Instead, he asked, “Why do you keep waiting here?” Mama Dana looked straight ahead. Because someone I am waiting for will pass here. David smiled gently. You already see hundreds of people. Yes, she said. But only one matters. That night, David dreamed of his mother. Not as she was when she died weak and pale, but as she was when he was a boy, laughing, sweating under the sun, holding his hand tightly as buses roared past. When he woke, his pillow was damp.
The next morning, he arrived at the bus stop shaken. Mama Adana noticed immediately. You are carrying heavy thoughts, she said. David exhaled. You remind me of someone. She nodded slowly. Most things that matter do. From that day on, David stopped seeing Mama Adana as a responsibility. He saw her as a mirror.
He adjusted his schedule to ensure he never missed her. He defended her when Joy questioned him. He even instructed his driver never to disturb her if he was absent. Mama Adana remained unchanged. Still asking for $10. still thanking him quietly, still waiting. And every time David handed her the money, he felt something loosening inside him.
A knot tied long ago by poverty loss and unanswered questions. He did not know what she was waiting for, but he felt it in his bones. Whatever it was, it was coming closer. Joy. Terui noticed the change before David ever mentioned Mama Adana’s name again. At first, it was small things. David stopped taking morning calls in the car. He drove more slowly.
He arrived at meetings quieter than usual, his mind clearly somewhere else. Joy had known David long enough to recognize when something occupied him. And whatever it was, it didn’t look like business pressure. One evening, as they sat on the balcony of David’s penthouse overlooking Lusaka’s glowing streets, Joy finally asked, “You’ve been distracted lately?” she said, swirling the wine in her glass.
Is something wrong at work? David shook his head. Work is fine. Then what is it? She pressed eyes narrowing slightly. You disappear every morning. No calls, no driver, no explanation. David hesitated. He hadn’t planned to talk about Mama Adana. Something about the woman felt private, sacred even. But Joy was his fiance. Soon she would be his wife.
There’s an old woman I help, he said carefully. Joy blinked. Help? Yes. Near the bus terminal. Joy set her glass down slowly. Help how David shrugged. I give her some money. Every day. How much? $10. Joy laughed short, sharp, surprised. Every day? Yes. For how long? A few weeks. Joy leaned back, studying him as if he had just confessed to something foolish.
David, do you realize how many people hang around bus terminals looking for sympathy? She’s not like that, he replied instantly. Joy raised an eyebrow. You sound very sure. I am. Joy sighed. “Listen to yourself. You don’t even know her name, do you?” David opened his mouth, then closed it. Joy noticed. “You don’t,” she said quietly.
“David, this is exactly how people get taken advantage of. She never asks for more,” he said. “Never,” Joy crossed her arms. “That’s how it starts.” David felt irritation rise. “You haven’t met her, and I don’t need to,” Joy replied. “I’ve seen this before.” People attach themselves emotionally. Then they guilt you.
Then they depend on you. That hasn’t happened yet. Her tone sharpened. You’re a public figure, David. You’re about to become my husband. What happens when the media finds out you’ve been secretly giving money to a stranger? David’s jaw tightened. I’m not ashamed of helping someone. Joy paused, then softened her voice.
I’m not saying you should stop helping people. I’m saying there are proper channels, foundations, programs, not random individuals on the street. David stood. This conversation isn’t about charity strategy. No, Joy replied, standing too. It’s about boundaries. The word landed hard. The next morning, Joy insisted on riding with David.
I want to see her, she said, already dressed heels clicking across the floor. David frowned. That’s not necessary. I’m coming, she replied firmly. If she’s as harmless as you say, there shouldn’t be a problem. David said nothing. At the bus terminal, Mama Adana was already there. Joy spotted her immediately. The old woman’s posture,her worn clothes, the small tray.
Joy took it all in with a critical eye. She watched as David slowed the car and rolled down his window. Mama Adana smiled when she saw him. Then she noticed Joy. Her smile faded slightly, not from fear, but awareness. David handed her the $10. Good morning, Mama.” Adana said her voice gentle. She nodded politely toward Joy. You are welcome.
Joy did not return the greeting. Instead, she leaned forward. “Why are you here everyday?” she asked bluntly. Mama Adana turned to her calmly. “Because this is where I wait. For what Joy asked.” Mama Adana’s eyes flicked briefly to David, then back to Joy. For what God has promised? Joy scoffed quietly.
And God promised you $10 from my fianceé. David stiffened. Joy. Mama. Adana raised a hand slightly. It’s all right. She looked at Joy again. Young woman, I do not take what is not given. Joy folded her arms. And how long do you plan to keep taking as long as it is offered? The silence between them thickened. David felt something close to anger rising in his chest. Joy, that’s enough.
She exhaled sharply. Fine, let’s go. As they drove away, Joy stared out the window, lips pressed tight. She’s clever, Joyce said after a moment. Very clever, David said. Nothing. That afternoon, Joy made a decision. She called the head of security at the cathedral where their wedding would be held.
