But Vanessa lifted her chin, calm and proud. She spoke softly, but her words were sharp.
“Chinidu, don’t let her act out this drama here,” she said. “If she wants to embarrass you, show her you are a man.”
Chinidu’s eyes flicked to his wife’s face.
That look…
Mama Yuna noticed it.
It was not love. It was not peace.
It was pressure.
The kind of pressure that makes a person do something evil just to look strong.
Chinidu turned back to his mother and spat out the words that would stay in her heart like a knife.
“You are an embarrassment,” he said. “Look at you—poor, dirty, smelling of old soup. I can’t build a future with you dragging me back. If you don’t leave now, I will call the police.”
The street went silent again.
Mama Yuna’s eyes filled with tears so quickly it shocked her.
“Police?” she whispered. “You will call the police on your own mother?”
Vanessa gave a small laugh.
“Why not?” she said. “Let her go and cry in the village.”
Mama looked at Vanessa.
She did not shout.
She did not curse.
She only looked like a tired candle flame.
Then she looked back at Chinidu, her son, and slowly, painfully, she stood up.
Her legs shook, but she forced them to hold her.
She picked up her nylon bag from the sand. She brushed the dust off her wrapper with weak hands.
The street watched her, hearts pounding, eyes wide. Someone’s phone camera was already recording.
Mama lifted her head and spoke, quiet but clear.
“May God judge between us,” she said.
Chinidu scoffed.
“Go on, leave, Mama.”
Mama took one step, then another. She walked away from the house she had once entered as a mother, and she walked into the street like a homeless stranger.
Halfway down the road, she stopped.
Her chest tightened.
The world started spinning.
Her vision blurred.
The noise of Lagos became far away, like she was sinking underwater.
She heard a woman shout, “Mama! Mama!”
But her legs gave up.
Mama collapsed.
Her back hit the ground. Her Bible slid out and landed open in the dust.
The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her was the blurry shape of Chinidu standing by the gate and Vanessa pulling him inside as if nothing had happened.
Then everything went black.
Earlier that same week, Mama Ephuna used to believe her life was simple.
Not easy, but simple.
She was a widow in Lagos. Her husband had died when Chinidu was still small. She did not cry for long, because hunger does not allow you to cry for long.
She became a washerwoman.
She washed clothes for people in better houses. Her fingers were always rough. Her back always hurt, but she never complained because she had a dream.
Chinidu would not suffer like her.
Chinidu was smart.
He read books under streetlights. He fetched water and still did his homework. Sometimes Mama Yuna would find him sleeping on the floor with a pen in his hand.
She would smile and whisper, “God, please help my son.”
And God did.
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