He never did.”

When Chidera was nine, she fell ill. Fever, cough, weakness. The doctor said:

“It’s a simple operation, but it costs sixty thousand naira.”

I didn’t have them. I borrowed, sold my ring, my radio, but it wasn’t enough.

I bu.ried my son alone, with a torn photo of his father and a blue blanket.

“Forgive me, son. I didn’t know how to save you.”

Five years passed. I moved to Lagos, looking for a new beginning. I got a job as a cleaner at G4 Holdings, a technology company on Victoria Island.

“Your uniform is brown, your schedule is at night.” “Don’t talk to the executives. Just clean,” the supervisor instructed me.

On the seventh floor was an office with gold handles and thick carpet.