Help me, please. I’m dying. My belly. Save the baby. The cry was weak, shaky, and painful. Adana, a heavily pregnant girl in her late teens, clutched her stomach as she stumbled into the middle of the street, eyes half closed, lips pale, legs wobbling. Her worn out anchor gown flapped in the wind, soaked in sweat.

 Her hair was scattered, her body thin from hunger. She hadn’t eaten in two days. Then it happened. With her last strength, she fell right into the arms of a man everyone knew as the street’s most hopeless beggar. He was an older man, about 45, dark-skinned, bearded, wore a patched, oversized hoodie, and mismatched slippers. His name, to those who cared, was Jonathan, the quiet homeless man who always sat by the same street light near the bridge, begging with a plastic cup beside him.

 And now the pregnant girl, that girl everyone gossiped about, was lying limp in his arms. The market women gasped. One woman with a basin on her head shouted, “Ha, she’s finally delivered herself to the father of her baby.” Another laughed and said, “So this is the homeless man that impregnated her. No wonder she no talked to anybody all these months.” Men shook their heads, whispering in judgment.

 Nobody stepped forward to help. Nobody asked if a downer was breathing. All they did was stare, but Jonathan didn’t say a word. His face didn’t change. He adjusted his arms, gently lifting Adana up with surprising strength. With one hand supporting her neck and the other reaching into the tattered hoodie, he pulled out an iPhone.

 Not a broken one, a brand new iPhone. He tapped a few buttons and whispered, “Steve, bring the cars now. Same location.” Silence dropped on the street. One of the boys watching the drama blinked in confusion. Wait, that’s not what’s going on. 3 minutes later, Lagos stood still. A convoy of black SUVs shiny, long with dark tinted windows zoomed into the street like a presidential escort. Security men in suits jumped out.

 They didn’t ask questions. They bowed before the man everyone called homeless. Sir, we’re ready, one of them said. Handle her carefully, Jonathan instructed, handing over the unconscious Adana. Gasps filled the air as they opened the door to the front vehicle, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom. A car only billionaires dared to dream about.

 The girl who was dying a moment ago, the homeless man holding her like a sister, the judgmental crowd who mocked them seconds earlier. They all froze. Was this a movie? Was this a dream? Inside the car, Adana’s body shook from weakness. Her face had lost color. Her belly looked tight and heavy.

 Jonathan placed her head gently on his lap, brushing her messy hair away from her face. He stared at the dried sweat on her cheeks, the torn cloth on her chest, and her bare feet that looked bruised and cold. His jaw tightened. he whispered under his breath. “God, please preserve her. Don’t let her die.” Then he raised his voice to the National Hospital.

 Fast, the driver nodded, tires screeching. The convoy took off, leaving the street behind, still frozen in shock. Earlier that morning, Adana didn’t want to wake up. Her body achd all over. Her belly felt like a balloon of pain. She hadn’t eaten in 2 days. Her neighbor had poured dirty water in front of her door again, telling her, “Go back to whoever got you pregnant.

” But Adana didn’t reply. She never replied. Since she discovered she was pregnant, nobody cared. The day she found out, she had fallen to the floor crying, remembering the only moment that could have led to this. A stranger had attacked her in the bush on her way back from the stream.

 She never saw his face, but who would believe that? The women in the compound mocked her. The men ignored her. The children called her names. Adana was just 18, a poor orphan. Her parents had been murdered during a robbery 3 years ago. And after that, no aunt or uncle wanted her. She had to grow up too fast, carrying people’s loads in the market to eat. Now pregnant, alone, dying.

 That morning, she tried to walk. Just walk. She thought maybe she could beg someone for leftover food. She walked slowly on the busy Lagos street. people brushing past her like she was air. Then the pain hit. Her legs buckled. Her heart raced. Her mouth opened. Help me. I’m dying. Save me and the baby.

 And the world went black. Back at the hospital, inside the private emergency ward of National Hospital, Adana lay motionless on the bed. Doctors rushed around her, checking her pulse, lifting her eyelids. Outside, Jonathan had removed the fake beard. He had washed his face, combed his hair. Now he wore a clean suit and shiny shoes.

 He looked like a completely different man, the billionaire, but in his eyes there was no pride only concern. He walked to the doctor. How is she? The doctor looked up. She’s stable, but the baby needs attention. We may need to operate if she wakes up. I’ll handle the bill, everything. Just save her,” Jonathan said, “Who are you to her?” The doctor asked, suspicious. He paused, then answered, “She’s my sister.

