“People will talk.” David smiled. “Let them.” He sat beside her on the concrete block. The ground was hard, hot, unforgiving. David did not care. They sat in silence for a long moment, traffic roaring behind them. “Do you have children?” he asked gently. Mama Adana’s fingers tightened around her Bible.
“I had a daughter,” she said after a pause. David waited. She was strong. “Mama Adana” continued. “Braver than me. She loved too deeply, trusted too much. Her voice softened. The world was not kind to her.” David felt his chest tighten. “I’m sorry.” “So am I,” she said. “Every day.” He wanted to ask more, but something told him not to.
Instead, he asked, “Why do you keep waiting here?” Mama Dana looked straight ahead. Because someone I am waiting for will pass here. David smiled gently. You already see hundreds of people. Yes, she said. But only one matters. That night, David dreamed of his mother. Not as she was when she died weak and pale, but as she was when he was a boy, laughing, sweating under the sun, holding his hand tightly as buses roared past. When he woke, his pillow was damp.
The next morning, he arrived at the bus stop shaken. Mama Adana noticed immediately. You are carrying heavy thoughts, she said. David exhaled. You remind me of someone. She nodded slowly. Most things that matter do. From that day on, David stopped seeing Mama Adana as a responsibility. He saw her as a mirror.
He adjusted his schedule to ensure he never missed her. He defended her when Joy questioned him. He even instructed his driver never to disturb her if he was absent. Mama Adana remained unchanged. Still asking for $10. still thanking him quietly, still waiting. And every time David handed her the money, he felt something loosening inside him.
A knot tied long ago by poverty loss and unanswered questions. He did not know what she was waiting for, but he felt it in his bones. Whatever it was, it was coming closer. Joy. Terui noticed the change before David ever mentioned Mama Adana’s name again. At first, it was small things. David stopped taking morning calls in the car. He drove more slowly.
He arrived at meetings quieter than usual, his mind clearly somewhere else. Joy had known David long enough to recognize when something occupied him. And whatever it was, it didn’t look like business pressure. One evening, as they sat on the balcony of David’s penthouse overlooking Lusaka’s glowing streets, Joy finally asked, “You’ve been distracted lately?” she said, swirling the wine in her glass.
Is something wrong at work? David shook his head. Work is fine. Then what is it? She pressed eyes narrowing slightly. You disappear every morning. No calls, no driver, no explanation. David hesitated. He hadn’t planned to talk about Mama Adana. Something about the woman felt private, sacred even. But Joy was his fiance. Soon she would be his wife.
There’s an old woman I help, he said carefully. Joy blinked. Help? Yes. Near the bus terminal. Joy set her glass down slowly. Help how David shrugged. I give her some money. Every day. How much? $10. Joy laughed short, sharp, surprised. Every day? Yes. For how long? A few weeks. Joy leaned back, studying him as if he had just confessed to something foolish.
David, do you realize how many people hang around bus terminals looking for sympathy? She’s not like that, he replied instantly. Joy raised an eyebrow. You sound very sure. I am. Joy sighed. “Listen to yourself. You don’t even know her name, do you?” David opened his mouth, then closed it. Joy noticed. “You don’t,” she said quietly.
“David, this is exactly how people get taken advantage of. She never asks for more,” he said. “Never,” Joy crossed her arms. “That’s how it starts.” David felt irritation rise. “You haven’t met her, and I don’t need to,” Joy replied. “I’ve seen this before.” People attach themselves emotionally. Then they guilt you.
Then they depend on you. That hasn’t happened yet. Her tone sharpened. You’re a public figure, David. You’re about to become my husband. What happens when the media finds out you’ve been secretly giving money to a stranger? David’s jaw tightened. I’m not ashamed of helping someone. Joy paused, then softened her voice.
I’m not saying you should stop helping people. I’m saying there are proper channels, foundations, programs, not random individuals on the street. David stood. This conversation isn’t about charity strategy. No, Joy replied, standing too. It’s about boundaries. The word landed hard. The next morning, Joy insisted on riding with David.
I want to see her, she said, already dressed heels clicking across the floor. David frowned. That’s not necessary. I’m coming, she replied firmly. If she’s as harmless as you say, there shouldn’t be a problem. David said nothing. At the bus terminal, Mama Adana was already there. Joy spotted her immediately. The old woman’s posture,her worn clothes, the small tray.
Joy took it all in with a critical eye. She watched as David slowed the car and rolled down his window. Mama Adana smiled when she saw him. Then she noticed Joy. Her smile faded slightly, not from fear, but awareness. David handed her the $10. Good morning, Mama.” Adana said her voice gentle. She nodded politely toward Joy. You are welcome.
