Hammered

The letter came on his 40th birthday.

Lagos rain hammered the roof. Femi sat in his kiosk, selling recharge cards nobody bought anymore. Opay and Palmpay had killed that hustle. His wife left last year. Took their son to Ibadan. “I can’t suffer with you,” she said.

The envelope was brown, no return address. Inside: a key and one sentence. _“Storage Unit 19, Ikeja. You’re welcome.”_

He ignored it for 3 days. Then curiosity won.

Unit 19 smelled like old books and diesel. One metal box. Inside: ₦4.3 million cash, a passport with his face but a different name, and a note. _“From your father. He was sorry. Use it well. - A”_

His father? That man died when Femi was 8. A drunk. A nobody. Left nothing but debts.

He spent one week just staring at the money. Then he bought a small bus. Then two. Then a filling station. He traced the name “A” for 2 years. Nothing.

On his 45th birthday, another letter. Same handwriting. _“Well done. He would be proud. The station guard you employed? That was me. You gave me dignity when I had none. Your father wasn’t a drunk. He was my get-away driver. He died saving my life during a robbery gone wrong. I owed him. Now we’re even. - A”_

Femi drove to the storage unit. Empty. Except one new note on the floor.

_“Your turn. Find someone to be ‘A’ for.”_

He locked Unit 19 and left the key under the mat.

For the next man.

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