The morning sun had barely begun its slow climb over Lagos when Iyi stepped out of his cramped room, the sting of the cut on his wrist still fresh, the dried blood a dark reminder of last night's encounter. The city was waking up with its usual noisy determination the roar of motorbikes, the chatter of market sellers, the clatter of footsteps on cracked sidewalks.
But for Iyi, the usual chaos felt different now. The shadows in the corners seemed sharper, the air heavier. The hunger inside him had deepened, settling like a stone in his gut. It wasn't just the gnawing emptiness of an empty stomach anymore. It was something darker. Something he could neither feed nor ignore.
He moved through the narrow alleys toward the small house he called home a modest structure worn thin by years of sun and rain. The walls, once whitewashed, were now faded and cracked, with patches of peeling paint that revealed the bare bricks beneath. The door was slightly ajar, the hinges creaking softly as a faint breeze stirred the tattered curtains.
Inside, his mother was already awake, sitting by the small wooden table with a bowl of watery porridge in front of her. Her face, framed by tight braids streaked with gray, held the weariness of years spent battling hardship. But her eyes those deep, dark eyes were steady and full of quiet strength.
She looked up as Iyi entered, a faint smile flickering across her lips.
"Morning, son," she said softly, her voice a gentle anchor amid the storm inside him.
"Morning, Mama," Iyi replied, his voice hoarse.
He took the bowl of porridge from her hands and sat down slowly. The food was thin and bland, but he ate it anyway. Hunger didn't discriminate.
As he chewed, memories crowded his mind—the nights when his mother stayed awake stitching clothes by the dim light of a candle, the days she went without food so he and his sister could eat. Pride was something she wore quietly, but it was often swallowed to keep them alive.
He thought back to the black envelope, the strange messages, the men who had come for him in the night. The debts that clung to him like chains.
"Mama…" he began, struggling to find the words. "Something's happening. Something I don't understand."
She looked at him, eyes searching his face.
"You're not the first to walk a path you don't understand," she said. "But remember this mothers don't eat pride. We eat whatever we must to keep our children safe."
Iyi nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat.
His mother reached out, placing a rough hand on his arm.
"You've been hungry a long time," she said. "But hunger can teach you. It can make you stronger. Just don't let it break you."
He looked away, the weight of her words settling heavily. Lagos had been a relentless teacher its lessons harsh and unforgiving. But this new hunger was different. It whispered of power and danger, of debts that were not paid with money but with flesh and spirit.
Outside, the city hummed with life. Vendors set up stalls, children ran past shouting, and the scent of frying akara and burning wood filled the air. The world moved on, indifferent to the battles fought in small rooms like this one.
Iyi rose and stepped outside, the sun now casting golden light over the dusty streets. He felt the sting on his wrist where the blade had cut him, a sharp reminder that the debts were not just stories.
He wasn't just hungry anymore.
He was hunted.
And somewhere deep inside, a new resolve was growing.
He would face whatever came next.
For his mother. For his family. For the hunger that refused to be silenced.