10/21/2025
In the sweltering heat of Lagos, ten-year-old Emma navigated the bustling streets, a child of the pavement with no home to call his own. His existence was a constant struggle against hunger and despair, marked by the scars of life on the streets. He woke each morning before dawn, scavenging for discarded aluminum cans and plastic bottles, his only means of survival. Emma’s thin frame bore the marks of hardship—visible ribs beneath a tattered Manchester United t-shirt and rough, wounded feet.
Despite his circumstances, Emma possessed a keen ability to observe. His dark, sharp eyes missed nothing, allowing him to navigate the dangerous urban landscape with a mix of caution and cunning. On this particular day, he had gathered just enough from his morning foray to afford a simple meal—a loaf of bread and a sachet of water. As he made his way through the streets, his stomach growled, but he pushed the hunger aside, knowing he needed to make the most of his earnings.
As the sun rose higher, Emma’s attention was caught by a faint sound—a low moaning that pierced through the usual city noise. Curiosity tugged at him, compelling him to investigate. He approached an abandoned building, where the sound grew clearer, revealing a woman in distress, half-hidden behind a trash bin. Emma’s heart raced as he realized she was pregnant and in pain.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered gently, trying to reassure her as she opened her eyes, filled with fear. “Are you okay?” he asked, though he knew the answer. The woman, Adana, shook her head, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks as she gasped, “My baby… I think it’s coming.”
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