I haven’t seen her in years. I found her like this. Please save her. She’s all I’ve got.” The doctor nodded, moved by the look in his eyes. Jonathan returned to the ward, pulled up a chair beside Adana’s bed, and waited. He didn’t blink. He didn’t leave. He waited, sitting her bedside.

 And hours later, just before sunrise, Adana’s eyes fluttered open. She looked around slowly, the white ceiling, the clean sheets, the beeping machines. Then her eyes landed on the man sitting beside her. He didn’t look like the man she had fallen on yesterday. “Who? Who are you?” she whispered, her throat dry.

 “Where am I?” Jonathan leaned forward and smiled gently. “Calm down. You’re in a hospital. You fainted on the street yesterday. I’m the man you fell on. I brought you here. Adana’s eyes widened. But But you you looked homeless. You How did you bring me here? You look different now. Jonathan sighed. That’s because I’m not actually homeless. My name is Jonathan Abina.

 I’m I’m a businessman, a CEO. Adana blinked. I don’t understand. Why did you help me? Jonathan looked down at her hands, pale and trembling. Sometimes I walk the streets like that to find people like you, people the world has forgotten. And yesterday God led me to you. Adana’s lips trembled.

 She turned her face away and began to cry. Jonathan said nothing. He just placed a hand gently over hers and let her cry. Adana cried for a long time, silent, shaking tears that soaked the hospital pillow as she turned her face to the wall. Her body still hurt, and her belly felt like it carried more than just a baby. It carried shame, pain, fear, and memories.

 Jonathan didn’t rush her. He just sat beside her, quiet, steady like he had all the time in the world. His phone buzzed once. He ignored it. “Why did you help me?” She finally whispered again. Jonathan leaned forward, voice calm. “Because you needed help. No one has ever helped me,” she said. Her voice cracked.

 “Not even once since my parents died.” And that was the moment everything changed between them because Adana told him everything and the cause of the pregnancy she’s carrying. 3 years ago, Adana’s world was whole. She lived in a small but happy home with her parents’ middle class, hard-working people.

 Her father was a civil servant. Her mother ran a boutique. They weren’t rich, but they loved her. They called her their queen, their only child. She had just graduated secondary school as the best student and was preparing for university. They were planning a little party the day her results came out. But the night before it, the robbers came.

 She remembered waking up to her mother’s scream. The men were loud, violent. They took everything, phones, money, her mother’s jewelry, even the television. But it was when her mother looked closely at one of the masked manand recognized his face that the nightmare turned deadly.

 “John Johnson,” her mother had said, eyes wide. Without hesitation, the man shot both of her parents. Just like that, Adana’s world shattered in one moment. No family stepped in to help. Her father’s brothers said they couldn’t take her. Her mother’s relatives were silent, alone, and broken. Adana was forced to grow up overnight. She started working for survival, washing clothes, carrying loads in the market, fetching water for people who barely paid.

 Then came the day that changed her life again. It was a market day. She woke up early, thinking it was time to go to the stream. The moon was still out, but she couldn’t tell. She thought the sun was rising. With her small clay pot, she walked the quiet path. No one else was around.

 She reached the stream, filled her pot, and turned back. That was when she heard it. A sound, a cough, a whisper. She turned, a hand grabbed her. It all happened in seconds. Her pot smashed. Her body hit the ground. A heavy hand clamped her mouth. She was dragged into the bush and then passed out. She woke up in pain after some hours. Her clothes were in a mess, covered in dirt with a trail of blood.

 Her body was trembling and her voice gone. She walked back home dizzy, broken, but no one asked questions. No one cared and no one to run to. Weeks later, the vomiting started. She fainted while carrying a bag of rice in the market. That was when she walked into a small clinic and begged for help. The nursy kind middle-aged woman helped her do a test.

 “You’re pregnant,” the nurse said. Adana collapsed to the ground in tears. She returned home that day with tears and the news quickly spread. The neighbors, they only mocked her more. See her playing wife for small boys. She should be ashamed. God is punishing her. Nobody believed her story. Nobody even asked for it. She became a shadow of herself. 9 months passed.

