The screams were faint at first, then louder. Somebody help. But no one stopped, not one soul. In the middle of a hot Abuja afternoon, traffic zipped by without mercy. Drivers honked in frustration. Bystanders watched briefly from afar, shook their heads, and walked away.
Lying there on the side of the dusty expressway was an old man, probably in his late 60s, dressed in a white CFAN, now stained with fresh blood and mud. His walking stick lay broken beside him. A few minutes ago, a reckless taxi had struck him and sped off. He rolled off the pavement and collapsed by the roadside, groaning in pain. The crowd stood watching, but no one moved.
Just a few meters away, a young girl in a red jacket and black jeans pulled her delivery bike to a sudden stop. The time on her phone flashed urgently. 12 40 3 p.m. She had only 17 minutes left to make a crucial delivery or she’d be fired. The goods in the delivery box behind her were labeled urgent, fragile, prepaid. Her hands trembled on the bike handle. She looked at the old man again. People were whispering, “Don’t touch him.
” Oh, if he dies, police will blame you. You hear about that boy last week. He tried to help accident victim. Now he’s in prison. Me? I’m not getting involved. I don’t want to go to jail. Adana heard them. She heard every word. But then, like a soft whisper in her heart, she heard another voice, her mother’s voice.
Even if the world turns its back on you, never turn your back on those you can help. Help, Adana. Always help. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her hands shook on the handlebars. This was the kind of moment her mother had talked about. The moment where kindness costs everything. She had only seconds to choose. Save her job or save this dying man. She jumped off the bike. Help me, she shouted.
Let’s take him to the hospital, please. No one moved. Not one person. Adana rushed to the old man. “Sir, please stay with me,” she whispered as she gently knelt beside him. She tried stopping a few taxis, but none stopped. She looked at her delivery box again. Then she made her decision.
She removed her helmet, placed it beside the box, and bent down to lift the old man. He was heavy. Her arms trembled, but somehow she managed to hoist him on her back and then onto her delivery bike. Balancing him across her back, she climbed on the bike again and zoomed off into traffic, into chaos, into the unknown.
She didn’t even look back 12 hours earlier. It was 5 a.m. in a cramped one room apartment at the outskirt of Abuja. Adana, barely 18, was already up. She had washed, packed lunch, ironed school uniforms, and was braiding her sister’s hair while standing. Mara, always the chattier twin, mumbled with a yawn, “Sis, mommy, you should sleep more.
I’ll sleep when you both become doctors.” Adana smiled, tugging gently on Mimi’s hair. Their lives had changed completely after that horrible night one year ago. Armed robbers broke into their home. They took everything, the car, phones, jewelry, and then shot their parents before fleeing. No one ever found out why. No suspects, no arrests, just silence.
Adana became a mother overnight. No uncles stepped up. No aunts offered help. So she sold what little was left and used the money to survive. School had to go. Her dreams had to wait. She withdrew from school. Survival was now priority just to ensure her twin sisters are okay.
She took the only job someone her age without a certificate could do. Courier delivery rider. Most riders were men, but Adana was tough. She learned to ride fast, handle customers, brave the weather, and protect the little she had. Her red swifts jacket became her armor. Every morning she woke early, prepped breakfast, dropped the girls at school, then jumped on her delivery bike, and vanished into the city. Her manager, Kunlay, was known to be strict and cold.
Delivery must reach the customer in 25 minutes max. One late delivery, and you’re gone. Today’s delivery was prepaid, fragile, and urgent. The kind of package you don’t mess up. So when Adana started her ride that morning, she was focused, determined to meet the time. But fate had other plans. Back to the present.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and tension. Adana burst through the glass doors, dragging the old man’s body with her on her back. A nurse gasped and rushed forward. What happened? Accident. Taxi hit him. He’s not responding. Wheelchair quick. In seconds, doctors surrounded the old man and wheeled him into the emergency room. “Are you his relative?” a nurse asked.
“No,” Adana said breathlessly. “I found him on the road.” “Do you have his phone?” She searched the old man’s bloodstained pocket and found his phone. “The screen was cracked, but usable. One number was saved as my son.” She dialed. It rang once, twice, then. Yes, dad. A deep male voice answered. This isn’t your dad, Adana said quickly.
Please, your father was involved in an accident. He’s in Zenith Medical Hospital. Woo zone 6. What? I’m coming now, the man yelled. 30 minutes later, a sleek black SUV sped into the hospital. A tall man, late 20s, dressed in white agada with a designer wristwatch, rushed in. Where is he? My father, he shouted. Adana stepped forward, nervous. You’re his son? Yes.
Where is he? Are you the one who called? Yes, sir. I brought him here. The man froze, looking at her in shock. You brought him on that bike? Adana nodded. He looked past her and rushed into the emergency room where his father lied on the bed, struggling for survival. Do everything within your power to revive him. He’s all I got. I will pay whatever it cost.
Adana dashed back to the scene of the accident. By the time she got there, her delivery box and the goods had been stolen. With tears, she returned to the hospital. Adana’s phone vibrated. It was her manager. She picked it. “Wait, what do you mean? The box is gone?” her manager said angrily and ended the call.
