“Bolanle,” he said quietly, “things will change. I promise.”
She shook her head.
“No, Toby. They won’t.”
That night, while Toby served the girls tiny portions of food and smiled through his own exhaustion, Bolanle stared at the doorway and made a decision she would not yet speak aloud.
It was a dangerous one.
The first time Chief Adewale Balogun arrived in Ayetoro, the whole village noticed.
It was a hot Wednesday afternoon. Traders sat beneath faded umbrellas. Goats wandered between stalls. Children chased one another with sticks. Then the sound of engines rolled into the square.
Two polished SUVs appeared.
Men straightened their shirts. Women shaded their eyes. Even the old men under the iroko tree leaned forward.
The doors opened.
Several sharply dressed men stepped out first.
Then Chief Adewale Balogun emerged.
He was in his late fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in crisp white agbada edged with gold thread. His wristwatch alone could have bought several homes in the village. He moved with the calm authority of a man used to being obeyed.
He was visiting to discuss farmland investment with village leaders. But while the elders talked business, others simply watched him with awe.
Among them was Bolanle.
She stood beside her vegetable stall, holding a basket of tomatoes. But her attention was no longer on the market. It was fixed on the wealthy stranger whose shoes never seemed to touch dust, because his assistants always moved ahead of him.
For the first time in years, Bolanle felt something stronger than frustration.
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