 She ate when she could, carried heavy loads until her feet bled despite being heavily pregnant. And that morning, she had reached her breaking point. She hadn’t eaten in 2 days. Her body couldn’t carry the baby anymore. And that was when she fell into Jonathan’s arms.

 Inside the hospital room, silence followed the end of her story. Jonathan was frozen, his face stiff, his throat tight, but his eyes his eyes were wet. He stood up and paced. Then he looked at her. “I want you to listen carefully, Adana,” he said. You’re safe now. You and your baby. From this moment forward, everything changes. She looked up at him confused.

 “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “You don’t have to,” he said gently. “But I promise you, your suffering ends today.” Adana shook her head, overwhelmed. “I have nothing. I don’t even know how to thank you. You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “But can I ask something?” She nodded. Will you let me help you start over? She stared at him speechless.

 And then the doctor walked in. Mr. Aba, the doctor said, holding a chart. We need your consent. The baby is in distress. Her condition is better, but we have to perform a cescareian section as soon as possible. Jonathan didn’t hesitate. Do it. I’ll sign everything. Adana reached out weekly. Wait, it’s expensive. I don’t. Jonathan took her hand.

 You don’t have to worry. I’ve got it. Tears returned to her eyes. And for the first time in months, they weren’t from pain. They were from hope. The surgery happened that evening. The doctors wheeled her away. Jonathan stood outside the theater with his arms crossed, waiting. The minutes felt like hours. He had faced boardrooms full of oil executives, signed billion naira deals, even stood beside presidents, but nothing had made him this nervous. Then the doors opened.

 A nurse walked out smiling. She’s okay, she said. And the baby, a healthy baby boy, the nurse said, holding up the bundle. Jonathan exhaled slowly. Adana lay asleep in recovery when he brought the baby to her. She opened her eyes, barely able to lift her arms. But when she saw him, tiny, wrapped in blush, wept like a child.

 His name is Mecha, she said softly. After my father. 3 days later, Adana was discharged. She could walk now barely. The nurse helped her into the wheelchair as she held baby Emma in her arms. She expected to go back to her broken room, her torn mat on the cold floor. But outside the hospital, the same convoy of black SUVs waited.

 Jonathan walked beside her and whispered, “Ready?” Adana’s mouth hung open. “Is this for me?” she asked. “For you,” he replied. He led her to the same Rolls-Royce. Inside, she sat stunned. The air smelled like leather and roses. She clutched her baby tighter and turned to Jonathan. “Are you an angel?” He smiled. number.

 But sometimes God sends people to help us when we’re drowning. She looked down at her baby, then back at him. Thank you, Mr. Angel, she whispered. The gates opened slowly, tall, silver, and guarded by security men in black suits. The entrance alone looked like something out of a movie. As the convoy of black SUVs pulled into the estate, Adana’s heart beat faster. She looked through the tinted windows, clutching baby Emma in her arms.

 Palm trees lined the spotless road. Flowers bloomed beside white marble paths. Fountains danced in front of sparkling glass houses. This wasn’t just a neighborhood. It was Banana Island, the richest estate in Lagos. Adana swallowed hard. She glanced at Mr. Jonathan, who sat beside her in the Rolls-Royce.

 He had removed his sunglasses and watched her closely as if reading every emotion on her face. I I’ve seen this place on television,” Adana whispered. Jonathan smiled. “You’re about to live in it.” Her hands tightened on the baby. “I don’t belong here,” she said. He turned to her gently. “Yes, you do.” The car stopped in front of a mansion so big. Adana thought it was a hotel.

 It had white walls, gold railings, and glass doors that stretched from floor to ceiling. A red carpet led to the front steps. And standing there, smiling warmly, was a woman, tall, graceful, dressed in a simple but elegant lace gown, her hair wrapped neatly, her hands opened wide. “Welcome home,” she said. Adana blinked. Jonathan stepped out first, then turned back and reached into the car to help Adana out.

 She stood slowly, legs still weak from the surgery. The security guard offered to carry the baby, but she gently refused. She wanted to hold him herself. “Adana, meet my wife, Cynthia.” Cynthia came forward, placed a hand on Adana’s shoulder, and smiled. “My husband told me everything,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry for what you went through, but you’re safe now. This is your home and from today you are our daughter.

 IA is our grandson. Adana burst into tears. Right there on the steps of the mansion, her knees buckled again, but not from pain this time. From love, from relief, from being seen. Cynthia hugged her tight and didn’t let go. Inside, the house was like a dream. Chandeliers sparkled from every ceiling.

