A NEW SKY, SAME SCAR (episode 2)

The rain finally tapered off around 8:00 PM, leaving the air thick with the scent of damp earth and exhaust. I should have stayed longer, the garden was peaceful now but a sudden pang of guilt hit me. I hadn't even thought about my own dinner, but Simi was waiting. My cat didn't care about my life crises; she just knew it was past her feeding time.I stepped out of the restaurant and flagged down an Okada. I ended up on the back of a Yoruba rider's bike. Usually, I prefer the Hausa riders, they operate like they have nine lives, weaving through traffic in a silent, high-speed blur until you reach your destination. Yoruba riders, however, most are talkative and the philosophers of the road.As we sped off, the wind whipped against my face, and the music was still humming in my ears, but I could hear him yapping away. Even though I couldn't catch half of what he said over the roar of the engine, I didn't want to be the "cold-hearted" passenger ignoring an elder. I kept peppering the conversation with "Omo" and "Ehn na," nodding along to a story I wasn't actually hearing.Seven minutes later, he pulled up in front of my house. I paid him and stood there, motionless, watching his taillights disappear into the dark before I even moved toward the gate. It’s a habit most Nigerians develop, but for me, it’s the trauma of three robberies I’ve experienced. You learn never to show your house until you're sure you aren't being watched.I slipped into the passage of the "face-me-I-face-you" building. I have a single room with a shared kitchen, though I'd paid extra for the luxury of my own bathroom. After a quick glance left and right to ensure the coast was clear, I fished the key from under the doormat and ducked inside.Simi was on me instantly, a furry blur of hunger and affection. I stroked her back for a moment, letting her head-butt my hand before reaching for her food container. As I filled her bowls with kibble and fresh water, she did a little victory dance around my ankles.Once she was settled and crunching away, the silence of the room rushed back in. I wasn't ready to think about my resignation yet. I grabbed the controller, kicked off my slides , and fired up the PS4. As the blue light of the TV filled the room, I flopped onto the bed, retreating into a digital world where the decisions were much simpler than the ones waiting for me in the morning. I’d been gaming for a while when the hunger finally set in. I reached for my phone and placed an order, another entry in a long list of financial mistakes. It’s a cycle I can’t seem to break. The cost of that one delivery could have funded enough groceries to feed me for two days, but when you’re already sinking, you tell yourself one more bad decision won't make a difference.The app estimated thirty-five minutes. I headed to the shower, hoping the food would arrive just as I finished. Afterward, I pulled on a white jalabiya, finally feeling settled and comfortable. As I checked my phone for an update, it lit up with an unsaved number. I smirked; I knew that’ll be the rider bringing my food"Hello, oga. I’m in front of your place," the voice said.Even without the contact saved, I recognized him instantly. He had delivered to me at least 15 times. Though he was old enough to be my father, he always addressed me with that respectful "oga," a nod to the consistent tips I used to give him. But tonight, my pockets were empty. I slipped on my slides and walked out to the bike. He sat there in his helmet, greeted me with a warm smile, and handed over the bag."Thank you, sir," I said. "I'll see you another day." It was a quiet promise to make it up to him later, though a heavy part of me wondered if this was the last time our paths would cross.Back inside, as I started eating, my thoughts drifted to my mother. She’s a pepper trader at the market, though she lives in another city, a woman who gave up her entire life to ensure her children had one. My father passed when I was only four, leaving her to raise five of us alone. She never wavered, never abandoned us, even as we grew into adults. My respect for her is boundless. Me being the last child, I call her a lot and I never make a major move without her. She knew I wanted to quit my job; I’d been ready to walk away a year ago, but she had talked me out of it then, reminding me how hard things were in the country. This time, however, the weight was too much to bear.I dialed her number while I ate.The rhythmic ringing a brief comfort before she picked up."Oko mi (my dear)," she said, her voice sounding thin and worn from a long day at the market. "You are calling late. Is everything alright?"I stared at the half-eaten container of food, the weight of the day finally crushing my chest. "Mummy, I’m tired," I whispered. "I can’t do it anymore. My head… it feels like it’s breaking."There was a silence on the other end, the kind of silence only a mother who has survived everything can give. "Is it the work again?" she asked softly. "I keep telling you, the country is hard, but you have to be strong.""I’ve been strong for 5 year, mummy! Every morning I wake up and I feel like I’m drowning," I said, my voice cracking. "I’m making mistakes. I’m spending money I don't have just to feed and for transportation. My mind isn't there. If I stay at this job, I’m going to lose myself completely. I’m already losing my sleep. I’m already losing my joy."I could hear her shifting, probably sitting up in bed. " Oko mi, I didn’t raise five of you by being weak," she began, her tone shifting from a trader's grit to a mother's tenderness. "But I didn't raise you to break, either. If you say your soul is crying, then I am listening. Money comes and goes, I have been working non stop all my life,but a person's spirit is harder to rebuild.""I just feel like a failure," I admitted, looking at my white jalabiya in the mirror, feeling like a ghost of who I should be. "I’m supposed to be taking care of you, not calling you to say I’m quitting.""You take care of me by staying alive and well," she countered firmly. "We will find a way. We always do. Rest your head tonight. Tomorrow, we will see what the sun brings. But don't let that place kill the boy I worked so hard to grow."We spoke for about thirty minutes, a long, familiar conversation that only ended when she admitted she was exhausted. By the time she said she needed to sleep, the knot in my chest had loosened, just enough for me to breathe. After we hung up, I set the phone aside, picked up the controller for one last session, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

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