I had plans to go home straight away.

That Tuesday had already taken long enough: another working day at the tailoring shop where the ceiling fan whirred without ever turning, the visit to the pharmacy where Luis' medication had risen again in price, and Lagos' constant traffic dance that still makes you late even if you leave early.

Sweat clung to my back like a second skin by the time I stepped off the danfo at Ojuelegba and walked the rest of the way home. My feet were dusty, my shoulder hurt from bearing too much weight, and my mind kept replaying the pharmacy receipt.

₦9,500. More than last month.

And half the pills.

Luis would smile anyway, would assure me not to worry — but his smile had started to seem tired at the corners, as if he knew better these days.

I shifted the bag to my other hand and turned the corner onto the narrow market road that cut through to our compound. The air was thick with sun-baked tar, roasting groundnuts, fried plantain, and a sharper scent of burning plastic from someone’s rubbish pile.

Hawkers called out, motorbikes weaved past without apology, and a woman with baskets balanced on her head glided by with an elegance I’ve never had.

It was, in every way, a Lagos afternoon.

And then I saw him.

---

He wasn't where he should have been.

A man in a wheelchair, stuck on the edge of the gutter, glancing sideways and forwards as if the entire market was a vocabulary to which he wasn't privy.

From behind, I caught a glimpse of a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled high up his wrists. His hands rested on the handles, but lightly — as if he wasn't sure he was supposed to push himself. His hair, slick with sweat, stuck to his forehead.

No one else noticed. Lagos could do that: if you didn't push, you vanished.

He looked up, and for the briefest moment, our eyes met.

---

My. The initial response wasn't bountiful.

You see him here doing what, then?

Not because of the wheelchair, precisely, but because the way he looked — from the careful trim of his dark hair to the way he wore a watch that probably cost more than my rent in an entire year — exhaled that. he. didn't. fit. on. those. streets.

But the fear in his eyes was unvarnished. unhidden. and strangely… muted.

And it tugged at something within me I'd long believed I'd buried.

---

It was no more than a heartbeat before I hesitated, before I edged closer.

"Are you okay?" I asked, trying nonchalance, though my voice caught on the last syllable.

His shoulders twitched. Then he tried to create a small, tentative smile. "I, uh… lost my way. I'm looking for the main road. The one with the—" he waved vaguely, "--yellow buses?

That voice. Low, soft, and infused with something British but not quite. It had made the question polite, near-gentle.

"This road circulates back," I told her, gesturing. "But it's filled with people. Do you want me to take you?"

I should have just kept walking. Luis was waiting. The soup would catch if I didn't stir it right away. The city wasn't forgiving of strangers — or of people who were concerned about them.

But he did nod, a flicker of relief in his gaze. "If it's not too much trouble."

"It's okay," I said to him, even though it wasn't.

---

We walked — or rather, I marched while he rolled beside me, slow and deliberate. The road narrowed at some places, so that we had to drive the thin pavement side by side, our shoulders close to touching. I caught the scent of faint aftershave over the sweat and grime.

"I'm Emilia," I supplied, partly to break the silence.

He hesitated, then: "Alex."

No surname. Only Alex.

---

"New around here?" I asked, stepping aside as a woman with a bag of rice hurried past.

"Yes," he said. "Very new."

The answer was too rehearsed, an ironed shirt too sharp.

"Family around?"

He glanced down. "No."

Another lie, or half-lie. But the hitch in his voice was real, and it made me drop the question.

---

We stopped in the stalls where the road leveled out, and the noise of traffic was muffled to a low, constant growl.

He pulled over to catch his breath — sweat breaking on his temples.

"Sure you're alright?" I asked again.

"I'm… alright," he said, though his hand trembled slightly on the wheel. "Just… heat."

"Lagos doesn't do subtle things," I breathed, drawing a small laugh from him.

"No," he agreed, "it doesn't."

---

I stopped at the corner where the road swung wide into the bus yard. "The main road is just round there," I said to him. "From there you can get taxis or buses anywhere."

He nodded, eyes fixed on the traffic like a man looking into deep water.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Thank you very much."

---

Few expressed gratitude. They had a need. They grabbed it. Sometimes they gave back tiny favours, but they did not look at me in the way of someone who had done something amazing.

He did.

And it made me uneasy.

---

I started to turn, guilt tugging at me about the time, about Luis waiting. But then I looked at him again, at the sweat on his collar, the tremble in his hands, the suppressed fear.

He can't plow his way through all that rubble by himself, I thought.

"You know what?" I caught myself saying. "I'm going this direction anyway. Come along."

A lie, of course. But one of my feet was willing to walk.

---

We moved forward, elbowing between handcarts and boys selling phone chargers, the city roaring around us.

At a pothole the size of a miniature grave, he held back. "I can—

No, I said, releasing my bag and bracing against the chair. "We'll do it together."

His hand circled mine for an instant as we supported each other. Dry, heated palms. Unexpectant strength.

"Okay," he breathed, his voice softer than the traffic.

---

When we finally crossed over to the other side, he exhaled a breath I hadn't known he'd been holding.

"You didn't have to do that," he said.

"I know," I told him, then softer: "But you seemed like you needed someone to."

---

We were standing at the taxi rank, and he stood there, looking up. "Thanks, Emilia," he said again, as if trying out the sound of my name.

"Do you need me to call you a taxi?" I asked him.

"I think so," he replied, but the uncertainty crept back into his eyes.

Before I could inquire, a danfo bounced by, its horns blaring, drowning out our discussion. When it had gone by, I insisted, "Where are you going precisely?"

He hesitated. "Not far," he said. "I have. a place."

Another half-truth.

---

A tiny cab driver beckoned at the corner. "Madam, you need a drop?"

Alex's eyes flashed to me, as if to ask permission.

"Go ahead," I said, smiling. "I'll be okay."

He started to roll away, then stopped. "Would it—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Would it be terribly rude to ask if I could pay you? For your time?"

---

I flushed with color — a strange combination of pride and embarrassment. "No," I said harshly, then softly: "I don't need your money."

His expression shifted, a look of sorrow. "Of course," he whispered.

The driver reached out to get him into the cab. Alex's composure fractured for the first time; his jaw clenched, eyes closing as he shifted his weight.

---

I spoke up before the door closed: "Where will you be tonight?"

He glanced at me in surprise. "I'm… still trying to decide that."

"You don't have any place, do you?" I said, more or less asking a question.

His silence was his answer.

"Come on over," I found myself saying, heart pounding. "Just till you work something out."

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. "Are you sure?"

"No," I admitted. "But… come anyway."

---

The cab door closed. In the glass, his eyes and mine met, something unspoken flashing between us: thanks, fear, a promise neither of us yet understood.

The taxi pulled away, joining the traffic stream, and I stood there, panting.

---

What have I done?

What am I bringing into our life?

But deep inside, beneath the worry and the fear, a small, obstinate flame flickered.

Sometimes you don't get to decide the people you help. They decide for you.

That night, pushing open the compound gate, Luis ran to me, words tumbling out regarding school, regarding a video clip, regarding a classmate who shared plantain chips with the whole group.

I embraced him, guilt over being late tangled with the secret that I had not yet shared.

Tomorrow, I said to myself, Tomorrow, I'll share it.

And in the darkness, my mind flashed back to the wheelchair-bound man with manners so excessively polite and eyes that contained worlds.

---

End of Chapter 2