JUST COME HOME

The rain in Lagos never truly washed anything clean. It only moved the dirt from one corner of the pavement to another, pooling grease, rainwater, and crushed cigarette butts along the curb of the Third Mainland Bridge.

​She sat on the edge of the damp concrete, her knees pulled tight against her chest. To the millions rushing past in yellow danfos and sleek luxury sedans, she was just another ghost fading into the humid twilight—a shadow the city had chewed up and spat out.

​In her right hand, her knuckles were white, clutching a crumpled scrap of paper. On it, written in her mother’s neat, familiar script, were three simple words:

​Just come home.