He kept seeing Elelliana’s face—her pale lips, her weak voice begging, Help me. Please don’t let me die.
A nurse passed by, glancing at Jerry’s clothes, then at his face. Her eyes softened.
“You did well bringing her early,” she said quietly.
Jerry nodded, swallowing hard. “She would have died there,” he murmured. “They were laughing.”
The nurse sighed. “Lagos can be cruel.”
Time dragged. Five minutes felt like one hour.
Johnson suddenly stood and walked toward Jerry. The security men stiffened, watching closely.
“You,” Johnson said, voice firm but tired. “What is your name?”
Jerry straightened instinctively. “Jerry, sir.”
Johnson studied him—torn shirt, tired eyes, mud on slippers.
“You carried my wife here?” Johnson asked.
“Yes, sir,” Jerry replied simply. “No taxi wanted to stop.”
Johnson closed his eyes slowly. When he opened them again, they were red.
“Thank you,” he said.
That one word hit Jerry harder than any insult he had received on the street.
Jerry nodded, not trusting his voice.
More minutes passed. Each time the door opened, everyone jumped.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the theatre doors opened again.
