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Desperation
The sun on the streets of Jabi didn't care.
It beat down on my head at 1:30 p.m.
And for one desperate moment, I wished it would swallow me whole.
I was twenty.
On my tray were five plates of groundnuts wrapped in transparent nylon.
In my heart was a hospital bill.
₦95,000.
Due in three days.
“Groundnut! Fresh groundnut!”
My voice was already hoarse. I had been shouting since eight that morning.
People walked past me. Some glanced at my tray. A few slowed down, then kept moving.
Abuja people were always in a hurry.
Nobody had time for a girl and her groundnuts.
My phone buzzed.
The hospital again.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds before answering.
“Hello?”
“Miss Simi, we're calling to remind you about Henry's outstanding balance. If we don't receive a payment by the weekend, we'll have no choice but to discharge him.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Henry.
Sixteen years old.
My younger brother.
Our mother had been gone for years. Our father had left for work seven years ago and never returned. We never found out what happened to him. No body. No explanation. Nothing.
It had always been just Henry and me in our old semi-detached house.
Until malaria became complicated.
Now Henry was lying on a hospital bed in Jabi General Hospital, while I stood on the street selling groundnuts to keep him there.
I ended the call and swallowed hard.
“Groundnut! Please, buy groundnut!”
My voice cracked.
A man in casual clothes stopped.
Hope flickered in my chest.
He looked at me from head to toe, then at my tray.
“God will help you, little lady.”
And he walked away.
I stared after him.
God?
I'd been praying to God since Monday.
God wasn't paying the hospital bill.
I looked down at my tray.
₦1,800.
That was all I had made so far.
I needed another ₦93,200 in seventy-two hours.
My stomach twisted.
In a nation that called itself the giant of Africa, I was standing under the scorching Abuja sun, begging people to buy groundnuts so my brother wouldn't be sent home to die.
I picked up my tray again.
My shoulders hurt. My feet burned. My lips were dry.
But Henry was waiting.
So I kept walking.
By 6:33 p.m., I pushed open the hospital gate with an empty tray and a heart full of dread.
I'd managed to sell four more plates.
I had kept one plate aside for Henry.
My total earnings for the day were ₦2,600.
Still nowhere near enough.
The crumpled notes stuck together in my sweaty palm as I walked toward the ward.
The hospital smelled of disinfectant and fear.
The ward was noisy.
Babies cried from one corner. A woman in labour screamed from somewhere down the corridor. Nurses moved quickly between beds.
But bed nineteen was strangely quiet.
Henry.
He looked smaller than sixteen lying there with a drip attached to his thin arm.
His lips were dry.
His eyes were half closed.
“Simi.”
His voice was barely a whisper.
“You came?”
I forced a smile.
“Of course I came.”
I sat on the edge of his bed.
I had no proper food for him. All I had was the single plate of groundnuts I'd saved.
“I brought you groundnuts, Henry. I'll peel them for you later, okay?”
He gave me the smallest smile.
Before he could answer, a familiar voice came from behind me.
“Simi?”
I turned.
Nurse Jennifer.
She was one of the few nurses who had shown Henry any real kindness.
“Nurse Jennifer, please.”
I stood up too quickly and almost lost my balance.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Her tired eyes moved from my face to my empty tray, then to the crumpled ₦2,600 in my hand.
She understood immediately.
We stepped into the hallway.
My throat tightened.
“Nurse…”
I pressed my palms together.
“Please. I'm begging you.”
She said nothing.
“Talk to Dr. Derick for me. Just one more week. Please. One week.”
My voice shook.
“My brother will die if they discharge him. I swear I'll pay. I sell every day. I'll find the money.”
I pushed the ₦2,600 toward her.
“This is everything I made today. Please take it. At least show him that I'm trying.”
Nurse Jennifer didn't take the money.
She looked at it for a moment, then back at me.
“Simi, the bill is ₦95,000. You know the hospital rules.”
Her voice softened.
“But Henry is a good boy.”
She sighed.
“Let me talk to the doctor. I can't promise anything. Come back tomorrow morning.”