There’s a woman, she said, her voice smooth. An elderly woman who frequents the bus terminal near Cairo Road. If she tries to attend the wedding, she is not to be allowed inside. The man hesitated. Is she a threat? Joy paused. She’s unstable. Understood, he replied. That evening, David arrived home unusually late. He found Joy waiting documents spread across the table.
“I spoke to Samuel today,” she said casually. David froze. “About what?” Your mother, Joy, replied. “Or rather about her past.” David’s blood ran cold. “Why would you do that?” Joy looked up. “Because you’re hiding something from me.” “I’m not hiding anything,” he said tightly. “My mother is gone.” “Yes,” Joy said. And apparently, she spent her final years poor, desperate, asking strangers for help. David’s hands clenched. Stop.
Joy leaned forward. Don’t you see the pattern that woman reminds you of her? That’s why you can’t let go. David turned away. Joy softened her tone again. David, I love you, but you can’t build a future while clinging to ghosts. David did not respond. The next morning, David was delayed by an urgent meeting. When he arrived at the bus terminal, Mama Adana was not there. He waited.
10 minutes, 20, she never came. An unfamiliar unease settled in his chest. Across the city, Mama Adana stood outside the cathedral gates, leaning heavily on her walking stick. She looked at the towering building, its doors still closed. “It is almost time,” she whispered. And for the first time in weeks, she did not wait at the bus terminal.
The absence hit David Chibway harder than he expected. At first, he told himself it was nothing. People missed days. Life happened. But as the minutes stretched in the bus terminal grew louder, his unease refused to fade. Mama Adana was never late, never absent. David drove past the terminal twice before continuing to the office. The contracts waiting on his desk felt distant, meaningless.
His pen hovered above paper as memories he hadn’t invited began to surface. His mother, Esther Chibway, he hadn’t planned to think of her that morning yet. Her face appeared with unsettling clarity. The lines around her eyes, the way she tied her headscarf tightly when she was worried, the soft hum she made while counting coins at night.
Esther had been proud, too proud. She never spoke about the worst days. David only learned pieces of the truth after she was gone. How she’d lost her job cleaning offices when the company downsized. How the rent fell behind. How sickness crept in quietly, stealing her strength. And how one afternoon she had taken David by the hand and walked to a bus terminal not unlike the one Mama Adana sat beside.
She had asked strangers for help. Not loudly, not desperately, just enough to survive. David remembered that day now, the shame he felt as a child, the way he’d stared at the ground while adults walked past. He remembered one woman stopping, an older woman, her face kind, her hands rough with age.
She had given his mother money. $10. David’s chest tightened. At the office, he called Samuel. Do you remember anything about the woman who helped our mother? He asked without greeting. Samuel hesitated. Why are you asking now? Just answer me. I was younger than you,” Samuel said slowly. “But I remember an older woman, lame in one leg.
She used to bring bread sometimes.” David closed his eyes. The resemblance was no longer coincidence. That evening, he drove back to the bus terminal long after sunset. Vendors were packing up. Buses pulled away in clouds of dust. Mama Adana’s spot was empty. “Have you seen the old woman?” David asked a nearby vendor. Theman shook his head. Not today.
What about yesterday? Maybe [clears throat] early. He shrugged. She said she wouldn’t be coming anymore. David’s heart skipped. She said that yes, she told the children goodbye. David drove home in silence. At the penthouse, Joy noticed his agitation immediately. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
David ignored her and went straight to his study. He pulled out an old box he hadn’t opened in years. His mother’s things. letters, receipts, hospital papers. At the bottom lay a folded piece of paper. A name. Adana. David stared at it, breath shallow. Joy stood at the doorway watching. You found something? She said quietly. Yes.
David replied, his voice tight. Something you didn’t want me to find. Joy crossed her arms. What are you talking about? That woman, David said. She knew my mother. Joy scoffed. David, you’re projecting. She helped her. He continued. She helped us. Joyy’s expression hardened. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t change anything. It changes everything.” David snapped.
Joy stepped closer. “What exactly do you think this means? That she’s entitled to your life, your wedding, your future?” David looked at her. “I think it means I owe her more than $10.” Joy shook her head. “This obsession is dangerous.” The word struck him. “Obsessed?” David turned away.
The next few days passed in tension. Mama Adana did not return to the bus terminal. David sent Lydia to search nearby clinics and shelters. No sign. The unease grew into dread. Meanwhile, Joy focused on the wedding. Invitations finalized. Seating arrangements confirmed. Security tightened. Every detail was perfect. Too perfect.
The night before the wedding, David couldn’t sleep. He stood on the balcony staring at the city lights, wondering how a woman who asked for so little had come to mean so much. Across town, Mama Adana sat on a wooden bench outside the cathedral. She had arrived hours earlier, moving slowly, leaning heavily on her stick.
The guards at the gate watched her with suspicion, but said nothing for now. She wasn’t there to cause trouble. She was there to keep a promise. In her bag, wrapped carefully in cloth was a small envelope. Inside it lay an old hospital bracelet, faded and cracked, bearing a name David knew by heart. Esther Chibway.
