Sara

Chapter One

SARA

The room was small and unfinished with grey cement and unpainted walls, a single bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling that flickered when the voltage dropped, which was always.

A mattress on the floor with a thin blanket that had seen better days. A plastic bucket in the corner for water. And a small gas stove with one burner.

That was it. That was her world.

Sara opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. The same ceiling she'd been staring at for years now.

The same cracks and the same water stain in the corner. She didn't move at first. She just lay there, listening to the sounds of the morning filtering through the thin walls.

A baby crying somewhere. A woman shouting at her husband. A generator coughing to life. Lagos waking up, same as always.

She sat up slowly, her body aching from the hard mattress, restless night due to mosquito and the tiredness from the previous day.

Her braids were coming loose at the edges, little wisps of hair escaping and curling around her face. She brushed them and reached for her phone. The screen was cracked.

It has been like that for months now she'd dropped it while running from a man who wanted to grab her.

No messages. Not that she expected any anyway. Who would message her? Her mother was dead. Her father was gone. She had no siblings. No family. Just her. Alone in a city of millions of people, and she might as well be invisible.

She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and sat there for a moment, her bare feet on the cold cement floor. The morning air was cool, but she knew it wouldn't last. By ten o'clock, the heat would be unbearable. And by noon, she'd be sweating through her clothes, hawking her wares in the market, and trying to make enough naira to survive another day.

She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes.

"God," she whispered. "I know I don't pray like I should. I know I don't go to church. But please... please just let today be better. I don't need much. Just enough to eat and to keep a roof over my head. Just one good thing. Please. Just one."

She opened her eyes and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. Crying wouldn't help. It never does.

Her mother had told her that, in the weeks before she died. "Don't waste your tears, Sara. Tears don't fill bellies, they don't pay rent. You have to be strong."

She'd been strong. For years now, she'd been strong. But strength had a limit and she was reaching hers.

She stood up and walked to the corner of the room, where a loose cement block sat slightly askew. She knelt down and pried it up, revealing a small gap beneath. She reached inside and pulled out a small bundle of naira notes. She'd been saving it for weeks now.

Every extra naira she could spare, she'd hidden here.

She counted the money slowly, her lips moving silently. She then stacked them in piles on the floor, her heart sinking with each note she added. When she was done, she sat back on her heels and stared at the pile.

Eight thousand four hundred naira.

The rent was fifteen thousand.

She had less than two weeks before the grace period expired. Two weeks to find almost seven thousand naira. Money that she didn't have and had no way of getting.

She thought about all the things she'd done to earn this money. The endless hours standing in the sun, selling sachet water and zobo. The days she'd gone without food to save a little extra. The nights she'd lain awake, hungry, and dreaming of a good food for once.

All of it. For nothing. Because it still wasn't enough.

She heard her mother's voice echoed in her head again.

"You have to be strong, Sara."

How? How was she supposed to be strong when the world was crushing her from all sides?

She was still sitting on the floor, the money scattered around her, when the banging started.

BANG BANG BANG!

Sara's heart jumped into her throat. She scrambled to gather the money, shoving it back into the gap, sliding the cement block back into place. Her hands were shaking and her breath was coming in short gasps.

BANG BANG BANG!

"Sara! Sara, open this door!"

It was Mama Basira. The woman who lived three doors down, she ran a small kiosk at the corner of the street. The woman who had lent Sara five thousand naira two months ago when Sara had nothing to eat and nowhere to turn.

And she was definitely here to collect her debt.

Sara's legs felt like jelly as she walked to the door and fumbled with the lock. When she finally opened it, Mama Basira was standing there, her arms crossed over her chest, and her face set in a scowl.

"Sara," she said, her voice sharp. "I've been patient. Very patient. But my patience has limits."

"I know, Mama Basira. I know. I just... I need a little more time."

"You've had two months, Sara. Two months! I gave you money when you needed it. And this is how you repay me?"

"I'll pay you back. I swear. Just give me another week."