 The floor was polished marble. There were two staircases, giant paintings on the walls, and soft music playing somewhere in the background. Adana was taken to a guest room bigger than her entire former house. It had a white baby crib, pink curtains, and a soft bed with silk sheets.

 Later that night, she sat on the bed holding a Mika while staring at everything around her. She had never felt soft fabric like this. She had never smelled air this clean. She had never imagined that a poor dying girl from the street could end up here. Cynthia came in and sat beside her. I know this is a lot, she said kindly. Adana nodded slowly.

 I’m afraid to close my eyes. I think I’ll wake up in the street again. Cynthia reached over and held her hand. You won’t. Not anymore. Nannies were assigned to help with the baby. A nutritionist was brought in to help Adana recover. And over the next few months, she slowly healed. But then came the night, everything changed again. It was around midnight.

 Adana had just finished breastfeeding baby Emma. She laid him in the crib and turned off the light. An hour later, a piercing cry echoed through the room. She jumped up. Emma, he was crying in a way she had never heard before. She picked him up, rocked him, checked his diaper, felt his head. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She ran to the hallway. Help, please.

Mecha is not okay. Jonathan and Cynthia rushed out of their room. Cynthia was barefoot, holding her rapid tight. The driver was called immediately. Within 5 minutes, they were in the car speeding back to the same hospital. Inside the emergency room, the doctors worked quickly. But the moment the doctor came out with his head down, Adana’s heart stopped. I’m sorry, the doctor said.

 The baby was choking in his sleep. We tried, but he’s dead. Adana screamed. She collapsed to the floor and held her chest. Her voice broke. No, no, no, no, no, no. Give him to me. Let me feed him. He’s just hungry. Please don’t take him. Adana wept. Jonathan grabbed her before she hit her head.

 Let me go, Adana screamed. Let me see my baby. But they wouldn’t let her. The pain was too much. And in that moment of grief, her body gave up. She fainted. Adana woke up the next day in a quiet hospital room. She looked around, then whispered, “Where’s a Mecca? Give him to me, please. He’s hungry.” A nurse walked in.

 Her eyes were red from crying. “Adana, I’m so sorry.” Adana curled into herself. She didn’t speak again for 3 days. She stopped eating. She stared at the wall. Sometimes she would mumble to herself, asking a Mecha to come back. But Jonathan and Cynthia never left her side. They brought in the best grief counselors. They hired a child loss specialist from abroad.

 And after three long months, she slowly began to breathe again. A few weeks later, something beautiful happened. Cynthia discovered she was pregnant. The whole house lit up with joy. And when the baby came, beautiful baby girl, they named her Amarachi, meaning God’s grace, they told everyone she was the gift Adana brought into their lives.

 Cynthia held Adana’s hand and said, “I will raise her with your strength because you reminded me what real motherhood looks like.” Adana cried. But this time, it was healing. 6 months later, Adana sat across from Jonathan in the mansion’s garden. “You’re ready?” he said. “For what?” she asked. “Your future?” he said with a smile.

 “It’s time to register for your university exams.” Adana blinked. “You you mean school?” “Yes,” Cynthia added, stepping out with baby Amarachi in her arms. “We want to give you a second chance. You still have dreams, right?” Adana nodded, tears in her eyes. Then chase them, Jonathan said. Well be right here with you. Months passed. She registered university entrance examination.

 She studied hard and eventually passed. She got into one of the best universities in the country. She chose prochemical engineering to follow in her new father’s footsteps. And four years later, she graduated as the best student. But just as Adana thought her pain was in the past, her phone rang.

 The screen said, “Uncle Ben calling.” She froze. She hadn’t heard from him in years. Then the messages started. “Aren’t we your family, too? You’re rich now, but you’ll need us one day. Come and make peace before it’s too late.” She blocked every number, but she didn’t know. They were just getting started.

 Adana stood on the stage in her black gown and golden sash holding her certificate with both hands. Her name had just been called as best graduating student of her class. The entire auditorium in erupted in applause. Jonathan and Cynthia stood in the front row clapping proudly, their eyes shimmering with tears. It was a moment a Dana would never forget.

 After everything she had endured, the trauma, the loss, the shame she had risen above it. The girl who once begged for leftover food now stood as a celebrated engineer. Her future was as bright as the spotlight above her. But even in that moment of triumph, darkness was already moving.

