Balancing him as best she could, she climbed onto the bike again and sped off into traffic, into chaos, into the unknown.
She did not even look back.
Twelve hours earlier, it was 5 a.m. in a cramped one-room apartment on the outskirts of Abuja.
Adana, barely 18, was already awake. She had washed, packed lunch, ironed school uniforms, and was braiding her sister’s hair while standing.
Mara, always the chattier twin, mumbled with a yawn, “Sis, Mommy would say you should sleep more.”
“I’ll sleep when both of you become doctors,” Adana said with a smile, tugging gently on Mimi’s hair.
Their lives had changed completely after that horrible night one year earlier.
Armed robbers broke into their home. They took everything: the car, phones, jewelry. Then they shot their parents before fleeing.
No one ever found out why.
No suspects. No arrests. Just silence.
Adana became a mother overnight.
No uncles stepped up. No aunts offered help. So she sold what little was left and used the money to survive.
School had to go.
Her dreams had to wait.
She withdrew from school. Survival became the only priority, just to make sure her twin sisters were okay.
She took the only job someone her age without a certificate could do: courier delivery rider.
Most riders were men, but Adana was tough. She learned to ride fast, handle customers, brave the weather, and protect the little she had. Her red SwiftSend jacket became her armor.
Every morning she woke early, made breakfast, dropped the girls at school, then jumped onto her delivery bike and vanished into the city.
