Madam Janet used to live in a small village outside Osun State—close enough to hear crickets at night, far enough that Lagos felt like a different planet.
Her husband, Pa Adakunle, died when Samson was still young. Just one moment, one sickness, one hospital bill that swallowed everything.
Madam Janet became mother and father overnight.
She sold pepper. She sold garri. She sold palm oil. Sometimes she washed other people’s clothes until her fingers hurt.
She didn’t complain—not because she didn’t feel pain, but because she had a child. One child. Her only son… Samson.
When Samson was smart in school, Madam Janet doubled her hustle. She would wake up before sunrise, tie her wrapper, and go to the market. She would come back late, tired, but smiling.
“Eat, my son,” she would say, pushing food toward him, even when she herself was hungry.
When Samson got admission to study computer science, she cried from joy and fear—because how would she pay?
But she still paid.
She borrowed. She begged. She worked. She believed one thing:
If my son becomes something, my suffering will end.
And it did.
For a while.
Samson became a software engineer in Lagos. He got a job with a big company in Ikoyi. His salary changed his life fast. He rented a clean apartment. He bought nice clothes. He even started speaking English in a way that made village people feel small.
Still, Madam Janet was proud. Because that was her son.
Then Samson met Gabriella.
Gabriella was beautiful—sharp, loud—the kind of woman that walked into a place and everyone noticed. She came from a family that acted like their blood was superior. She liked fancy restaurants on Victoria Island. She liked perfumes that smelled like money. She liked pictures, social media, soft life.
At first, Samson was just excited. He thought he had won the world.
He didn’t notice the little signs.
How Gabriella would roll her eyes when Madam Janet called.
How she would laugh at the village accent.
How she would say things like, “Your mother is too local. She will embarrass us.”
Samson didn’t correct her. He would just laugh awkwardly.
“Don’t mind her,” he would tell his mother. “She’s just joking.”
But it wasn’t a joke.
Over time, Gabriella’s jokes became rules.
No more long calls with Madam Janet.
No more sending money without telling Gabriella.
