18/04/2026
THE COST OF GOOD INTENTIONS – PART 3
The music was always loud at the roadside bar. Bottles clinked endlessly, laughter spilled into the night, and neon lights flickered like they were struggling to stay alive—much like Francis.
In the background, almost invisible, he swept.
His clothes were dirty, his face unshaven, his eyes hollow. There was nothing left of the man he used to be. No trace of the confident young businessman. No sign of the hopeful giver people once admired.
“Ei! Sweep that side well!” the bar owner shouted over the noise.
“Yes…” Francis replied quietly, his voice empty.
When he finished, he dropped the broom without care. The bar owner slid a cheap bottle toward him across the counter.
“This be your pay.”
Francis stared at it for a moment. No hesitation. No pride. No resistance.
He drank.
Later that night, the chaos inside the bar grew louder. The music thumped harder, people shouted over each other, and everything felt unstable—just like him.
Francis was now drunk, laughing loudly at nothing.
Nearby, a group watched him.
“You see am?” one man whispered.
“That be Francis?” another asked, surprised.
A woman shook her head slowly. “Hmm… life.”
“He be big man before o… helping people.”
“Church boy sef.”
“Now see am… common drunkard.”
Their words lingered in the air, echoing louder than the music. Francis kept drinking.
Behind the bar, away from the noise, he lay on the ground with a bottle still in his hand. The night was quieter here—just crickets and the distant bass vibrating through the walls.
He tried to sit up but failed.
“Everything… gone…” he slurred.
A broken laugh escaped him before it turned into a cough.
Then silence.
The next day, the streets were busy as usual. People moved with purpose. Francis didn’t.
He walked slowly, disoriented, like someone drifting without direction.
Two loan agents spotted him.
“That’s him.”
“Ei! Francis!”
He froze.
They approached quickly.
“Where our money?”
“I don’t have anything…” he said weakly, avoiding their eyes.
“You think say we go forget?”
They shoved him.
“Next time we see you… no excuses.”
They walked away, leaving him standing there.
Francis didn’t react.
It was like whatever was left inside him had already shut down.
Elsewhere, at a community corner, people sat together, talking as they watched life go by.
“That boy dier… he spoil his own life,” a woman said.
“Too much ‘good heart,’” a man added.
“Helping everybody… now who dey help am?”
They laughed lightly.
Across the street, Francis heard everything.
He didn’t move.
He just stood there… invisible.
That night, back in the bar, he found himself staring into a mirror.
The face looking back at him felt unfamiliar.
Sunken eyes. A tired soul. Someone lost.
He touched his face slowly, as if trying to recognize the person he had become.
Flashes of the past filled his mind—
Him in clean clothes.
Opening his shop.
Smiling with customers.
Giving generously in church.
Then it was gone.
Back to the reflection.
“Who be this…?” he whispered.
He looked away, grabbed the bottle again, and drank.
Later, alone on a quiet dirt path, the wind picked up and distant thunder rolled through the sky.
Francis stumbled as he walked.
Then he fell.
Hard.
This time, he didn’t get up.
For a while, he just lay there in silence.
Then slowly, he turned onto his back and stared at the sky.
His eyes were empty.
A single tear rolled down the side of his face.
“Ma…” he whispered faintly.
No answer came.
Only the wind.
He once had respect.
He once had purpose.
He once had everything.
Now… he is a shadow of himself.
Will he ever come out of this mess?
The story isn’t over yet.
