The second wish bled into the third. She asked to find the father of the child she sometimes dreamed she had—a face that drifted in her sleep like a half-remembered song. Days later, a man claimed a debt at the market: he said he had once known a woman with Adaora's name in a distant town. He asked after her. The conversation stretched and bent until his eyes fell on a photograph Adaora kept folded in her apron—a small, faded picture of a wedding she had never been to. He paled. He said one name, and it matched the name whispered in her dreams.
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"My friend told me she won big after praying with a prophet — na so she start to dey flex for WhatsApp. Days later, her 'miracle' phone number start to ring — turns out the pastor had been selling fake miracle testimonies and using the numbers to collect money. When she went back to confront am, he shout, 'Na your faith pay my rent.' Everybody start to argue. In the end she collect her money back by threatening to expose receipts — lesson: no be every miracle dey come with Bible." He asked after her
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When the market bell rang at dawn in Alaba, traders wiped sleep from their eyes and set out their wares. Adaora hawked fabrics as her mother had taught her—loud, measured, a voice that could bargain with a deity. But today the folds she arranged seemed restless, humming with a heat she couldn't explain.