Chapter 3 The city of strangers

The first thing that hit me in Lagos wasn't the heat - it was the noise. The city sounded like it had a thousand voices all shouting at once: honking cars, preachers with megaphones, agberos yelling at passengers, hawkers clanging coins, children crying. It was chaos wrapped in dust and diesel fumes.

I stepped off the bus at Ojota with nothing but a nylon bag and a stomach that hadn't felt full in two days. My eyes darted from face to face, hoping someone might look kind. No one did.

Lagos was a place that swallowed the soft. It chewed and spat out the weak. I learned that on day one.

I had never seen so many people moving in so many directions with such purpose. They weren't walking - they were charging. I tried to copy them, keep my head down and walk fast. But with no destination in mind, I just became part of the endless crowd.

I asked a woman selling groundnuts if she knew where I could find a job. She looked at me, frowned, and said, "You dey craze? Job no dey for person wey never chop." Then she handed me three groundnuts. Just three. I ate them like treasure.

By nightfall, I was near a market. I found a spot between two kiosks and curled up on the bare concrete. The city didn't sleep, but I tried to. Hunger gnawed at my insides. My back ached. I used my wrapper as a pillow, but it couldn't block the cold air or the stares from passersby.

That first night, I cried.

Not loud. Not the kind of cry that brings help. Just silent tears that soaked the collar of my school blouse and blurred the blinking lights around me. I missed Mama. I missed Chika. I missed the version of me that still believed stories could change things.

The second day was worse. The ₦500 I had left from my school award money was gone - spent on a sachet of pure water and a loaf of bread I'd shared with a limping boy who reminded me of my cousin. I wandered through the streets of Ketu, then Mile 12. I asked a mallam if he needed help with his stall. He shooed me away. I knocked on a bakery door. They laughed. "You dey speak English, you no sabi wash plate?"

I slept behind a BRT terminal that night, my stomach empty, my body shaking. I thought about turning back. But turn back to what? To a home without Mama? A father who'd rather see me beaten than celebrated? There was nothing to return to - only the promise I made to Chika. And my voice.

On the third morning, I met her.

She found me sitting by a gutter, staring at my cracked fingernails and wondering what use a writer was in a city like this. She was wearing a yellow ankara dress, neat but simple. Her shoes clicked with confidence. Her eyes were sharp - not judgmental, but curious.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

I looked up. My lips were too dry to lie. I shook my head.

She reached into her handbag and brought out a wrapped sandwich. I hesitated.

"I don't drug food," she said with a small smile. "Eat. Then talk."

I ate. Slowly. Gratefully.

She introduced herself as Ifeoma. "I run a community centre in Agege - mostly for young women. Runaways. Domestic abuse survivors. Girls with big dreams and nowhere to sleep."

I stared at her. Could she see through me that easily?

She reached into her bag again and handed me a card. "Come tomorrow. Before noon. Ask for me."

Then she left.

I sat there, holding the sandwich wrapper and the card like they were sacred. Agege wasn't close. I'd have to walk for hours. But I'd walked away from worse.

That night, I slept with her name echoing in my head. Ifeoma.

If it meant a place to sleep, a meal, maybe even a path to becoming someone - I'd walk barefoot to Agege if I had to.

For the first time since I left home, I didn't cry.