared at her.
My five-year-old daughter had more faith than I did.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown Number.
I opened the message.
“This is from Mr. Chike Brain Okoro’s office. We will be coming to inspect the property tomorrow at 10 AM.”
My heart stopped.
Chike Brain Okoro.
The billionaire everyone in Lagos seemed to know.
The ruthless real-estate businessman who had bought almost half our street.
People said he planned to demolish the buildings and build a shopping mall.
And now he was coming here.
To my home.
Tomorrow.
I looked around our tiny room.
One mattress.
One pot.
One old refrigerator that barely worked.
And almost nothing else.
“Mummy, I’m hungry.”
I forced a smile.
“Let Mummy boil some water for Indomie, okay?”
Grace smiled and hugged me.
I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.
Then another sound came from outside.
Not a knock.
An engine.
A powerful one.
It stopped directly in front of our gate.
Car doors opened.
Then closed.
Men’s voices followed.
“Yes, sir. This is the last building. After this, the whole block belongs to you.”
“Good.”
A man’s deep voice answered.
“I want it cleared in two weeks.”
My blood ran cold.
Grace tugged at my wrapper.
“Mummy, there are scary men outside.”
I lifted the torn curtain slightly and looked through the window.
Three black SUVs stood outside.
And in front of them was a tall man in a black suit.
Chike Okoro.
He looked completely out of place in our poor little street.
One of his men pointed toward our apartment.
“That one too, sir. The tenant is supposed to be out.”
Chike finally looked up from his phone.
His eyes met mine through the curtain.
Cold.
Unreadable.
He stared for a moment before speaking.
“Get them out.”
My stomach dropped.
A few seconds later, the door rattled.
“Madam! Open up! Mr. Okoro wants to speak with you!”
Grace grabbed my leg.
“Mummy, I’m scared.”
I picked her up.
With trembling hands, I opened the door.
The afternoon sun hit my face.
Chike stood several feet away, five men behind him.
His eyes moved from me to Grace.
“So this is the woman,” he said quietly.
Then he looked at my daughter.
“And the child.”
I lifted my chin.
“Good afternoon, sir. We’re already packing. We’ll be out—”
“You have twenty-four hours.”
“But sir, please. My daughter’s—”
“I don’t care about you or your daughter.”
His words silenced me.
Grace buried her face in my neck.
Chike turned away.
Then he stopped.
His eyes moved briefly to Grace’s bare feet.
Then to the patch on my blouse.
Then back to my face.
For a split second, something changed in his expression.
Then it disappeared.
“Twenty-four hours,” he repeated. “After that, my men will remove you and your belongings.”
He walked away.
The SUVs disappeared down the street, leaving dust behind.
I closed the door and slid down against it.
Grace was crying silently.
“Mummy…”
I held her tightly.
“Are we going to sleep on the street?”
I couldn’t answer.
My eyes fell on the ₦5,000 sitting on the table.
Twenty-four hours.
That was all I had.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
I opened the message.
“Mr. Okoro wants to see you tomorrow at 8 AM. His office. Come alone. There is something you need to discuss with him concerning your rent.”
I stared at the screen.
Chike Okoro wanted to see me.
Alone.
The same man who had just threatened to throw my daughter and me out of our home.
What could he possibly want?
And why did I have the terrible feeling that saying yes could change my life forever?
Because saying no might leave my daughter and me homeless.
Twenty-four hours.
That was all I had.
And somehow, I knew my real trouble had only just begun.
