David met her gaze. I’m choosing the truth. Security stepped forward again, uncertain. Pastor Moansa spoke softly. Perhaps we should pause. David nodded. The ceremony is over. Mama Adana turned to leave. David caught her hand. Don’t go, he said. She looked at him, eyes gentle. My part is done. No, David replied firmly. It’s just beginning.
As the guests erupted into confusion, as Joy stood frozen in disbelief, David Chibway walked away from the altar, not in shame, but with a quiet certainty he had never known. Outside, sunlight poured through the cathedral doors, and for the first time in years, David stepped into it, carrying the full weight of his past.
The cathedral doors closed behind David Chibway with a sound that felt final wood, meeting wood, echoing across the stone like a verdict. Outside, the noise of the city rushed back in. Car horns, voices, a breeze that carried dust and sunlight. David stood on the steps, chest rising and falling as if he had just run a long distance.
Mama Adonna stood a few steps away, leaning on her walking stick. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then David broke the silence. “You waited all these years,” he said horarssely. “Why now?” Mama Adana looked toward the sky, squinting against the brightness. because today was the last day I could wait. David frowned. What does that mean? She didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small folded cloth. Her hands shook slightly as she unwrapped it, revealing old papers. Hospital slips, notes written in fading inkreceipts with dates long past. These are all I have left of her, Mama Adana said. And of myself. David took the papers carefully, afraid they might crumble.
His eyes scanned familiar words. Emergency ward delayed admission payment pending. His stomach tightened. “You were there,” he whispered. “When she died.” Mama Adana nodded slowly. I held her hand. David closed his eyes. The image came uninvited. His mother alone on a narrow hospital bed, lights flickering, pain tightening its grip, waiting for help that came too late.
Why didn’t you tell me who you were? He asked. Mama Adana’s voice softened. Because if I came to you as the woman who watched your mother die, you would have helped me out of guilt, not out of kindness. David swallowed hard. And the $10 he asked, “Why always the same amount?” She smiled faintly. “Because that is what your mother needed the day she met me. $10, not more, not less.
” David’s knees weakened. He sat on the steps, paper still in his hands. I didn’t even know her last days were like that, he murmured. I thought I thought she went peacefully. Mama Adana sat beside him with effort. Parents protect their children. Even in dying for a long time, David said nothing.
Inside the cathedral, voices rose confusion, anger, disbelief. Joyy’s sharp tone carried through the doors demanding explanations, demanding control. David didn’t turn back. Instead, he called Samuel. “I need you,” he said quietly when his brother answered. Now Samuel arrived 20 minutes later, breathless, eyes wide. “What happened?” he asked.
David handed him the papers. Samuel read silently, his face growing pale. “This This can’t be right.” “It is,” David replied. “And we’re going to prove it.” Within hours, the story shifted. News spread fast. Wedding canceled. Billionaire walks away from alter. Speculation ignited across social media. But David wasn’t watching.
He was at the public hospital. The same one Mama Adana had described. the same one whose walls smelled of antiseptic and neglect. David walked its corridors with Samuel and Mama Adana, ignoring the stairs, the whispers, the sudden recognition. A senior nurse recognized Mama Adana instantly.
