The dream lingered long after he woke.Mark sat on the edge of his creaky bed, sweat clinging to his bare chest despite the coolness of the morning. The echoes of the courtroom still rang in his ears—Richard's smug laughter, the judge's gavel slamming down, and the cold betrayal in the eyes of the lawyer he'd trusted. He rubbed his eyes hard, trying to scrape away the bitterness of the nightmare. But the weight of it stayed, clinging like wet clothes to his skin.He splashed water on his face from the blue plastic bowl near the door and stepped outside. The sun hadn't fully risen, but Amachara village was already stirring to life. Women were sweeping their compounds. Roosters crowed lazily. But as Mark walked toward the narrow footpath that led to Ikenna's mechanic shed, he noticed it.The change.The way the old woman who sold akara at the corner paused her sweeping when she saw him. The way her eyes followed him, wary and uncertain, as if expecting him to sprout horns.Two boys chas

The sun rose softly over the hills, casting golden light through the mist that draped the village like a fragile curtain. Mark sat on the bamboo bench behind Ikenna’s house, his hands wrapped around a cup of lukewarm pap. The events of the past few days still echoed in his head—saving the child, the startled gasps from villagers who once whispered behind his back, and the quiet nods of respect he had begun to receive. It felt foreign. It felt dangerous. It felt like the start of something he hadn't dared hope for in a long time.The villagers, in their own quiet way, had begun showing appreciation. Some left a few plantains at his doorstep. One elderly woman dropped a small pouch filled with coins and said, "For the hand that saves, may you be preserved."With a careful count of his savings, including the few gifts he’d received, Mark realized he had just enough. Enough to buy a second-hand laptop. Not for entertainment. Not for emails. For something more serious. Something rooted in

The early morning sun painted the sky with strokes of pink and orange, stretching across the sleepy village like a soft veil. Birds chirped lazily on the trees lining the narrow, dusty road that wound through the heart of the village. Life was just beginning to stir.Mama Ogechi had barely finished setting up her wooden stall when the sound of tires crunching against gravel pierced the calm. Heads turned. The village had heard the rare motorcycle engine or delivery truck, but this was different. A low, purring hum echoed like something out of a television drama. Within seconds, a sleek black SUV emerged from the bend, its windows tinted, its body shimmering like polished obsidian.Children who had been kicking a worn-out football stopped mid-game. Traders paused their chatter. Even Papa Ebuka, known for his deafness, looked up from where he was tending to his stubborn goat.The SUV came to a gentle stop right in front of Mama Ogechi’s shop. No music blared. No dust cloud billowed dram