They say power changes people-but mine came too late to save the one person I loved most.
I should've listened when she said, "Don't go out today." But back then, I still believed I could outrun fate.
I'm Anyi. I've been in this street business for as long as I can remember. My days blur-each one a dance between survival and fleeting moments of relief. The truth is, there's nothing glamorous about it. The hustle is all there is. I sell what I can, when I can, to keep the lights on. The world sees me as a vendor, but I'm also a son, an eighteen year old young adult with dreams I sometimes forget. But dreams don't fill stomachs or pay bills. They sure don't stop people from throwing things on your table either.
A hawker dropped two packs of sausages onto my retail table. His movements were quick, but his eyes locked on me, searching for something. Maybe an answer, maybe a reaction.
"Where have you been?" he asked, a bit too loud, his tone carrying that mix of challenge and familiarity.
I gave him a glare. A sharp one. His face was young, dark-skinned, his buzz cut messy. His clothes looked like they'd been through too many storms—worn-out white t-shirt and tattered jeans. His hands were busy juggling a carton of sausage rolls. He probably didn't even notice how he carelessly dropped the packs.
"Listen, if you sell three cartons of Gala every day for a week, it still won't make up for the money I spent on this POS," I pointed at the blue-coated machine on the table, my voice thick with annoyance. "So, mind how you throw your stuff."
The hawker sneered, face twisting in that familiar, annoying way. "See this one o. I manage give you two gala for this hard economy, you get mind dey warn me? You dey whine me ni?"
I could tell he wasn't happy. I didn't care much. But damn, I wasn't about to lose the gala. I hadn't eaten since morning.
"Abeg, e don do, thank you for the gala," I muttered, hoping it would ease the tension.
I caught the tail end of his muttered complaint, something about helping ungrateful people. It was funny how quickly he switched from English to pidgin, his pride clearly more important than the exchange itself. But I couldn't blame him. I wasn't any different, really.
"But you know say this POS na the only thing wey I dey use make money," I said, opening one of the sausage packs and taking a bite. The food wasn't much, but at least it was something. "Bolu, if you come spoil am, wetin man go use feed mama?"
Bolu chuckled, stepping under the umbrella attached to my table. He eased into the chair beside me, carefully placing his carton of sausages down. "Why would I do such a thing?"
I sighed, the anger fading. His laugh had lightened the air. "Abeg just dey careful," I said, slipping back into pidgin. It felt easier, calmer. I admired Bolu, in a way. He was like me—caught in the web of survival, doing what he could to get by. We were the ones who didn't finish school, the ones who had to hustle just to scrape together something close to a future. The economy was the same for both of us—hard, unforgiving, and always shifting.
The noise on Jabi Street was like a living thing, pulsing and rising with each second, drowning out every coherent thought. This was Abuja, the city where anything was for sale if you were patient and kept your wits sharp.
"How is she feeling?" Bolu asked, his voice laced with concern. He leaned in slightly, his eyes softening as they met mine.
I slouched in my chair, a deep sigh escaping me. "No improvement. I'm doing what I can to scrape together the money and get her to the hospital." My words felt heavy, weighed down by the endless days of uncertainty and the constant battle to keep her condition from slipping further.
My mother had Alzheimer's. The kind of disease that steals not just memories, but whole pieces of a person. It was getting worse every day. Even when my father was still alive, he had spent nearly everything he earned on her treatment. But luck had never been kind to us. A year ago, my father had died in a fatal accident at work. After that, things went downhill fast. Without him, there was no steady income. My mother's treatments were suspended, and I was left trying to keep her alive—both physically and in some semblance of dignity.
I dropped out of university during my second year. I couldn't afford the fees, not when I needed every penny for her care. I didn't have much of a choice. But I told myself I would find another way. A way to get the money for her treatment, for her food, for everything. So here I was, selling sausage rolls and praying for a break.
Bolu didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, looking at me as if he could see through the layers of exhaustion and frustration I had built around myself. Then, with a slow breath, he placed his hand on my shoulder, firm but kind. "Don't worry, bro. You'll scale through. Oil dey your head."
I managed a chuckle, though it didn't quite reach my eyes. "Let the oil turn to money, abeg," I said, more to myself than to him.
Just then, a woman in a floral blouse and sunglasses approached, phone in hand, already shouting above the crowd. "POS boy! How much be transfer fee?"
