Lekki Phase 1, Lagos — Early Morning
The first light crept over Lekki Phase 1, laying a soft veil across the shimmering glass of Bayo Adeniran's high-rise apartment.
Outside, Lagos stirred awake — hawkers balancing trays of steaming plantains, horns flaring from the mainland, commuters weaving through puddles and potholes with tired grace.
Inside, the apartment was quiet.
Bayo stood by the window, palms on cool glass, eyes tracing the restless skyline. Below, traffic spilled like veins pulsing beneath the city's skin. Lagos was already awake — impatient, unrepentant.
He was forty-two, shaped as much by loss as ambition. Two years had passed since Amaka, his wife, was taken by illness. They'd had no children. Their home now echoed with her absence — half silence, half memory.
"Bí o bá r'ókan l'óore, o ní òkan l'agbò."
(If you have kindness in your heart, it will always find its way to compassion.)
That kindness weighed on him now.
The image of the boy gasping for air refused to fade — chest rising in desperate, shallow spasms. The memory pressed against his ribs like an unanswered question.
He poured a glass of water and took a slow sip. It tasted faintly of iron and dust — Lagos, distilled. Even here, in his perfect apartment, the city clung to him; its grit lived in the pipes, in the air, in every breath he took.
Saving that child had reopened another wound.
He could still see Amaka's last night — her lungs failing, her voice soft but steady.
The doctors called it pneumonia, but Bayo always blamed the air — the city's poison that stole her breath before her time.
He leaned against the counter, listening to the hum below — the sound of a city that never said sorry, only survive.
He had saved a life, yes.
But somehow, the act had unsettled him more than it had soothed him.
Mercy, he realized, wasn't cheap. Not in Lagos.
He walked through the apartment — the neat shelves, the cold marble, the empty second pillow.
A newspaper lay open on the dining table:
BUILDING COLLAPSE IN MUSHIN LEAVES FIVE DEAD.
He stared at the headline. Concrete dust and corruption always went hand in hand.
And in his line of work, both had long memories.
"Amaka," he murmured, "you wouldn't like what we've become."
~ ~ ~
Surulere, Lagos — Midmorning
By the time Bayo reached his office, the city had shed its calm.
Surulere throbbed with noise — vendors shouting, cars blaring, roasted corn mixing with the stench of exhaust.
Motorcycles darted through impossible spaces, engines rattling like war drums.
Inside his glass-panelled office, the hum of air-conditioning fought to hold peace against the city's chaos. But even here, Lagos pressed close.
A single file lay open — North Lagos Development Project.
Its neat columns promised wealth, but whispers of corruption clung like smoke. Facilitation fees disguised as clauses. Corners ready to collapse.
He had built bridges, towers, and careers, but this — this quiet rot in the system — was harder to engineer out.
Tope entered, tablet in hand. Usually unshakable, she hesitated before speaking.
"Sir, the draft is ready," she said softly. "Some suggest we overlook the irregularities. Move faster."
Bayo's jaw tightened. His father's words echoed:
Integrity is the only inheritance that cannot be squandered.
"Our name is not for sale," he said evenly. "If the foundation falters, we walk away."
Tope nodded slowly. "I hope the city agrees with you."
He gave a small, weary smile. "The city never agrees. It just tests who can stand."
For a moment, only silence — and the faint scent of roasted yam from the street below.
"Some lessons," Bayo murmured, "don't come from spreadsheets. They come when life cracks the mask you wear."
He turned back to the window. Across the road, a half-finished building loomed — its skeleton of rebar and concrete glinting under the sun.
He'd seen such projects collapse under greed before.
A flash of memory returned — his first job, ten years ago, when a poorly mixed batch of cement had taken two workers' lives.
He still remembered their names. Lagos rarely did.
~ ~ ~
Surulere — Late Morning
Alone again, Bayo opened a drawer. Inside sat a photo frame — Amaka's smile soft, unguarded.
Around it lay bills and contracts, but her memory still shone through the clutter.
Her laughter had once softened even Lagos's noise. She taught him to look past the traffic, the tenders, the noise — to see people where others saw statistics.
Even when sickness dimmed her voice, her faith in goodness didn't fade. It haunted him now, that steady light he'd once ignored.
He ran a thumb across the glass of the photo.
"Amaka," he whispered, "you'd tell me I did right… wouldn't you?"
The air-conditioner hummed in answer. He smiled faintly — a private ritual between him and the quiet.
