The power had gone out again.
Zainab sat in the dim glow of a half-melted candle, the wax pooling on the cracked plastic table beside her mother's bed. The old ceiling fan above them creaked uselessly, its blades motionless in the heavy heat of the night. Outside, the crickets sang a restless song, and somewhere down the street, a generator coughed to life — another reminder that light was a privilege, not a right.
"Zee… is that you?" her mother's weak voice broke the silence.
"Yes, Mama," Zainab answered, forcing cheerfulness into her tone. "I'm just counting the change from today. We sold all the oranges before noon."
Her mother's face softened in the candlelight. "You're a good girl. Don't worry… God will bless your hustle."
Zainab smiled, but her chest ached. She didn't tell her mother that half the money went to buy her younger brother's school uniform, or that the landlord had warned they'd be thrown out if the rent wasn't complete by Friday.
She wanted to believe in God's blessings. She really did. But blessings didn't pay hospital bills, and faith didn't feed children.
When her phone buzzed, she reached for it quickly — a cheap Tecno phone with a cracked screen. The message flashed from an unknown number:
"Zainab? It's Tomiwa. Remember me? I'm in Lagos now. I've been looking for you, babe!"
Her heart leapt. Tomiwa. They had grown up together, shared secrets, laughter, and dreams under the mango tree near the old primary school. It had been three years since they last spoke — back when Tomiwa left for the city, chasing a "big girl" life.
Zainab typed hesitantly:
"Tomiwa! Wow, long time. How are you?"
Seconds later, her phone rang. Tomiwa's voice burst through the speaker — lively, confident, full of laughter.
"Zee baby! Ah, you've forgotten your girl, abi? Lagos swallowed me o! But I'm back now, living large. You won't believe how good life can be if you just know the right people!"
Zainab smiled faintly, listening as Tomiwa described expensive clubs, rich clients, and weekend trips to Dubai. It all sounded like a dream — a world where poverty didn't exist, where girls like them didn't have to choose between hunger and hope.
"You need to leave that Ijebu of yours," Tomiwa said. "Come to Lagos. I'll show you how to make real money."
Zainab laughed nervously. "You know I can't just leave Mama like that."
"Then do it for her," Tomiwa replied, her tone suddenly soft. "Do you think she'd want you killing yourself selling oranges? There are better ways, Zee. I can help."
The call ended, but the words lingered.
That night, Zainab couldn't sleep. The candle had burned out, and the room was swallowed by darkness. But even in the black, she saw flashes of light — the city skyline Tomiwa had described, the shimmer of possibility.
By morning, she had made up her mind.
She would go to Lagos.