 Back home that evening, a quiet celebration unfolded in the mansion. Cynthia toasted with a glass of juice. To Adana, our pride, our miracle, Jonathan laughed. I knew from the day you opened your eyes in that hospital that you were born for greatness. Adana blushed, gently bouncing baby Amarachi on her lap.

 Yet something tugged at her heart. The missed calls, the messages, the strange number that kept texting, “You can’t block blood forever.” Adana’s biological uncles and aunts, those who rejected her when her parents were murdered, had suddenly remembered she existed. A few days after her graduation, a man showed up at the gate of the Banana Island mansion. He claimed to be her uncle.

 The guards didn’t let him in, but Jonathan was informed. They brought his picture to Adana. It was Uncle Ben, the one who told her years ago, I don’t have room for a girl like you. Go and survive. She stared at the photo for a long time, then simply said, “Don’t let him in ever.

” What Adana didn’t know was that her refusal had triggered something much darker. In a remote village two states away, inside a mud house surrounded by broken calabashes and red cloths, a herbalist sat with five people around him. One of them was Uncle Ben. Another was Auntie Margaret. They sat cross-legged, eyes hard, voices low. She disgraced us. Uncle Ben said. She thinks she’s better than us now.

 Auntie McGret hissed. She must return. The other woman added. If she won’t respect her bloodline, then let her blood speak. The herbalist said nothing for a while. Then he stood. He picked up a bowl filled with a thick black liquid and threw a white powder into it. Smoke rose.

 He began chanting in a deep, unfamiliar tongue. Then he held up a piece of Adana’s old childhood picture, one they had kept from her father’s funeral. He dipped it in the black liquid and whispered, “She will lose strength little by little until she comes to you crawling.” Or, “Until she dies in your name.” The family nodded in agreement. The curse had begun. Back in Lagos, Adana didn’t know why she had suddenly started waking up tired.

 Her legs sometimes shook. Her head felt heavy at night. The mansion’s doctors ran tests. They found nothing wrong. She just needs rest, one said. But something in Jonathan’s eyes told a different story. He had seen enough in life to know. This wasn’t just stress. He brought in a private investigator.

 A week later, the man returned. “Sir,” he said, handing Jonathan a tablet. “We traced the people who have been trying to reach Adana. They visited a known shrine two weeks ago. This This isn’t a coincidence. Jonathan’s blood boiled. Cynthia gasped when she heard, but they didn’t tell Adana. Not yet.

 Adana, meanwhile, was preparing for her first day at Jonathan’s oil company. She had turned down every international offer. She wanted to work with the man who saved her, who raised her, who made her believe again. And from her very first day, the office buzzed about her brilliance. She’s so young. Did you hear? She’s the new chief engineer on the Leki deep drilling project. That’s Jonathan’s daughter.

 Oh, Adana earned their respect fast. She worked late. She solved problems no one could. But at night, the pain returned. It started as stomach cramps, then shortness of breath, then weakness. By the end of the month, she collapsed in her office bathroom. They rushed her home. Jonathan was out of the country, but Cynthia met the ambulance with trembling hands.

 Adana, Adana, can you hear me? She opened her eyes weakly. Mama, I feel cold. Cynthia wrapped her in a blanket and whispered into her ear, “You will not die. You are my child. You will fight this.” The next day, Adana asked to speak with her doctors alone. She had a feeling. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked. Don’t lie.

 The head doctor looked down at her chart. We’ve run every test. Medically, there’s nothing. But your body is reacting like it’s shutting down. It’s like something invisible is draining your strength. Adana stared at him frozen, then whispered, “What do you mean? We need to look beyond the physical.” The doctor said carefully. She knew what he meant.

 Something spiritual. Her fingers trembled as she picked up her phone. She texted Jonathan, “Daddy, I think I’m being attacked.” That night, Jonathan returned from his trip without warning. He didn’t go to his room. He went straight to Adana’s. When she opened the door and saw him standing there, her eyes flooded.

 She hadn’t called him daddy in months. But tonight, she ran into his arms. He hugged her tight. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I already know everything. I just didn’t want to scare you.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. They want to destroy me. They won’t succeed, he said with fire in his voice. I fought bigger enemies.

