“I said stop.”
The driver obeyed, confused but silent.
Agu rolled down the tinted window and stared harder.
The woman had stood now, her back slightly bent, her hands trembling as she dusted off her wrapper. A child pointed at her. A woman laughed in disgust.
But she ignored them all.
There was something painfully dignified about her.
She did not beg.
She did not ask.
She simply endured.
“Who is she?” Agu whispered.
But in his heart, something strange stirred.
A flicker of memory.
Not from a specific place, but from a dream he used to have as a boy in the orphanage.
A dream of a woman crying over a baby in a hospital, her voice calling a name in Igbo.
Agu.
Agu m.
He blinked and pushed the door open.
The market buzzed as the billionaire stepped out.
People turned immediately.
His face was too familiar. He was the man on every billboard, every screen, every newspaper headline.
“Isn’t that Chief Agu?”
“See his suit!”
“See what money can do to a person!”
But Agu ignored them all.
He walked toward the old woman, who was now slowly trying to move away, embarrassed by the attention.
“Mama,” he called gently.
She stopped. Her shoulders stiffened.
Then she turned around.
Their eyes met.
She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun.
He looked down, his breath caught in his throat.
Her face—old, wrinkled, weathered by time and hardship.
Yet something in her eyes, tired as they were, reached into him.
He stepped closer.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly.
Sarah was startled. For a moment, she feared he had come to chase her away.
She tried to explain.
“I… I was hungry, that’s all. I didn’t want to beg. I… I’m not mad.”
Her voice was dry, weak, honest.
Agu knelt in front of her.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“The billionaire is kneeling!”
“What is happening?”
“Who is this woman?”
But Agu did not hear them.
“Do you have family?” he asked, his voice shaking.
Sarah hesitated.
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