Boko

*The Rain on Bako Street*

The rain started at 3am, and by 6am Bako Street was half river, half road.

Kemi stood under the leaking roof of her shop, arms folded, watching the water carry away her empty plastic crates. She’d been saving for three months to restock. Three months of waking at 4am to buy garri from Mile 12 and sell it before the sun got hot.

Now it was all floating past her.

“God, you’re wicked,” she muttered. Not to anyone. Just to the air.

A shout came from down the street. “Kemi! The drain by the mosque don burst!”

She ran out without an umbrella. The water was up to her knees already. Kids were laughing, swimming in it like it was Lekki beach. Adults were cursing, moving goods to higher ground.

At the mosque, Mallam Sule’s generator room was flooding. If the water reached the fuel, the whole place would go up. He was 68, too old to lift anything heavy.

Kemi didn’t think. She waded in, tied her wrapper tight, and started dragging sandbags. Her hands went raw. Other traders joined. Nobody asked who owned the generator. It was Bako Street. When one person’s problem hit, it hit everyone.

It took two hours. By the time the rain eased, they were all soaked, shivering, covered in mud.

Mallam Sule sat on a block, breathing hard. He looked at Kemi and said, “Your garri is gone, abi?”

She nodded.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Take it. My daughter sent money last week. I no need am now.”

Kemi pushed it back. “I can’t.”

“You already paid,” he said. “With your hands.”

She didn’t take the money that day. But the next week, when her shop was back up, she kept a free bowl of garri by the door. For anyone who came in wet and hungry.

Rain still comes every year. But on Bako Strepet, nobody drowns alone anymore.