BRING WALE HOME

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chapter 2: Rain,Bills and Empty pockets

Night came like a landlord demanding rent.

Wale and Kola didn’t have a house to go to. Alhaji’s “accommodation” ended at the gate. So they followed 4 other boys to sleep under Ikeja bridge, near the pedestrian bridge by Computer Village. Cardboard as mattress. Nylon as blanket. Rain dripping through the cracks, kissing their faces every 10 minutes.

Wale didn’t sleep. He counted.

₦42,000 for Mama’s dialysis at LUTH.

₦18,000 for Titi’s SS3 fees at St. Finbarr’s.

₦7,500 for Dele’s JSS1 fees + textbooks.

₦500 in his pocket from Tunde. Total: ₦67,500 needed. ₦500 available.

The math laughed at him.

4:30am. His phone vibrated. LUTH, Ward 14. Nurse Aminat.

“Wale Adekunle? Your mother missed dialysis yesterday. We gave her emergency dose, but her BP hit 210/120 last night. We can’t keep her bed without ₦42,000 deposit by 2pm today. If not, we discharge her.”

Wale pressed the phone to his ear like pressure could change the words. “Nurse, abeg. Just 2 days. I’ll—”

“Wale, we’re not a charity. There are 6 other patients waiting.” Click.

He stared at the ceiling of the bridge. Concrete. Dirty. Honest. Unlike Alhaji.

6am. They split up. Hunger is a good motivator.

Kola went to Yaba Market. He found a trader offloading bags of rice from a truck. “Boy, carry 10 bags to my shop. ₦500.” Kola’s back cracked on bag 7, but he finished. The trader gave him ₦400. “Balance tomorrow.” Kola didn’t argue. He bought 2 gala and 1 sachet water. ₦300 gone. ₦100 left.

Wale went to Computer Village with his screwdriver set wrapped in cloth. His only asset. He stood by Otigba Square and shouted: “Screen replacement! Charging port! Battery! Cheap, sharp!”

For 3 hours, nobody came. Then Mama Nkechi brought Tecno Spark 10C. Screen was shaking like it was dancing Fuji.

“How much, my son?”

“₦3,500, Mama. Original LCD.” Wale’s hands remembered Alhaji’s training. He worked fast, breathing through his mouth so sweat wouldn’t drop on the motherboard.

He was tightening the last screw when it happened. A boy, 15 max, snatched the phone + Wale’s full toolkit and vanished into the crowd shouting “Na phone, na phone!”

“Ole! Thief!” Wale ran 20 meters barefoot before his chest gave up. Nobody chased. In Computer Village, everybody minds their business until it’s their turn to be robbed.

He came back to Mama Nkechi empty-handed, shaking. “Mama, I’m sorry. They took it.”

Mama Nkechi looked at him, then at his torn slippers. She opened her purse and dropped ₦500 in his hand. “Take, my son. God will provide. But I can’t pay you for work you didn’t finish.”

₦500 + ₦500 from Tunde = ₦1,000. Still ₦66,500 short.

3pm. He reached LUTH, Ward 14. Mama Bola was on the bed, smaller than he remembered. Skin like dry paper. Oxygen tube in her nose. When she saw him, she smiled. That smile could break concrete.

“Wale, my son. You don chop today?”

He lied. “Yes, Mama. Rice and chicken.”

She touched his face with cold fingers. “Titi was sent home again today. SS3 mock starts Monday. ₦18,000. If she misses it, she’ll write WAEC from home. And Dele… they seized his notebook at school for fees.”

Wale nodded, throat burning. He wanted to tell her about Alhaji. About “thief”. About sleeping under bridge. But mothers in hospitals don’t need new problems. They need hope.

On his way out, he passed the blood donation center. Poster on the wall: “Donate blood, save life. ₦8,000 compensation.”

For 30 seconds, he stood there. One arm, one needle, ₦8,000. That’s 4 rounds of dialysis drugs. That’s Titi’s books.

His hand touched the door handle. Then he remembered Dad dying in 2019 after selling blood twice in one month. “Wale,” Dad had whispered before he died, “don’t ever sell the only thing you can’t replace.”

He walked away.

Night again. Mushin, his street. No light. No food. Titi was home, writing WAEC expo on the floor with candle because NEPA took light. She looked up: “Bros Wale, when are you paying my fees? Teacher said I won’t sit for mock.”

Wale had no answer. He went outside and sat on the drainage. Kola joined him. Both quiet. Both hungry.

Kola finally broke the silence. “Wale… I checked my bank app today. ₦0.00. I checked my future too. Also ₦0.00.”

Wale laughed. Dry, painful laugh. “Alhaji called us thief. Maybe he was right. Maybe we’ve been stealing from ourselves by hoping.”

His phone buzzed. One w******p message. Tunde: “8am. Otigba Square. Tunde Tech. Don’t be late. And Wale… wear something decent. First impression matters in business.”

Wale looked at his only shirt. Dried rain. Small tear at the collar.

Kola stood up. “Last try, my guy. If Tunde fails us too, then we’ll know God has forgotten Ajegunle boys.”

Wale stood too. Knees weak from hunger. “Then we fail standing. Not on our knees like Alhaji wanted.”

They walked back to the bridge. ₦1,000 in pocket. 2 hungry stomachs. 1 sick mother. 2 siblings whose future was hanging by thread.

8am tomorrow. Either salvation, or another gate closing.

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