Chapter 1 The road to Abuja

The sun had begun to slip behind the hills, casting a honey-gold haze over the lonely stretch of road. Shadows lengthened like reaching fingers, and the air turned thick and dry, full of that dusty, heat-baked stillness that settled over the savannah at day's end. It was the kind of silence that demanded attention-the kind that made you listen harder, even to your own thoughts.

Suraiyah stood beside her SUV, arms folded, weight shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. The vehicle loomed beside her, glossy black and inert, an expensive monument to her current helplessness. She checked her phone again-fourth time in ten minutes now. Still no signal. Not even the ghost of a bar. Useless.

She sighed, long and sharp, glancing up the road. Nothing. No cars. No flicker of movement. Just dry brush on either side and a two-lane road stretching endlessly in both directions, as if civilization had forgotten this place entirely.

Earlier, she had managed a brief call to a roadside assistance company in Zuba. They'd told her they'd be "with her shortly," which in Nigeria was code for: "Eventually. Possibly today. Possibly next week." Now, with the sun dipping low and no town in sight, "eventually" wasn't good enough.

She tugged at the silk scarf wrapped around her hair-a deep emerald green that shimmered slightly in the light. A reflex, really. Trying to maintain poise when everything around her was slipping into uncertainty.

How ironic, she thought bitterly. She'd built her career in tech-systems, networks, precision-and here she was, stranded, powerless, watching the sky change colors and time unravel like thread.

The silence pressed down on her again. She paced, heels crunching on gravel, then turned back toward the car, thinking maybe she'd sit inside and wait. But then-something broke the quiet.

A sound. Low, distant. Mechanical.

At first, she wasn't sure-just a faint growl, carried on the wind like a rumble of distant thunder. But it grew louder, sharper, unmistakably closer.

She turned sharply, eyes narrowing against the orange light.

A motorcycle.

It came into view over the crest of the hill-a worn-looking bike, its paint dulled by age and sun, frame a little battered but unmistakably functional. The rider slowed as he approached, scanning the situation with the alertness of someone used to reading trouble from a distance. Dust kicked up around his tires as he pulled to a stop beside her, cutting the engine with a practiced flick of his wrist.

He removed his helmet, and for a second, she just... stared.

He was tall-impossibly so-maybe 6'4 or 6'5. Broad-shouldered, lean, and composed, like someone who carried both burden and strength without complaint. His skin was deep brown, sun-warmed and luminous in the dying light. His beard was full but cleanly shaped, outlining a face that held something rare-a kind of quiet authority, without arrogance.

"Good evening, madam," he said. His voice was warm, steady, and carried the unmistakable cadence of a Yoruba accent-soft, rounded syllables, the kind that made words feel kinder. "Looks like you're having car trouble."

Suraiyah adjusted her scarf, standing a little straighter. "Yes. It broke down about an hour ago. I managed to call someone from Zuba, but-" she gestured toward the empty horizon, "-you can see for yourself how helpful they've been."

He gave a small, wry smile, nodding once. "Nigeria. If it's not the heat, it's the waiting."

Despite herself, she laughed-a soft, surprised sound. "Exactly."

He moved toward the SUV, slowly, respectfully. "I'm Femi. I live in a village near Suleja. I'm not a real mechanic, but I fix enough broken things to get by. May I take a look?"

She hesitated. Just long enough to assess him, to weigh instinct against caution. But there was something about his eyes-open, clear, neither needy nor intrusive.

She nodded. "I'm Suraiyah. Thank you."

Femi lifted the hood, studying the engine with the practiced calm of someone used to work, not theory. His hands moved with confidence, checking terminals, hoses, tapping here and there. Grease darkened his fingertips-signs of a day already spent in labor.

"Battery's okay," he murmured. "Starter's dragging, though. And the pump... might be the fuel line. Hard to say without tools. But I don't think this one's moving anytime soon."

She let out a slow breath. "That's what I thought. Just needed someone else to say it."

He glanced at her, then at his bike. "You said you're heading to Abuja?"

"Yes. I have a meeting at the tech conference center. Was supposed to be there two hours ago."

Femi considered her for a moment, then nodded. "I can take you."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I can take you to Abuja," he repeated, voice even. "It's not far. My bike isn't new, but it runs. And when your people finally call about the car, I'll bring you back."

"You'd do that?"

He smiled slightly. "Why not? A stranger in need is a brother-or in this case, a sister. And my mother would never forgive me if I left a woman stranded on the road."

That made her laugh again. "Your mother raised a good man."

"I try."

He reached into a pouch strapped to the bike's side and held out his spare helmet.

Suraiyah looked at it. Then at the bike. Then-at her heels. And back at him.

The contrast was absurd: her in designer silk and suede, him in dusty jeans and boots worn thin. The woman from Maitama and the man from Suleja. But in that moment, it didn't seem to matter.

She took the helmet.

The ride into the city was unlike anything she was used to. No insulated cocoon, no polished interior. Just air-cool, dry, and rushing against her face. Her hands clung to Femi's shoulders as the motorcycle carved a path through the open road. Every bump was real, every turn sharp, and every second alive with the pulse of a different kind of life.

Abuja rose slowly ahead of them-lights flickering on in the distance, roads widening, traffic reappearing. Civilization returned like a tide. When they reached the conference center, Femi pulled to a careful stop under a tree just off the main entrance.

"I'll wait here," he said simply.

She hesitated again, halfway through removing the helmet. "You don't have to."

"I know," he said. "But I will."

And he did.

Three hours later, when the meeting ended and she stepped outside with her heels clicking tiredly across the pavement, he was still there. Sitting under the tree, helmet beside him, sipping from a plastic bottle of water.

She stared for a moment, then walked toward him.

"You stayed."

"I said I would."

Shortly after, her phone buzzed again-the tow truck had picked up the SUV and was heading to a small garage not far from where she'd broken down. Femi nodded, kicked the bike back to life, and took her there without a word of complaint.

That evening, while the mechanics worked under the flickering lights of the garage, they sat on a bench outside and talked.

She told him about her work-how she helped small and medium-sized businesses digitize operations, how frustrating it was to be taken seriously as a woman in tech, how she'd recently walked away from a deal that compromised her values.

He told her about his small farm-how he grew tomatoes and cassava, how he'd been trying to expand into cocoa, maybe even export someday. He spoke of soil cycles and water shortages, of local market politics and dreams of mechanization. And he spoke with passion-the kind that didn't come from textbooks but from waking up at 5 a.m. every day to turn earth and hope into harvest.

"You could do anything," she said, watching him as he helped load her suitcase into the now-working SUV. "You're smart. Determined."

He shrugged. "I just want to feed people. And maybe build something my children can inherit someday. Not everything is about money."

That stayed with her.

Long after she'd shaken his hand and driven away into the Abuja night, the words echoed. So did the look in his eyes-the quiet certainty, the unshakable purpose.

A stranger. A farmer. A man with calloused hands and an old bike.

Not what she expected.

But maybe, just maybe... exactly what she needed.