So today, she was going for a househelp interview in a big compound on the other side of town. A real job. A steady salary. Something that could turn “survive” into “live.”
At the bus stop, people stood in little islands of impatience. A woman in a yellow headscarf balanced a basket of oranges. A student scrolled through his phone with the seriousness of a banker. A man argued with the air as if it owed him money.
And then Angela saw him.
An old man sat by the roadside beneath a small tree, his back leaning against the trunk like the tree was the only thing that still believed in him. His clothes looked like they had endured too many seasons without mercy. His hands trembled—tiny shakes that made his fingers look like they were trying to hold onto invisible threads.
Angela slowed.
He lifted his head as if her footsteps had a familiar rhythm.
“My child,” he said, voice rough and thin, “please… do you have any money or food? I have not eaten since yesterday.”
The words did not land gently. They hit Angela’s chest and stayed there.
She checked her purse quickly, even though she already knew what she would find. She’d counted her money twice before leaving home, once with her mother watching, once alone with her own worry.
One small note remained.
Her transport money.
If she gave it away, she would have to trek more than thirty minutes under the unforgiving sun. She would arrive sweating. She would look tired. And people who lived behind tall gates sometimes mistook sweat for laziness.
Angela swallowed.
“Papa,” she began softly, stepping closer, “I don’t have anything else. I’m going for a job interview. This money is meant for my transport.”
She turned to walk away.
But her feet betrayed her. They moved, yes, but each step felt as if it carried stones.
Something inside her refused to let her become one more person who passed him like he was part of the pavement.
Angela stopped.
She turned back.