"Fifty naira for anything below two thousand," I replied, flicking my own phone open. Her face softened just slightly. She tapped her phone screen, eyes flickering between my POS machine and her display. I couldn't blame her. In this part of town, trust wasn't exactly free.
"Na urgent," she said, handing over her debit card. I nodded and set to work, sliding it through the machine, punching in her pin. It beeped, processing the transaction. Ten seconds of breath held, each one a reminder of the handful of times these machines had failed me.
"Transaction approved." I flashed the screen at her, showing the confirmation.
She breathed a sigh of relief, snatched her receipt, and pressed a crisp hundred-naira note into my hand. "Thanks, my son. Abuja na wah!"
Before I could respond, she melted back into the crowd, her place replaced almost immediately by a man clutching a half-eaten bag of peanuts, his face pinched with impatience.
"Una no get five hundred change?" he grumbled, handing a five hundred naita note over to us.
I looked at Bolu, who dug into his pocket, fished out two wads of fifty-naira notes, and handed them over, exchanging it with the five hundred naira note.
The man took the change without another word, disappearing before I could even pocket my cut. Business here wasn't glamorous, but it was quick. And quick meant survival.
"I have a better business for you, and I promise it'll make you rich overnight," Bolu said, his voice full of excitement as he leaned in closer.
I folded my arms and sized him up, my eyes narrowing. "Indeed? So why hasn't it made you rich overnight?"
Bolu's smile faltered for a second, but he recovered quickly. "Because I don't have the money to invest in it," he said, shrugging. "And you know that this gala business isn't yielding much for me."
I sighed. "Go on. What's the pitch?"
"It's a tech company," Bolu said, practically glowing. "If you invest thirty thousand naira upwards into their products, you'll earn twice the amount you invested."
I raised an eyebrow. "And how exactly does that work?"
"Simple," he continued, enthusiasm building. "You give me the money, and I'll hand it to the man who will register you as a member of the company. You'll start earning big."
I clapped slowly, mockingly. "Bolu, you need to clap for yourself."
"Of course, I do," he replied, puffing out his chest. "It's not easy helping a friend with such a life-changing business."
"Bolu, you're funny," I said, shaking my head. "You should become a comedian. Business isn't your calling."
Bolu looked confused. "I don't understand."
"Let me make you understand, my dear friend," I said, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "First of all, you're asking me to invest thirty thousand naira or more into a tech company and I'll earn twice that amount. Doesn't that sound like a Ponzi scheme to you?"
"It's not! Let me ex—" Bolu started, but I cut him off.
"Secondly, you want me to give you the money, so you can give it to the owner of this tech company. Let's say I believe you, and let's say the business is genuine... but giving you my money? That's the last thing I'm doing," I said, locking eyes with him. "You know how great you can be with money, right?"
Bolu stood up suddenly, his face hardening. "See the person I'm trying to help," he spat. "Na like this you go dey do? Your mama go think say she get human being wey dey hustle, she no go know say na coward." He hissed, grabbed his carton of sausage rolls, and stormed off.
I shook my head. "Oga, comot my umbrella, jhor," I called after him. "You dey find person wey you go use chop this weekend, werey."
I knew Bolu and I would always find our way back to each other, no matter how heated the argument got. We had that kind of friendship—one built on a thousand little fights that always ended in a laugh or a slap on the back. Even after all the nonsense he'd just said, I knew we'd talk again.
As much as he could drive me crazy, Bolu had something most people didn't: an undeniable knack for business. He may not have been the most reliable with money, but when it came to selling sausage rolls, he was a force. Every day, he sold those cartons like clockwork, making enough to live comfortably, even if he never seemed to have anything left in his pocket by the end of the day.
It wasn't just the product that sold, though. It was the way he sold it. Unlike the other hawkers who shouted at customers or tried to push their goods with the usual street corner hustle, Bolu had a special approach. He spoke with that polished British accent of his, so smooth and deliberate, you'd think he was selling luxury, not sausages. People couldn't resist it. He had this effortless charm that made you want to buy, even if you hadn't planned on it.
The day had slipped into that humid, oppressive heat, the kind that makes you feel every inch of sweat sliding down your back. I was rubbing the last of the grease from my fingers, adjusting my cap, when Bolu's voice shot through my thoughts.
