Arata Okafor had always believed that life rewarded hard work. For as long as she could remember, she'd lived by that rule; wake early, work honestly, pray consistently, and things would align in the end. But on that warm Thursday morning in Surulere, as she stood in the middle of her family's small living room holding a crumpled letter in her shaking hands, that belief cracked like thin glass.
They were giving them seven days.
Seven days to repay the money her father borrowed for his business before his illness crippled everything. Seven days before the loan sharks would return and do whatever they wanted. Seven days before the home she grew up in, her mother's only safe place would be taken away.
Her chest tightened. Her fingers trembled.
"This cannot be happening," she whispered to herself.
The letter slipped from her grip and floated to the tiled floor.
Jordan, her 18-year-old brother, bent to pick it up. He skimmed the contents, jaw tightening. "These people don't joke, Ara. You know how rough they can be."
Arata rubbed her forehead, trying to steady her breathing. "I know. I know, Jordan. But Dad… he didn't expect to get sick. Everything just happened so fast."
What hurt the most wasn't the threatening tone of the letter. It was the memory of her father; strong, loud-voiced, always singing in the mornings, now lying weak in the bedroom, recovering from a stroke he never saw coming. The medical bills had eaten into the business savings. The shop collapsed soon after. And Arata, who ran a small online boutique, was suddenly the backbone of a family drowning in debt.
Her mother emerged from the room quietly, tying her wrapper with trembling fingers. "Arata," she said softly, "is anything the matter? You children are too quiet."
Arata forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's nothing, Mama. We're fine."
Her mother wasn't convinced, but she'd already had enough heartbreak this year. Arata swallowed her panic. She had no idea how to come up with that kind of money. The boutique was doing well but not miracle well. Even if she sold all her stock today, it wouldn't scratch the amount needed.
"Let me step out for fresh air," she murmured.
Jordan stepped forward. "Ara…."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, grabbing her small bag and slipping out of the house before he could say more.
The sun was already rising high when she stepped onto the street, heat wrapping around her like a heavy blanket. The neighborhood buzzed with morning activity, children racing to school, women selling akara at the junction, mechanics arguing over parts, but Arata felt disconnected from it all. Her heart was too heavy.
She headed straight to Abigail's small phone-accessories shop two streets away. Abigail full of drama, full of noise, full of life, was exactly the kind of person Arata needed right now.
As soon as she walked in, Abigail turned, eyes widening. "Gbam! Something is wrong. I can see it in your face."
Arata slumped into the plastic chair behind the counter. "Abby… they gave us seven days."
Abigail froze. "Jesus."
"The loan. Everything. They said if we don't pay…" Arata's voice cracked, and she looked away.
Abigail grabbed her hand. "No, no, don't cry yet. Let's think. You're smart, Ara. Something will work."
"What thing?" Arata asked, her voice small. "I've been trying since last month. Nothing is working."
Abigail inhaled deeply, then tapped her nails on the desk. "There's something happening today; one job fair like that at Eko Atlantic. Big companies. People are going. Maybe, just maybe, you might find something. A better-paying job, even if temporary."
Arata blinked, unsure. "Job fair?"
"Yes now! I saw it online. It's open to the public. Wear something nice, carry your CV maybe someone will see your potential."
The idea wasn't great, but it wasn't nothing. And right now, "not nothing" was good enough.
Arata sighed. "Let me try. I honestly don't have any other option."
Abigail squeezed her shoulders. "God will show up. I feel it. Today won't end the same way it started."
Arata managed a small smile. "Amen."
⸻
Two hours later, Arata found herself stepping into the massive glass building hosting the job event. Air-conditioning blasted against her skin, cooling her warm face. She smoothed her peach-colored blouse and took a steadying breath.
"Just be confident," she whispered to herself.
The hall buzzed with activity, companies with banners, young people holding brown envelopes, recruiters giving instructions. Arata clutched her bag tightly and joined the flow of movement.
She was standing in line at a booth when her phone vibrated with a text from her mother:
Hope you're eating, my daughter. God will not shame us.
Arata swallowed a sob. "Please God, help me."
She stepped out of the line, deciding to pull herself together before speaking to anyone. She headed toward a small refreshments area on the side of the hall, where staff had arranged coffee, snacks, and water.
And that was when it happened.
She bumped into someone hard and her plastic cup of coffee flew into the air, spinning, before splashing across a man's navy-blue suit.
"Oh my God!" she gasped. "I'm so, so sorry!"
The man looked down at the spreading stain slowly, then lifted his gaze to her. His face was unreadable, sharp jawline, deep-set eyes, clean haircut. He looked expensive, powerful… and annoyed.
Arata felt sweat bead at her temples. "I swear, I didn't see you. I'm really sorry."
He stared at her a second too long. Then he took a single step back, slipping a handkerchief from his breast pocket.
"It's fine," he said calmly, in a voice smooth like velvet but edged with steel.
His tone shocked her. She expected anger, insults, irritation. Instead, he dabbed the stain with controlled movements, then looked at her again this time with a slight lift of his brow, as if studying her.
"You're shaking," he observed.
Arata swallowed. "I'm… I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to…"
"It's okay." He folded the wet handkerchief. "Accidents happen."
He turned to leave, but something made him pause. He glanced at her again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"What's your name?"
"Arata," she replied, confused.
"Arata," he repeated, testing the sound. "Be more careful next time."
Her heart thudded, part embarrassment, part something else she couldn't define.
He walked away with a quiet confidence that seemed to part the crowd around him. Arata exhaled shakily, trying to gather herself.
"Chai," she muttered. "What sort of nonsense is this?"
She turned toward the exit, wanting to get fresh air. That was when she froze.
Three rough-looking men approached her near the glass doors, loan sharks she recognized instantly.
"Arata Okafor," the tallest one said. "We've been looking for you."
Her stomach dropped.
"Your family thinks they can hide," another said. "Money is due."
Arata backed up, panic flaring. "Please, I told you just give us time."
"No more time." He reached for her arm.
Before his fingers touched her, someone stepped between them.
A tall figure. Broad shoulders. Navy-blue stained suit.
Him.
The coffee man.
"Is there a problem here?" His voice was calm but carried a warning.
The loan sharks sized him up, hesitating.
"She owes us money," one said. "Family debt."
He didn't even blink. "How much?"
They named the amount.
Arata's eyes widened. "No! Please, don't."
But the man pulled out his wallet without looking at her, counted the cash, and handed it over.
"Take it. And don't harass her again," he said.
The men exchanged glances, then darted away quickly.
Arata's heartbeat thundered. "Why… why did you do that?" she whispered.
He turned to look at her fully this time. His eyes softened just a little.
"Because you looked like you needed help."
She stared at him, lost for word.
He extended his hand. "My name is Jamal."
Jamal.
The name fit him. Strong. Mysterious. Dangerous in a quiet way.
Arata hesitated, then placed her trembling hand in his.
"Thank you," she breathed.
He released her hand gently. "Come with me."
"Why?" she asked, confused.
"I think we can help each other," Jamal said.
"More than you realize."
And though she didn't understand it yet, a single moment had just changed her life forever.