The brutal roar of the engines shook the dusty street of Port Harcourt before anyone saw the vans, causing everyone at Amara’s food stall to turn their heads in quiet unease.
The wooden tables, the plastic chairs, and the smoke from the coal stove suddenly seemed too small, too poor, compared to the feeling that something huge was about to happen there.
Jessica, Amara’s teenage daughter, stopped halfway with a plate in her hand, while even Mama Hannah, with her spoonful of jollof halfway through, froze, staring at the road.
Three long, shiny black SUVs entered the narrow community as if they had wandered into the wrong neighborhood, moving slowly, with the quiet arrogance of those who are used to making their way in the world.
Some people stood up, murmuring nervously, « Whose cars are those? Is it a politician? Will there be trouble? » as the vehicles pulled up right in front of Amara’s tiny food stall.
That same makeshift stall, with an old table, two foam coolers, and a broken awning that always threatened to fly away, unexpectedly became the center of the neighborhood’s universe.
Amara’s heart almost stopped when the engines died; her stew-stained hands clutched the spoon, unable to comprehend why such expensive cars had come all the way to her humble corner.
The door of the first SUV opened and a tall, dark-skinned man got out, wearing an impeccable blue suit, polished shoes, and a watch that shone like a sacred jewel.
Two stern-faced security guards appeared behind him, scanning the surroundings as if they were protecting a president, while he walked straight toward the small stand without looking to either side.
Jessica whispered tremblingly, « Mommy, he’s coming towards you, » and Amara felt her knees go weak as she uselessly wiped her hands on her apron, unable to remove the stew stains.
The man stopped right in front of her, with a warm but emotional look, cleared his throat and said with controlled calm, « Good afternoon, » as if the whole world wasn’t watching them.
Amara couldn’t utter a word; she simply nodded, her lips pressed together with nerves, as he asked in a firm voice: « Please, who is Amara, the owner of this street restaurant? »
The place became so quiet that a plate could be heard falling behind; with trembling hands, Amara raised her fingers and murmured almost breathlessly: “I-I… I am Amara, sir.”
The man exhaled a sigh so deep it seemed to break something invisible, and then he uttered the words that would change their lives: “Thank you for taking in my mother and feeding her every day.”
Gasps rippled through the street like a wave; someone whispered, “Your mother?” and Amara blinked rapidly, confused, before asking, “Your mother, who, please, who is your mother here?”
Before he could answer, an aged and trembling voice sounded from behind Amara, asking the same question: “Who says your mother is here?” forcing everyone to turn around at the same time.
It was Mama Hannah, the homeless widow everyone saw as part of the scenery; her hands were trembling, the plate was almost falling, and her wet eyes seemed to see a living ghost.
The billionaire turned slowly towards her, as if looking directly into the past, and amidst the dust of the street, the man in a suit knelt before the woman whom everyone ignored.
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