Adana’s voice cracked as she stood outside the hospital, staring lustfully at the empty patch of pavement. She was confused. It was completely gone, vanished like smoke. She turned around and walked back into the hospital, her shoes clicking softly against the floor. The long hallway felt colder now. The moment she entered the waiting area, she spotted Andrew standing by the door of the emergency unit, pacing back and forth.
His white capan shimmerred faintly under the hospital lights, but his face was deeply worried. Before she could say a word, he looked up and spotted her. “Adana, right?” she nodded. “Come,” he said gently but firmly. They walked over to a quiet corner near the coffee machine. He turned and looked at her again, still studying her like she was a puzzle he needed to understand. “My dad’s stable now,” he said.
“But the doctors said if he had been brought in just a few minutes later, he might not have made it.” Adana swallowed hard, a strange mix of relief and guilt tightening in her chest. I I’m glad he’s okay. Andrew nodded slowly, then tilted his head slightly. You lost your delivery, didn’t you? Yes, sir. The box is gone. The goods, everything.
And your job? She blinked back tears. He called me just now. Fired me immediately. Andrew exhaled sharply. You were doing a delivery for Swift send dispatch, right? Adana looked up in surprise. Yes. How did you know? Andrew gave a small smile, one without amusement. Because I own the company. Adana froze. What? You work for one of our satellite branches.
He continued, “Jabi office? That manager? Kunlay is it?” He reports to my general logistics team. Her lips parted, but no words came out. Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “What’s your full name?” “Adonna Ugo Chuku,” she whispered. He typed for a moment, then tapped the screen. “Kunlay, it’s Andrew.
You just fired a girl named Adana Ugo Chuku. Reverse that order right now. Replace the goods she lost and assign someone else to deliver it immediately. No excuses. He ended the call without waiting for a reply. Adana stared at him, stunned. You didn’t have to. Yes, I did. His voice softened.
You gave up your job and risked everything to save my father. That’s not something you walk past like nothing happened. She opened her mouth to say thank you, but the lump in her throat made it hard to speak. Andrew sat down in one of the plastic waiting chairs and gestured for her to join him.
So tell me, he said after a moment of silence. Who are you? What’s your story? And so she told him everything about her, about the robbery a year ago that took her parents a normal night that ended in a nightmare. How the police never found the killers? How she was just 17 when it happened, but she had to become both mother and father to her twin sisters, Mara and Mimi.
She told him how she sold everything, her laptop, even her school books just to feed the girls. How she dropped out of school to start working. How the courier bike became her lifeline. All the while, Andrew listened, not with pity, but with respect. Why didn’t you reach out to relatives for help? He asked gently. She laughed bitterly. They disappeared the moment the funeral ended. Everyone said they were too busy.
Some blamed us, said my parents should never have lived in that estate, so I stopped calling. Andrew’s jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing. And yet, he said slowly, “With all of that, you still stop to help a stranger on the road today.” Adana nodded. “My mother always said to help anyone you can, no matter what,” she said. “Kindness is never wasted.
” That line hit Andrew like a blow to the chest. Kindness is never wasted. He looked away for a moment as if trying to gather his thoughts. Then he turned back. Where are your sisters now? At home. I dropped them off at school before the delivery. They’re probably back now. Do they know what happened? She shook her head. Not yet. Andrew stood up.
You’re not going home alone tonight. Huh? I’ll drive you and I’d like to meet them. That evening, a black Bentley pulled up in front of the old compound in Lugbay. The gate creaked as Andrew stepped out in polished shoes, drawing curious stairs from neighbors.
The moment Andrew stepped into their small compound with a Dana, everything around them seemed to pause. People peaked from windows. Children playing football stopped and stared. An expensive black SUV in a place like this didn’t go unnoticed. Neither did a man in polished loafers and designer cologne. Adana felt a sudden wave of embarrassment wash over her.
She looked at the cracks in the wall, the hanging mosquito net, the plastic buckets stacked near the tap. She had tried to keep the house clean, but poverty had a way of showing up in things even soap couldn’t wash. Andrew didn’t say a word. Inside, the room was cramped. A bunk bed stood by the wall. There was one reading table with a dim rechargeable lamp.
A faded photo of their parents hung on the calendar with Adana’s scribbled delivery schedule. “Sis, mommy!” cried Mimi as she opened the door and leapt into Adana’s arms. Mara followed closely, grinning until she noticed the man beside her sister. “Who’s he?” they asked in perfect unison. Adana smiled. “This is Mr. Andrew.” “He helped me today.” Andrew knelt to their level. “Nice to meet you girls.
I’ve heard you’re both very smart and very strong. They giggled shily. Please sit, Adana said awkwardly, clearing some books off the only chair. Andrew shook his head gently. No, I’m fine standing. He turned to the twins. “So, you’re Mimi and Mara, right?” “Yes, sir,” they said together, giggling. “How old are you both?” “10,” Mimi said.
But she’s 2 minutes older, Mara added, pointing at her sister. Andrew smiled for the first time that day. It was the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. Not yet, but it was real. You girls are very lucky, he said quietly. Your sister is extraordinary. Adana blushed, lowering her gaze. He looked at her again. What’s your plan now? I don’t know, she said honestly. I was fired.
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