16/02/2026
By 4:47 p.m. that Wednesday, the rain had started without warning.
Sade locked her small provisions shop in a hurry and dragged the nylon over the bread crate outside. The rain in this side of town never warned anybody. It only arrived like it was angry.
She counted the money in her hand.
₦3,200.
She checked again.
Still ₦3,200.
She sighed and pushed the notes back into her purse.
Earlier that morning, she had promised her landlord she would complete her rent “on or before today.”
She even said it confidently.
“By today, sir.”
Now it was already Wednesday evening.
As she was about to turn the key, someone cleared their throat behind her.
“Sade.”
She turned.
It was Aunty Risi, her neighbour. The same woman who bought everything on credit and always said, I will send it to you later.
“Please help me with milk and bread. My daughter is not feeling fine.”
Sade’s hand stayed on the padlock.
Just yesterday, she had written Aunty Risi’s name again inside her small debt notebook. The page was already full.
“Aunty… I don’t really have change again,” she said carefully.
Aunty Risi looked at the rain, then at Sade.
“I will pay you tomorrow morning. I promise.”
Tomorrow morning.
That sentence had entered Sade’s shop many times.
For two seconds, she imagined telling her landlord tomorrow morning too.
She unlocked the shop again.
Inside, she picked one tin of milk and one loaf of bread and put it in a nylon.
Aunty Risi smiled quickly, collected it, and rushed into the rain.
“God bless you, my daughter.”
The rain grew louder.
Sade locked up and started walking home.
Halfway, her phone buzzed.
It was her younger brother.
Sis, have you sent the money for mum’s drugs? They say it has finished again.
She stopped under a mango tree.
She typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Not yet. Tomorrow morning.
She hated how easy that sentence came out... TO BE CONTINUED