But the smile faded when she saw his expression. What happened? She asked. They’re pushing back. David replied. And they’re watching you. Mama Adana closed the Bible slowly. I expected this. David sat beside her. I won’t let them intimidate you, she nodded gently. Fear has many disguises. Even power fears losing itself.
David exhaled. I’m not backing down. I know, she said. That’s why I worry. David frowned. Worry? She reached for his hand. When a man discovers his purpose, the world tests whether he deserves it. The next morning, a letter arrived. No return address, no signature, just a sentence. Some truths are better buried with the dead.
David read it twice, then folded it carefully. He didn’t show Samuel. He didn’t show the press. Instead, he went to the bus terminal, standing in the exact spot where Mama Adana used to sit. David closed his eyes. He listened to the city breathe. He remembered the boy he once was hungry, ashamed, invisible. He opened his eyes.
I won’t bury this, he said aloud. Across the city, Joy Sheruo sat in a quiet office, hands folded tightly. The man across from her spoke calmly. You still have influence. Joy looked up sharply. “You want me to talk to him?” “Yes,” the man replied. “Appeal to his emotions, his past. Remind him what he’s risking.” Joy swallowed.
“And if I refuse,” the man smiled faintly. “Then you risk being remembered as the woman who stood in the way of progress.” Joy left without answering. That afternoon, David received another call. “This one from the hospital administrator. We’d like to settle,” the man said carefully. “Privately?” David’s voice was cold.
There is no private settlement for public neglect. The line went dead. That night, Mama Adana’s condition worsened. Her blood pressure spiked suddenly. Alarm sounded. Nurses rushed in. David stood outside the room, fists clenched, helpless in a way money could not fix. When the doctor emerged, David searched his face.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “But her heart is weak. Stress doesn’t help.” David nodded, guilt pressing heavily against his chest. Inside the room, Mama Adana smiled faintly when she saw him. “You look like a man carrying stones,” she said. “I’m sorry,” David replied softly. “This is because of me.” She shook her head. “No, this is because of time.
” He took her hand. “I should stop.” Mama Adana’s grip tightened slightly. “No.” David looked at her, surprised. “If you stop now,” she continued. “Then my waiting meant nothing. Tears burned his eyes. You didn’t wait so I could rest,” she said gently. “You waited so I could stand.” David nodded slowly.
The next day, the press conference happened. David stood before microphones calm and composed. He presented documents, records, testimonies. He named hospitals. He named dates. He named patterns. The room erupted. Officials denied. Lawyers threatened. But the evidence was undeniable. By evening, government inquiries were announced.
