She weakly grabbed the stranger’s wrist.
Her eyes opened halfway, and with her last strength she whispered a name that the stranger somehow recognized like it meant something bigger than anyone understood.
“Adaise,” she breathed. “Tell Ada…”
The stranger’s face changed.
His calm mask cracked.
“Where did you hear that name?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp.
But Mama Yuna’s eyes rolled back again. She went limp in their arms.
And the stranger stood there staring at her face like he had just seen a ghost.
Like Mama Yuna was not just a poor old woman, but the key to a secret that had been buried for years.
Then he said under his breath, “No… it can’t be.”
And he rushed her into the car.
The black car sped through the Lagos night. Streetlights flashed across the windshield like blinking eyes.
Inside the back seat, Mama Ephuna lay still, her chest rising slowly, her face pale and tired. Her wrapper was dusty. Her Bible sat on the seat beside her, still open where it had fallen.
The stranger kept glancing at her.
His name was Mr. Adewale.
People in business circles knew him as calm, careful, and sharp. He did not rush into decisions. He did not believe in luck.
But tonight, something had shaken him.
That name.
Adaise.
Mama Ephuna had whispered it like a prayer.
Adewale pressed his fingers against the steering wheel. His mind ran backward, years and years, to a chapter of his life he had locked away.
He turned to the driver.
“Go straight to the hospital,” he said. “Fast, but careful.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver replied.
Mama Yuna groaned softly.
Adewale leaned back and looked at her face more closely. The shape of her nose. The line of her cheek. The faint mark above her eyebrow.
His heartbeat quickened.
“No,” he whispered again. “It cannot be.”
At the hospital, doctors rushed Mama Yuna into the emergency room.
“She collapsed from stress and injury,” one nurse said. “And she has not been eating well.”
Adewale stood outside the room, arms folded, his expensive watch ticking loudly in the quiet hallway.
He made a call.
“Bring the file,” he said into the phone. “The old one. Ada’s file.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Sir? That file?” the voice asked.
“Yes,” Adewale said. “Tonight.”
He ended the call and sat down heavily.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
Finally, a doctor came out.
“She will live,” the doctor said. “But she needs rest and care.”
Adewale exhaled long and slow.
“Can I see her?”
“Yes,” the doctor nodded. “But briefly.”
Inside the room, Mama Ephuna opened her eyes slowly. The lights were bright. The smell of medicine filled her nose. She tried to sit up.
“Easy,” Adewale said gently, stepping closer. “You are safe.”
She looked at him, confused.
“Where… where am I?”
“The hospital,” he replied. “You collapsed on the street. I brought you here.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“My son,” she whispered. “Chinidu…”
Adewale did not speak.
She turned her face away, ashamed.
“I am sorry,” she said weakly. “I have nothing. I cannot pay.”
Adewale shook his head.
“Do not worry about money,” he said. “That is not why you are here.”
Mama frowned.
“Then why?” she asked.
Adewale hesitated. Then he asked softly:
“Why did you say the name Adaise?”
Mama Ephuna’s eyes widened.
She stared at him, fear and confusion mixing on her face.
“Who… who are you?” she asked.
Adewale swallowed.
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