17/07/2025
The poor delivery girl quit her job to save a dying old man, not knowing he is the father of a billionaire.
The cries were weak at first, then grew louder. "Someone help!" But no one stopped, not a soul. In the midst of a hot afternoon in Abuja, traffic passed mercilessly. Drivers honked in frustration. Bystanders looked on from a distance, shaking their heads and walking away.
There, lying beside the dusty highway, was an old man, probably in his sixties, dressed in a white CFAN shirt, now stained with fresh blood and mud. His broken cane lay beside him. A reckless taxi had hit him moments earlier and fled the scene. The man rolled off the sidewalk and collapsed by the road, groaning in pain. The crowd watched, but no one moved.
Just a few meters away, a young woman in a red jacket and black jeans abruptly stopped her delivery motorcycle. The time on her phone flashed urgently: 12:40 p.m. She had only 17 minutes left to make a crucial delivery or she would be fired. The packages in the box behind her were marked as urgent, fragile, and prepaid. Her hands trembled on the handlebars. She looked back at the old man. People were whispering: "Don't touch him. If he dies, the police will blame you. Did you hear about the guy last week? He tried to help an accident victim and now he's in jail. I'm not getting involved. I don't want to go to prison."
Adana heard them. Every word. But then, like a soft whisper in her heart, she heard another voice: her mother's voice.
"Even if the world turns its back on you, never turn your back on someone you can help. Help, Adana. Always help."
Tears welled in her eyes. Her hands trembled on the handlebars. This was the kind of moment her mother had talked about. The moment when kindness costs everything. She had only seconds to decide: save her job or save that dying man.
She jumped off the motorcycle. "Help me! Let's get him to the hospital, please."
No one moved. Not a single person.
Adana ran to the old man. "Sir, please stay with me," she whispered as she gently knelt beside him. She tried to stop several taxis, but none would stop. She looked at her delivery box again. Then she made her decision.
She took off her helmet, placed it next to the box, and bent down to lift the old man. He was heavy. Her arms trembled, but somehow she managed to carry him on her back and then placed him on the motorcycle. Balancing him, she got back on and sped through the traffic, the chaos, and the unknown.
She didn't even look back.
Twelve hours earlier, it was 5 a.m. in a small one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Abuja. Adana, just 18 years old, was already awake. She had washed up, prepared lunch, ironed school uniforms, and was braiding her sister's hair while standing. Mara, always the more talkative twin, murmured while yawning: "Sister, Mom, you should sleep more." "I'll sleep when you two become doctors," Adana replied with a smile, gently tugging at Mimi's hair.
Their lives changed completely after that horrible night a year ago. Armed robbers broke into their home. They took everything: the car, the phones, the jewelry, and then shot their parents before fleeing. No one knew why. No suspects, no arrests, just silence.