Mama Basira's eyes narrowed. She was a short woman, round, with a face that looked kind when she smiled but could also turn hard in an instant. She'd been good to Sara. Better than most. But even good people had limits too.

"Another week," Mama Basira repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. "You said that last week. And the week before."

"I know. I know. But things have been hard. The market has been slow. And people don't buy much."

"Don't give me that, Sara. I see you out there every day. I see you selling and making money. You just don't want to pay me."

"That's not true!" Sara's voice cracked. "I swear it's not true. I've been saving. I have... I have some money for..."

The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. She saw the shift in Mama Basira's eyes.

"Some money?" Mama Basira said. "How much? Show me."

Sara hesitated. "It's not much. I was saving it for rent..."

"I said show me, Sara."

Sara's throat tightened. She knew what was about to happen. But what choice did she have? Mama Basira was standing in her doorway. She wouldn't leave until she got something. And if she left empty-handed, she'd tell the landlord. And the landlord would throw Sara out. Today.

Slowly, Sara walked back to the corner of the room.

She knelt down and pried up the cement block, her hands trembling as she pulled out the bundle of notes and held them out to Mama Basira.

Mama Basira snatched them from her hand. She counted them quickly, her lips moving. When she was done, she looked up at Sara.

"Eight thousand four hundred naira," she said.

"I was saving it for rent," Sara said again, her voice quiet.

"I thought if I could just pay the rent, I could figure out how to pay you.

"Rent," Mama Basira repeated.

"You owe me five thousand, Sara. Five thousand. And you've been avoiding me for months."

"I wasn't avoiding you. I was trying to save..."

"Save. Right. Save for rent. While I'm here waiting for my money." Mama Basira shook her head.

"This is not good, Sara. This is not how you treat people who help you."

"I'll pay you back. I swear. Just give me a little more time."

Mama Basira was silent for a long moment. She looked down at the money in her hand, then back at Sara.

"I'm going to take this," she said finally. "Six thousand. That's what you owe me, with interest. The rest I'll keep as payment for my trouble."

"Six thousand?" Sara's voice was faint. "But I only borrowed five."

"Five thousand, two months ago. With interest, it's six. Do you think money is free, Sara? Do you think I don't have my own bills to pay?"

Sara opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. What was the point? Mama Basira had the money. She wasn't going to give it back. And if Sara made a fuss, she might take even more.

Mama Basira counted out six thousand, then tucked them into her bra. She held out the remaining notes to Sara.

"Here," she said. "This is what's left. Consider yourself lucky I didn't take everything."

Sara took the money with numb fingers. Two thousand four hundred naira. That was all she had left. Two thousand four hundred naira to pay rent and buy food.

Mama Basira turned to leave, then paused at the door. She looked back at Sara.

"Your mother would be disappointed in you, Sara," she said. "She raised you better than this."

And then she was gone.

Sara stood in the middle of the room, the money clutched in her hand, staring at the empty doorway. The words hung in the air.

Your mother would be disappointed in you.

No. No, she wouldn't have been. Her mother would have understood. Because she knew what it was like to struggle, to have nothing.

To try and try and try and still come up short.

But Mama Basira didn't know that. Mama Basira only saw what she wanted to see. A girl who owed her money and was taking too long to pay.

Sara's legs gave out. She sank to the floor, with her back against the wall, the money still clutched in her hand.

The tears she'd been holding back finally came, hot and fast, streaming down her cheeks. She didn't bother to wipe them away. Because there was no point. No one was here to see or even care.

She was going to be homeless. In less than two weeks, she was going to be on the streets. With no roof or door to lock at night. Just her, alone in the city, at the mercy of predators.

She thought about all hustle to survive. All the men who'd looked at her with hunger in their eyes, the nights she'd walked home in the dark, praying she'd make it safely. The days she'd gone without food so she could save a few more money. And for what? For nothing. For this. To be sitting on a cement floor in a room that wasn't even finished, and crying over money she didn't have.

Her mother's voice again. "Don't waste your tears, Sara. Because tears don't fill bellies."

But her mother was dead. And Sara was all alone. And sometimes, tears were all she had.