The morning sun broke through the clouds with gentle rays, casting a soft glow over the crowded streets of the city. It was like any other morning. Mercy woke early, prepared breakfast for her children, and packed their lunchboxes with slices of yam and eggs wrapped in foil. She didn't have much, but she made sure her children never went to school hungry.
"Faith, Anita, hurry up! You'll be late!" Mercy called from the kitchen, tying her headscarf tightly as she wiped her sweat-streaked face.
"Yes, Mummy!" the girls replied in unison, already lacing their sandals.
Daniel, just six years old but often looking much older due to his constant bouts of illness, walked slowly toward the door. His school uniform was slightly oversized, hanging loosely on his frail frame. Mercy looked at him for a long moment, her heart tightening.
She remembered the doctor's words from months ago: "He's going to need special attention. Sickle cell is no joke."
But Mercy had no choice. She couldn't stay home with Daniel every day. There was no one else to help her. David had long abandoned them, and she had to keep the small shop running—her only means of survival.
She held his hand tightly as they walked toward the school gate.
"Daniel, if you feel tired, tell your teacher immediately, okay?"
Daniel nodded. "Yes, Mummy."
Mercy dropped them off, waved goodbye, and walked to her stall by the roadside. She arranged bananas, oranges, and packets of biscuits neatly on the wooden table. It wasn't much, but it paid the rent and bought food—sometimes.
Hours passed. The sun grew harsh. Sweat soaked through her faded gown. A customer was just negotiating a price for a bunch of bananas when her phone rang.
"Hello?" Mercy answered breathlessly, tucking the phone between her cheek and shoulder.
"Good afternoon, Ma. This is Daniel's teacher," the voice came urgently. "Please, come to the school immediately. Daniel just collapsed in class!"
Mercy's breath hitched. "What?! My son?!"
"Yes, please hurry. We've alerted the principal. We're waiting for you."
She didn't even respond. The bananas dropped from her hand as she ran, her slippers slapping against the hot tar. Her heart beat so fast she thought it would burst.
By the time she reached the school, Daniel was already unconscious, his head cradled in the principal's arms.
"We need to get him to a hospital now," the principal said, his voice grim.
Mercy didn't ask questions. She climbed into the back seat of his car, cradling her son. Faith and Anita watched, eyes red and swollen with tears.
"Mummy, is Daniel going to die?" Anita cried.
"No, my baby. He'll be fine," Mercy said, though she wasn't sure herself.
At the hospital, the nurses wheeled Daniel away while Mercy spoke with the doctor. Her palms were sweating. Her entire body trembled.
"We'll need to run blood tests immediately," the doctor said, glancing up from the form. "But we need a deposit of thirty thousand naira before we begin treatment."
"Thirty thousand?" Mercy repeated, stunned.
She began to weep right there in the corridor.
"I don't have it. Please, help me. I'll pay. I just need my son to live."
The principal, who had been silent, stepped forward. "Madam, I'll help you this once. But you'll have to pay me back by next week."
Mercy nodded tearfully, "Thank you, sir. Thank you."
The principal handed the money over to the cashier, and Daniel was quickly admitted. The doctor later confirmed what Mercy feared—Daniel's blood level had dropped critically low. He would need a transfusion. That meant more money.
Mercy had exhausted all her options. Her mind raced as she sat by Daniel's bedside, watching the pale rise and fall of his chest.
She whispered a prayer under her breath. "God, please. Don't take him. Not now. Not like this."
The next morning, Mercy left Daniel in the care of the nurses and returned home. She found Faith and Anita waiting for her.
"How is he?" Faith asked softly.
"He needs a blood transfusion," Mercy replied. "But I have to find money again."
"You're going to borrow again?" Anita asked, her voice small.
Mercy sighed. "I have no choice."
That afternoon, Mercy visited a loan office downtown. It wasn't her first time. She signed the papers, tears welling up as the woman handed her a hundred thousand naira and a repayment plan—₦3,000 every day.
"Miss Mercy," the woman warned, "if you miss a payment, there will be consequences."
"I won't miss it," she said, clutching the bundle tightly.
She returned to the hospital that evening and paid the new deposit. The doctors began Daniel's transfusion immediately. She stayed in the room the entire night, holding her son's hand.
Three weeks passed. Mercy came to the hospital every day, juggling the repayments with working long hours at her stall. Some nights, she slept on the hard floor beside Daniel's bed. She missed meals, sold off the rest of her wares, and wore the same clothes for days.
But finally, Daniel recovered.
"Mummy," he whispered one morning, his voice weak but clear, "can we go home now?"
Mercy burst into tears and nodded.
"Yes, my son. We can go home."
She thanked the doctors and nurses with a grateful heart, though her mind still raced with worries. She had to repay the loan. She still owed the principal. And she was still raising five children alone.
But in that moment, holding Daniel's tiny hand as they walked out of the hospital, she felt something stronger than fear—hope.
She had almost given up that night. But love kept her going.