 You are my daughter and I won’t let anyone take you away from me. But deep in the village, the herbalist smiled. She will come crawling soon, he told the family. Unless she dies first. The following weeks after Adana’s mysterious collapse brought surprising peace. She began to regain her strength. The pains faded. Her appetite returned.

 Whatever darkness had lingered around her, seemed to loosen its grip, and everyone in the mansion noticed. Jonathan, who had barely smiled in weeks, finally laughed again. Cynthia held a Dana every night, and prayed with her.

 Her adoptive parents watched over her like hawks, ensuring she rested, ate well, and did no heavy lifting. By the second month, the hospital reports returned with a different tone. She’s improving, the lead doctor said, blinking in disbelief. Medically, we still can’t explain it, but she’s healing. And just like that, Adana was backstrong, glowing, and determined. One quiet evening in the mansion’s garden, Adana sat with Jonathan beside the fountain.

 The sun was setting behind the tall buildings in Banana Island, bathing the sky in warm gold. Jonathan looked at her with a gentle smile. You’ve built your life again, he said. You’ve done well. Adana nodded. Because you gave me a second chance. He chuckled. Now I want you to give someone else a chance. She looked at him.

 What do you mean? I mean love, Adana. You’re young, smart, beautiful, strong. Don’t let what happened years ago steal your joy forever. You deserve love, too. Adana looked away. I don’t think I can love again. You thought you couldn’t live again either, he said. But look at you. That night, Adana thought long and hard. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to open her heart.

 3 months later, she was invited to speak at an oil and gas conference in Abuja. She gave a stunning presentation about pipeline innovations and clean drilling technologies. Her voice was confident, her ideas brilliant. When she stepped down from the podium, a tall man in a dark blue suit approached her.

 “A Dana, right?” he said, offering a warm smile. She blinked. “Yes, I’m Sam, drilling engineer with Geotech. That was incredible.” They shook hands. He had kind eyes, gentle energy, not pushy. They talked briefly at the lunch table, then again during a panel session, and later that night, they met again in the hotel lobby and laughed over Suya and cold drinks. One week after the conference, Sam called her. Their friendship grew steady and simple.

 2 months later, Adana invited him to Lagos, and when she brought him home to meet Jonathan and Cynthia, it was like magic. Jonathan shook his hand and said, “You’re the first man she’s brought here. Make it count. Cynthia hugged him. If she smiles like that when she sees you, you already passed.

 Four months later, they got married in an extravagant wedding that shut down Lagos. The ceremony took place at a luxury garden estate. Politicians, oil magnates, celebrities, and foreign investors filled the guest list. The media called it the Cinderella wedding of the year. Adana wore a custom-made white gown with crystals, handstitched by a famous designer from Italy.

 Her veil sparkled in the light as she walked down the aisle, her hands in Jonathan’s, “You’re the best father I never expected,” she whispered. He kissed her forehead. “And you’re the daughter I always prayed for.” Sam stood at the altar, smiling like he had won the world. They exchanged vows under the warm sky with Cynthia shedding happy tears in the front row.

 A year later, Adana gave birth to a baby boy. When the nurse handed him over, she didn’t even blink. His name is Mecha, she said softly again, and no one argued. It was as if her late father and the baby she lost had returned. Two years passed. Adana stood on the balcony of her new apartment in Leki, holding her son.

Mecha, now a bouncy 2-year-old, giggled in her arms as Sam came from behind and wrapped his arms around them both. She looked out at the skyline. The sea breeze touched her cheeks. The laughter of her son rang in her ears, and her heart swelled with one simple thought. She looked out at the skyline.

 The sea breeze touched her cheeks. The laughter of her son rang in her ears, and her heart swelled with one simple thought. “Thank you, Daddy Jonathan, for not letting me drown.” She closed her eyes and prayed, “May God bless you with long life. May he give you joy beyond measure.

 And may he protect everyone who rescued me when I had no strength to scream.” She opened her eyes and kissed Emecha’s forehead. But just as she turned to go back inside, a cold breeze brushed her spine. EMA sneezed suddenly. Adana paused, looked up at the sky, and for a brief moment. She saw a black bird perched on the rail, watching. Her heart skipped. The bird flew away.

 But something in her chest tightened. She knew the bird was a carrier of bad luck. And there she realized her uncles and aunties in the village are not done with her. What do you think will happen next? Subscribe to our channel and watch the part two when we upload it.

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