Sun hot on my back, dust swirls around my ankles.
Cars honk in impatience. Peanuts in a dented tin, cold and heavy in my hand.
Voices a blur, “No, thank you,” or a dismissive shake of the head.
Belly growls, haven’t eaten since Mama’s thin porridge this morning.
Miss school, the scratchy uniforms, the smell of chalk dust.
But school costs money, and peanuts barely buy beans.
See a man in a suit, briefcase clutched tight.
Hope sparks, a silent plea, “Mister, one pack?”
He glances down, scorn in his eyes, then walks on.
Hope dims, heavy like the Lagos air.
A woman with a baby stops. Points at the peanuts, smiles.
My heart lifts, a tiny bird taking flight.
Ten naira. Enough for some garri, maybe some stew.
The sun dips lower, painting the sky orange and purple.
Legs ache, voice hoarse. A few coins clink in the bottom of the tin. Not enough, never enough.
Head home. Mama waits, worry etched on her face.
Empty the tin, the meager coins a small offering.
A hug, a tired smile. “Tomorrow will be better”
I clutch the hope, fragile as a spiderweb, and close my eyes.
Pray for a day when the tin will be full,
when school won’t be a distant dream. But for now, sleep, and the promise of another Lagos sunrise.
Image Credit: HumAngle