David reached into his wallet, handed her a crisp bill, and nodded once. No questions, no speeches. She didn’t smile widely. She didn’t bow. She didn’t bless him loudly. She simply said, “Thank you, sir. May God remember you.” As he drove away, David told himself it was nothing, just another morning.
But the next day, she was there again. Same spot, same tray, same quiet posture. Again, she stood when she saw him slow down. Good morning, sir, she said gently. Please, $10. David hesitated. Didn’t I give you money yesterday? Yes, she replied calmly. And I was grateful. So why are you asking again? Because yesterday is finished. That answer stayed with him longer than it should have. He gave her the money.
The third day, she didn’t even ask. She simply looked at him. And David, without fully understanding why, reached for his wallet before she spoke. $10. Every morning, rain or sun, traffic or silence, busy or free, Mama Adana was always there. And she always asked for the same thing. Never more, never less. After 2 weeks, David noticed something else.
She never spent the money near the bus stop. Sometimes he parked across the street and watched from inside his car. Mama Adana would wait until he was gone, then slowly make her way to a small roadside pharmacy. Other days, she bought bread. Occasionally, she paid a bus conductor even though she walked most places.
No alcohol, no gambling, no waste. Once out of curiosity, David followed her. Not closely, not like a spy, just from a distance. She entered a public hospital, one of the overcrowded ones, the kind most people avoided unless they had no choice. David watched her speak to the front desk, pull out crumpled bills. Count carefully. $10. That night, David couldn’t sleep.
He thought about his mother, Esther Chibway. He hadn’t thought of her in years. Not like this. Esther had raised him alone, sold vegetables, cleaned offices at night, and when she fell sick when money ran out, she too had stood near bus stops, asking strangers for help. David sat up in bed, heartp pounding.
The next morning, he didn’t slow down. He drove past the bus stop. Mama Adana watched his car disappear. She did not chase him. She did not shout. She simply sat back down. That image haunted him all day. By evening, guilt nodded his chest like hunger. The following morning, David arrived earlier than usual. Mama Adana was already there.
When she saw him, she didn’t look surprised. “I knew you would come back,” she said softly. “How David” asked. She smiled faintly. “People always do when they remember who they used to be.”David handed her the money, then paused. “Why $10?” he asked. She looked at him for a long moment. “Because that is what I once needed,” she replied.
“And someone gave it to me.” David swallowed. Who? She shook her head. That is not a story for the road. From that day on, something changed. David didn’t just give the money. He greeted her, asked if she was well, asked if her leg hurt, asked if she had eaten. Mama Adana answered politely, but never invited more questions.
And she never crossed one line. She never asked for his name, never asked what he did, never asked where he lived. She treated him like a passing stranger, even though he saw her every morning. Then one afternoon, David mentioned her casually at home. Joy Sheruio looked up from her phone. “The old woman?” she asked.
