The one near the bus stop. David nodded. “Yes,” Joy frowned. “Why are you still giving her money? It’s<unk> not much. That’s not the point.” Joy said, “People like that become dependent.” David stiffened. She asked for $10. Joy laughed softly. “Today it’s 10. Tomorrow it’s something else, but tomorrow came.” And Mama Adana asked for $10.
Nothing more, nothing less. As weeks passed, David began to feel something unfamiliar when he saw her. Not pity, recognition. As if her presence was tied to something unfinished in his life, something waiting. And far away, unknown to him. Mama Adana began counting days. Not the days until her money ran out, but the days until David Chibway would finally remember the truth.
Mama Adana’s days followed a rhythm the city never noticed. Before the sun fully rose over Lusaka, before the horns and engines swallowed the quiet, she was already awake. Her small room, barely more than a concrete box behind an old mechanic’s shop, held only what she needed. A thin mattress, a wooden chair, a Bible with worn edges, and a framed photograph placed carefully near the window.
Every morning, she sat on the edge of her bed, massaging her left leg. The old injury had never healed properly. Some days it burned like fire. Other days it felt numb as if it did not belong to her anymore. She never complained. After wrapping her scarf and straightening her dress, she knelt slowly and prayed. “God,” she whispered, voice trembling but steady, “Thank you for another day.
Give strength to the man who gives without asking, and give me patience to wait.” She did not ask for wealth. She did not ask for miracles. She asked for time. At the bus terminal, Mama Adana took her place as the city came alive around her. Vendors shouted prices. Conductors argued. Children ran barefoot between buses.
And people passed her, hundreds of them, eyes forward, hearts elsewhere. She never stopped them. She never begged loudly. She waited. Some days David Chibway arrived early. Other days, traffic delayed him. But Mama Adana never doubted he would come. And every time he did, she watched his face carefully, not greedily, not desperately, as if she was reading something written beneath his skin.
After receiving the $10, she followed the same path. First, the pharmacy. She bought medicine for her blood pressure, the cheapest brand. The pharmacist knew her well and often tried to give her more. “Take extra,” the young woman would say. “You’ll need it.” Mama Adana always shook her head.
“No, others need it, too.” Next, she stopped by a small bread stall and bought a single loaf. She tore it in half. Half for now, half for later. Some days she shared pieces with street children who hovered nearby watching. They called her grandma. She never told them her name. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she went to the public hospital, not for herself.
In one of the crowded wards lay an old woman who could no longer speak. Once years ago, that woman had shared a sleeping mat with Mama Adana when both of them had nothing. Mama Adana paid for her basic care whenever she could. $10. Always $10. Meanwhile, David’s curiosity deepened. He began to notice how Mama Adana never lingered near expensive shops, never followed wealthy strangers, never tried to increase her visibility.
One morning, rain poured heavily. David assumed she would not come, but there she was sitting beneath a torn umbrella shoes soaked waiting. “Why are you here in this weather?” David asked, concerned, slipping into his voice before he could stop it. She smiled faintly. “Rain does not cancel waiting.” David laughed softly, shaking his head.
“You’re unbelievable.” No, she replied. I’m patient. That word patient pressed against something deep inside him. Over time, David began bringing extra items in his car. A bottle of water, sometimes fruit. Once a thick shawl. Mama Adana accepted them politely, but something about her posture remained unchanged.
She did not lean in. She did not grow familiar. She never crossed into his life. It was David who crossed into hers. One afternoon, he parked the car and stepped out. The people nearby froze. Some recognized him instantly. Phonesappeared. Whispers spread. Mama Adana looked up startled. “You shouldn’t stand,” she said quickly.