"Anyi, run!"
I jerked around, heart lurching. Bolu was already darting down the road, his basket of sausage rolls abandoned, rolling to a stop in the dust. I squinted past the heads bobbing through the crowd, trying to see what had sent him sprinting. But it didn't take long before I spotted the problem.
A small convoy of pickups was approaching from the far end of the street, rumbling like a distant storm. They were marked with the white and blue stripes of the Abuja Taskforce, and their passengers—heavy, thick-armed men in faded uniforms, sticks and batons already in hand—were shouting for the market to "clear out." My stomach dropped.
I didn't need anyone to tell me the taskforce agents were on the street. The moment I heard the distant rumble of boots and the sharp commands cutting through the usual noise of the market, I knew. Without a second thought, I shoved my POS machine into my side bag, quickly folding up my umbrella and stuffing it in there too. The taskforce was like a shadow that hovered over us hawkers, always waiting to pounce. They'd been created by the government to stop roadside business, a promise to clean up the streets—except they never kept their end of the deal. The government said they'd find us a proper location, something off the road where we could set up shop. But like everything else, those promises were just words. Nigerians, after all, only obeyed the law when there was a deadline hanging over their heads.
The streets erupted into chaos as hawkers scrambled, and I saw Bolu zoom past me, his carton of sausage rolls bouncing along with him. He didn't even spare me a glance. Part of me wanted to burst out laughing, seeing him sprinting like that, but the situation wasn't funny. Not at all. The street kiosks and stall owners were quick to abandon their posts, hauling up whatever they could carry as the agents—dressed like they were part of some underground militia—pulled down their stalls and destroyed everything in sight. Some of the unlucky ones, those who didn't run fast enough, were whipped with long sticks, their cries mixing with the frenzy in the air.
I didn't have time to think, I just ran. I grabbed my table and chairs, throwing them aside like they were nothing, and bolted down the street. The sound of shouting followed me. "Hey, stop there!" one of the agents yelled. But I didn't stop. My legs were carrying me faster than I thought possible, over abandoned goods, dodging a car that almost knocked me down. My heart was pounding, adrenaline surging. But then, I felt a sharp impact, and before I could react, one of the agents slammed into me. I hit the ground hard, my knee scraping the asphalt. Pain shot up my leg as blood began to trickle down, and I cursed under my breath. I regretted wearing shorts today more than I cared to admit.
The agents grabbed me, yanking me to my feet. They reached for my side bag, but I wasn't giving it up that easily. I clung to it, refusing to let go. That's when one of them punched me square in the face, sending me crashing back to the ground. The crowd around us had stopped—everyone was watching. Pedestrians and motorists alike, all eyes on me. No one spoke up, though. Nobody was about to stand up for a guy breaking the law.
"You violate the rules, you pay for it," the agent who punched me said, his voice cold as he rummaged through my bag. He pulled out my POS machine and held it up like it was a weapon.
"Please," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "That's my only source of income. I use it to pay for my mother's treatment. Please don't take it."
The agent didn't flinch. "You should've thought about that before you ignored our warnings." His words were like daggers as he smashed my POS machine onto the ground. It shattered on impact, pieces scattering across the street. Then, he stomped on it, grinding it into the dirt with his dusty boot.
I stared, numb. That was it. My only way of earning a living, reduced to rubble in front of me.
"Boss, leave the money for him," one of the agents said, his voice laced with something like pity.
The boss just smirked, watching me like I was some kind of spectacle. "Let him feel the heat of going against the instructions of the government." He reached into my bag, pulled out the cash, and threw the empty bag at me. I couldn't even bring myself to pick it up. My eyes were locked on the shattered POS machine, the only thing that mattered to me right now.
I wanted to fight back, to stand up for myself, but I knew better. Any move I made would just get me thrown in jail. I wasn't about to make things worse.
As the taskforce agents left, I sat there for a moment, trying to gather myself. Slowly, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a face towel, and tied it around my bruised knee. It hurt like hell, but there was no time to dwell on it. The crowd, still lingering, watched me with sympathy, but no one said a word.
I tried to stand, my knee screaming at me with every movement. I couldn't walk normally, so I limped my way off the street, my head low, trying to avoid anyone's gaze. I wasn't sure what hurt more-the physical pain or the realization that I didn't have any other source of income.
However, the day was about to get much worse.