Joy did not return the greeting. Instead, she leaned forward. “Why are you here everyday?” she asked bluntly. Mama Adana turned to her calmly. “Because this is where I wait. For what Joy asked.” Mama Adana’s eyes flicked briefly to David, then back to Joy. For what God has promised? Joy scoffed quietly.
And God promised you $10 from my fianceé. David stiffened. Joy. Mama. Adana raised a hand slightly. It’s all right. She looked at Joy again. Young woman, I do not take what is not given. Joy folded her arms. And how long do you plan to keep taking as long as it is offered? The silence between them thickened. David felt something close to anger rising in his chest. Joy, that’s enough.
She exhaled sharply. Fine, let’s go. As they drove away, Joy stared out the window, lips pressed tight. She’s clever, Joyce said after a moment. Very clever, David said. Nothing. That afternoon, Joy made a decision. She called the head of security at the cathedral where their wedding would be held.
There’s a woman, she said, her voice smooth. An elderly woman who frequents the bus terminal near Cairo Road. If she tries to attend the wedding, she is not to be allowed inside. The man hesitated. Is she a threat? Joy paused. She’s unstable. Understood, he replied. That evening, David arrived home unusually late. He found Joy waiting documents spread across the table.
“I spoke to Samuel today,” she said casually. David froze. “About what?” Your mother, Joy, replied. “Or rather about her past.” David’s blood ran cold. “Why would you do that?” Joy looked up. “Because you’re hiding something from me.” “I’m not hiding anything,” he said tightly. “My mother is gone.” “Yes,” Joy said. And apparently, she spent her final years poor, desperate, asking strangers for help. David’s hands clenched. Stop.
Joy leaned forward. Don’t you see the pattern that woman reminds you of her? That’s why you can’t let go. David turned away. Joy softened her tone again. David, I love you, but you can’t build a future while clinging to ghosts. David did not respond. The next morning, David was delayed by an urgent meeting. When he arrived at the bus terminal, Mama Adana was not there. He waited.
10 minutes, 20, she never came. An unfamiliar unease settled in his chest. Across the city, Mama Adana stood outside the cathedral gates, leaning heavily on her walking stick. She looked at the towering building, its doors still closed. “It is almost time,” she whispered. And for the first time in weeks, she did not wait at the bus terminal.
The absence hit David Chibway harder than he expected. At first, he told himself it was nothing. People missed days. Life happened. But as the minutes stretched in the bus terminal grew louder, his unease refused to fade. Mama Adana was never late, never absent. David drove past the terminal twice before continuing to the office. The contracts waiting on his desk felt distant, meaningless.
His pen hovered above paper as memories he hadn’t invited began to surface. His mother, Esther Chibway, he hadn’t planned to think of her that morning yet. Her face appeared with unsettling clarity. The lines around her eyes, the way she tied her headscarf tightly when she was worried, the soft hum she made while counting coins at night.