Relief washed over me so suddenly that my knees almost weakened.
“Thank you.”
I wiped my eyes quickly.
“God will bless you.”
I returned to Henry's bed.
I kissed his forehead.
“I'll come back tomorrow.”
I forced a smile.
“Get better for me, okay?”
He nodded weakly.
I left the hospital with my money still in my hand.
It wasn't enough.
Not even close.
But I had one more week.
Maybe that was enough.
Maybe.
---
The next morning came with the same sun.
Only this time, it felt hotter.
By eight a.m., I was back on the street.
Same tray.
Same groundnuts.
Same weakness.
By noon, my voice was already hoarse.
The heat pressed against my skin as if the sun had decided to punish me personally.
My feet began to swell inside my worn bathroom slippers. The concrete burned through the thin rubber.
I kept walking.
“Groundnut! Fresh groundnut!”
Nothing.
I counted my money again.
Then again.
As if staring at the notes long enough would somehow multiply them.
₦2,000.
For the entire day.
Yesterday had been better.
Much better.
A woman passed and dropped money into my tray without taking any groundnuts.
“God will help you, girl.”
I stared at the money.
Pity hurt almost as much as hunger.
I wanted to give it back.
Instead, I whispered, “Thank you.”
By four p.m., my back was aching badly.
My throat felt like sandpaper.
I called a sachet-water seller and bought one.
After drinking it, I sat on the curb and untied my slippers.
My feet were sore.
My body was exhausted.
I counted the money in my hand.
₦2,000 today.
₦2,600 yesterday.
₦4,600.
The bill was ₦95,000.
The math laughed at me.
I covered my face with both hands.
How was I supposed to do this?
I stood slowly and lifted the tray onto my head.
Home or hospital?
Hospital was impossible.
I couldn't face Dr. Derick with ₦4,600.
So I headed home.
The road seemed longer than usual.
The sky had turned orange.
My eyes burned.
I was ready to cry.
Not the loud kind.
The quiet kind.
The kind that breaks something inside you.
“How will I ever get the money?”
My voice trembled.
“How will I save Henry?”
There was no answer.
Only the weight of the tray on my head.
And the heavier weight in my chest.
I thought my day was over.
I was wrong.
I'd walked past the pharmacy wall at least a hundred times.
But that evening, my legs made a stop.
My head was lowered. My body ached.
₦2,000 sat inside my purse.
Two thousand naira couldn't save Henry.
Then something white caught my eye.
A piece of paper was taped crookedly beside a faded poster advertising malaria medication.
I almost kept walking.
Then I saw the bold letters.
WANTED: EXPERIENCED AND QUALIFIED NANNY
I stepped closer.
LOCATION: MAITAMA — LIVE-IN
SALARY: ₦100,000 PER MONTH
My heart stopped.
₦100,000?
I read it again.
Then again.
One month.
₦100,000.
That was more than Henry's hospital bill.
That was rent.
Food.
A chance to breathe.
My fingers trembled.
But then my eyes returned to one line.
EXPERIENCED AND QUALIFIED.
I wasn't a professional nanny.
I'd never worked for a family before.
But I'd spent years taking care of Henry.
I'd cooked for him.
Bathed him when he was sick.
Stayed awake through his fevers.
I knew how to care for a child.
Maybe that had to count for something.
But there was another problem.
LIVE-IN.
That meant leaving home.
Leaving Henry.
Leaving the hospital.
How could I work as a live-in nanny while my brother was lying in a hospital bed?
My eyes stung.
I looked at the paper again.
₦100,000.
I thought about Henry's dry lips.
His thin arms.
The drip in his hand.
The doctor's warning.
For the first time in years, something other than grief filled my chest.
I didn't think. I didn't pray. There was no time for hesitation.
I reached up and tore the paper from the wall.
I folded it carefully and pushed it deep into my bra as if it were a stack of money.
Whatever the price was, I would pay it.
Henry needed me to.
I turned and gazed at an empty water can beside me, almost as if it could give me the go-ahead.
I reached for my phone.
Towards a chance.
Towards the thing that could either break me or save Henry.