~ ~ ~
Office Lobby — Midday
His phone buzzed.
A voice came through, thin and breaking.
"Sir, we're stuck. LASTMA said the car can be released, but the bills — ₦385,000. It's everything we have."
Bayo's jaw clenched. Bureaucracy had buried mercy again.
"Send me the documents," he said quietly. "I'll meet you after my meeting. We'll fix it."
Tope caught the tone — not just command, but conviction.
The calm of a man who had looked away once and swore never to again.
~ ~ ~
Business District — Afternoon
The glass-walled conference room hummed with tension.
"The client resists compliance," a young analyst said. "Delays will bleed millions."
Bayo's gaze was steady.
"Money gained by compromise is lost just as fast. We hold firm."
Another executive leaned forward, frowning.
"Sir, that's idealism. We live in Lagos, not Geneva."
"Then maybe Lagos needs more idealists," Bayo replied.
Silence. No one argued.
His quiet conviction carried more weight than any threat.
As the meeting ended, Tope lingered at the door.
"You've changed, sir."
Bayo smiled faintly.
"Maybe I just remembered what change feels like."
As she left, her reflection flickered briefly on the glass wall — a reminder that in this city, even conviction had shadows.
~ ~ ~
LASTMA Office, Iponri — Early Evening
The lobby buzzed with impatience.
Plastic chairs sagged under weary bodies — drivers, traders, parents clutching papers like lifelines.
Ceiling fans groaned, slicing the humid air thick with diesel and sweat.
Bayo stood at the counter, calm but unyielding.
The boy's father hovered behind him, trembling, shirt soaked through.
Across the desk, a junior officer flipped lazily through the file.
"Towing fine: ₦120,000. Tyres, ₦50,000. If you want the car, pay."
Bayo's gaze hardened. "Show me where that's written."
The officer hesitated. "That's how it works here."
"Then it's time it stops working that way," Bayo said.
His voice carried a controlled fire — enough to make the man lower his eyes.
Tope, standing nearby, caught sight of a lean man across the street — watching.
His wrist glinted — a silver band with an unfamiliar insignia. Then he vanished into the crowd.
Tope's instincts pricked — not just fear, but recognition. Change drew enemies as surely as power did.
Bayo, unaware, drew crisp notes from his wallet and placed them on the counter.
"Cover it. Let him breathe again."
The father dropped to his knees, tears streaking his face.
"My son can sleep tonight because of you."
Bayo's reply came low but sure.
"One breath is worth more than any law."
The officer stamped the file and slid the keys forward.
Procedure bent, but the system remained untouched — grinding on in smoke and silence.
As they stepped out, Tope glanced once more at the street.
The man was gone — but the feeling of being watched lingered like humidity before a storm.
Outside, the sun sprawled across cracked pavements, casting long, waiting shadows.
Somewhere within them, unseen but certain, the sharp-eyed man lingered — patient. Watching.
"Ẹ̀mí ọmọdé, ẹ̀mí ọ̀run," Tope whispered.
(A child's breath is heaven's whisper.)
In Lagos, mercy had witnesses.
~ ~ ~
Lekki Phase 1 — Night
Night wrapped Lagos in neon and shadow.
From his window, Bayo watched the city pulse — a living organism of light and noise.
Two glasses sat on the dining table: one filled, one untouched.
Amaka's smile watched from the frame beside them.
"Every choice carries a cost," he whispered. "But some costs are worth everything."
He took a slow sip, letting the cool liquid burn softly down his throat.
On the counter, his phone buzzed with unread emails — clients, projects, promises.
He didn't reach for it.
Instead, he turned to the small balcony, letting the city's noise wash over him — the laughter of neighbours, the hum of generators, the call of a street preacher echoing faintly through the night.
For once, he didn't resist it.
The noise felt… alive.
The stillness of the apartment held him close, but within that silence pulsed something fierce: not peace, but purpose.
He remembered an old Yoruba saying:
"Afẹ́fẹ́ kì í mọ ẹni tí yóò jó."
(The wind never asks whom it will touch.)
Mercy was like that — it came uninvited, left unchanged, and demanded a price.
Above the city, thunder rumbled faintly — distant, uncertain, like a warning from the clouds.
Lightning flashed once, catching the glass of Amaka's photo.
For a moment, it looked as though she smiled again — proud, and sad, and knowing.
Mercy had its cost.
But Lagos always made you pay in full.