The morning air still carried the last bite of night when the first pale light crept across the roofs of the little town. The street outside Sandra Nnoru’s shop was quiet in that familiar early-hour way, as if the whole neighborhood was still deciding whether to wake up or stay inside the comfort of sleeping a little longer. The paint on the storefront had long faded under sun and dust, and the metal gate still held the chill of dawn. Curled on the bare ground in front of it was a man who looked like the road itself had claimed him.
His clothes were dusty. His sandals were worn thin. Even from a distance, it was obvious that life had not been gentle with him. He had folded one arm under his head as if the pavement could somehow pass for a pillow. Mike, the shop’s security man, stood over him with a hard expression already set on his face. Mike was the kind of man who looked severe even when he meant well—broad shoulders, sharp eyes, and a voice that never seemed to know how to soften itself.
“Get up,” Mike barked, lifting his foot as if he might nudge the man with it. “Get up and move from here.”
The man stirred slowly, like even waking up took more strength than he had left. He pushed himself up halfway, but his hands shook.
Mike’s impatience deepened. “You think this place is your house? Every time, every time—”
“Calm down. Don’t hurt him.”
Sandra’s voice cut through the cold air before Mike could say another word. She was stepping out of the shop, tying her wrapper more firmly around her waist, her face still soft with morning but already serious with concern. Sandra was one of those women who drew attention without trying. She was beautiful, yes, but it was not just beauty that made people turn. It was the quiet strength in her eyes, the kind of gentleness that did not come from weakness but from a refusal to let hardship turn her cruel.
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