He swept dust, lifted rusted metal, sorted old parts, wiped tools, and hauled junk until his arms trembled. Sweat rolled down his face. By sunset, his hands were already black with grease.
Victor watched him in silence. Most newcomers quit within an hour. Daniel kept going.
“You can come back tomorrow,” Victor said at last.
Daniel gave a tired smile. “Thank you.”
Behind him, the other mechanics muttered, “He won’t last a week. He’ll run back to his rich parents soon.”
Daniel nearly laughed at the irony.
Over the following weeks, life settled into a brutal routine. Wake up before sunrise. Walk to the workshop. Clean machines. Carry heavy parts. Watch. Learn. Endure.
The men rarely spoke kindly to him. Some mocked him openly. One in particular—Marcus, loud and arrogant—seemed to enjoy humiliating him.
“Look at him,” Marcus would say. “The new boy thinks he’s an engineer.”
But Daniel said little. He observed everything: how engines were dismantled, how broken pieces were repaired, how timing and patience mattered as much as strength.
At night, exhausted and hungry, he walked along a dusty roadside where workers went home at sunset. One evening, weak with hunger, he noticed a small wooden stand with baskets of bread and a tray of hot akara. The smell alone nearly pulled him in.
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