The lady cash
*The Last ₦200*
Bola had ₦200 left. That was for food. Or transport. Not both.
It was 9pm in Oshodi. Rain was coming. She’d been looking for work since 6am. Nothing. The last restaurant turned her down: “We already have enough girls.”
On her way home, she saw a small boy sleeping under a bridge. No shoes. No jacket. Just an empty plastic cup beside him.
Bola sighed. If she gave him the ₦200, she’d walk home in the rain. Hungry. If she didn’t, he’d probably sleep cold.
She crouched down and placed the ₦200 in his cup.
The boy woke up. He looked at the money, then at her. “Mummy said if someone helps me, I should give them this.” He handed her a small key on a string.
“What’s this for?” Bola asked.
“Locker 17. Oshodi Terminal. Mummy said only a kind person will find it.”
Bola laughed. “There’s nothing in there.”
But the rain was getting worse. So she ran to the terminal, opened Locker 17.
Inside: a school bag. And a note. _“To the person who helps my son. Thank you. Inside are clothes, food, and a phone. Call this number when you’re ready for work. - Mrs. Adebayo.”_
Bola called the number the next morning. Mrs. Adebayo owned a chain of bakeries. She’d lost her son two years ago. He used to sleep under that bridge sometimes to “understand how others live.”
Today, Bola manages one of the bakeries.
She still keeps that key on her neck.
Kindness has a way of coming back. Usually when you have nothing left to give.
