27/07/2025
Title: Rain Without Mama
Under the heavy clouds of a Lagos evening, the sky wept loudly. Rain poured like tears from heaven, soaking everything it touched — including the tiny frame of Adaora, a 9-year-old girl in a torn yellow dress and no slippers.
She stood by the side of a muddy road near Oshodi market, her braids flattened by the rain, eyes wide and red. Her tears mixed with the rain, but no one noticed. People hurried past her, shielding themselves with umbrellas and plastic bags. But Ada had nothing — just her voice, trembling and small.
“Mama! Mama where are you?” she cried, her voice barely heard over the noise of thunder and honking danfos.
She clutched a faded nylon bag containing groundnuts Mama had given her to sell. The last time she saw her mother was that afternoon when she was told to wait by the mango tree near the bus stop. “I’m coming, my pikin,” Mama had said with a tired smile.
But Mama never came back.
The rain grew colder, the world around her louder and scarier. She searched the crowd with hopeful eyes — every headscarf that looked like Mama’s made her heart jump. But none of them stopped. None of them turned around.
“Mama, please come back,” she whispered, kneeling on the wet floor.
Suddenly, an old woman selling roasted corn from a wooden table spotted her. The woman dropped her tray and ran to her.
“Nne, what are you doing here under this rain? Where is your mother?”
“I… I don’t know,” Adaora sobbed. “She told me to wait. She didn’t come back…”
The woman wrapped her in a scarf and held her close, shielding her from the rain.
“Don’t cry again. We’ll find her,” she whispered.
But Adaora wasn’t sure.
Because the rain had swallowed Mama… and all she had left was hope.
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