Mama Adana touched it gently. “You said he would come back,” she whispered. “And he did.” Morning came. The city woke to celebration. Cars lined the streets. Music echoed. Guests arrived dressed in silk and gold. Inside the cathedral, David stood in a private room, adjusting his cufflinks. Samuel watched him closely.
You don’t look happy, Samuel said. I’m not sure I should be here, David admitted. Samuel frowned. What do you mean? David hesitated. If the past is still knocking, maybe I shouldn’t be walking forward yet. Samuel opened his mouth to respond, but the door opened. Joy stepped in radiant in white. For today, she said softly, “Let’s forget everything else.
” David looked at her, searching her face. He wondered what would happen if he didn’t. Outside, Mama Adana rose slowly from the bench. As the cathedral doors opened, the music began, and with every step David took toward the altar, the truth he had avoided drew closer. The morning of the wedding unfolded like a carefully rehearsed performance.
White fabric draped the cathedral walls. Flowers lined the aisle in perfect symmetry. Guests filled the pews, their whispers floating like soft echoes under the high ceiling. Everything looked exactly the way it was supposed to look. And yet, David Chibway felt as if he were walking into a room where the air was slowly running out.
As the groom’s procession began, applause rose gently. Cameras flashed, faces smiled. David’s steps were steady, but his mind was not. With each movement toward the altar, his thoughts drifted backward, away from Joyy’s radiant smile, away from the polished shoes and tailored suit, back to cracked pavements, dusty bus terminals, and a quiet old woman who asked for only $10. Mama Adana.
He scanned the cathedral unconsciously, though he told himself he wasn’t looking for her. She wouldn’t be here. Joy had made that clear. The ceremony began. Pastor Nathan Wansa spoke warmly about love, partnership, and destiny. His voice was calm, practiced reassuring. Joy stood across from David, glowing. Her hands were steady, her smile unwavering.
David tried to mirror her composure, but then movement. Near the back of the cathedral, a murmur rippled through the guests. David’s eyes shifted instinctively. An elderly woman stood just inside the doors. Her clothes were plain, her posture bent. A walking stick supported her weight. For a brief moment, she looked impossibly small beneath the towering arches. Mama Adana.
Before David could react, two security guards moved toward her. Ma’am, you’re not on the list, one whispered sharply. She nodded. I know. Then you need to leave. She did not resist. She did not argue. I will speak to him, she saidsoftly. Then I will go. That’s not possible. David watched, heart pounding as the guards reached for her arms.
Stop. His voice echoed through the cathedral. Everything froze. David stepped forward, ignoring the pastor’s startled expression, ignoring Joyy’s sudden grip on his arm. “Let her come,” he said. The guards hesitated, glancing at Joy. Joyy’s face hardened. “David, this is not the time.” David did not look at her.
Mama Adana walked slowly down the aisle. Every step seemed to carry years of weight. Guests whispered, phones lifted discreetly. Confusion spread like a stain. She stopped in front of David. Up close, she looked thinner than he remembered. Weaker. Her eyes, however, were sharp with purpose. You came, David whispered. She nodded. I said, I would. Joy stepped forward.
This is inappropriate, she said firmly. You are disrupting a sacred ceremony. Mama Adana turned to her calmly. I will not stay long. Then she looked back at David. May I? She asked. David leaned down instinctively. The cathedral held its breath. Mama Adana’s lips moved close to his ear. You are the boy from the bus terminal,” she whispered.
“And your mother did not die the way they told you.” David’s body went rigid. The world narrowed to a single point of sound. “What did you say he breathed?” Mama Adana placed something into his hand. An old hospital bracelet. David stared at it. His mother’s name. Esther Chibway. A low gasp escaped his lips. Joyy’s voice cut through the silence.
David, what is going on? He looked up at her slowly. The woman he was about to marry stood before him, beautiful, composed, impatient. Behind her, years of silence, screamed. David straightened. “I can’t continue,” he said quietly. Joy laughed nervously. “You’re joking. I’m not.” Gasps filled the room. Pastor Mansa stepped forward.
“Son, perhaps we should.” David raised a hand. “I need the truth.” He turned to Mama Adana. “Tell me everything.” Mama Adana nodded, her shoulders sagging as if she had been holding this moment for decades. Your mother came to me sick,” she began. Very sick. She had no money. No family left to help her.
David’s throat tightened. She collapsed near the terminal. I took her to the hospital. They asked for money before treatment. We begged. Joy shook her head. This is not appropriate. Mama Adana continued, “They delayed. She waited. By the time help came, it was too late. A heavy silence settled. David’s hands trembled.
They told you it was sudden,” Mama Adana said. But it was not. It was waiting. David felt something break open inside him. The years of unanswered questions, the guilt, the anger he never allowed himself to feel. Joy grabbed his arm. David listened to yourself. This woman is manipulating you.
David pulled his arm away. Stop, he said sharply. Joy recoiled. You knew, David continued. You knew my past, and you still tried to keep her away. Joyy’s eyes flashed. I was protecting you from this. David shook his head slowly. You were protecting the wedding, not me. He turned back to Mama Adana. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? He asked.
She looked down. Because you had to come to the truth yourself. I only waited. Tears blurred David’s vision. He looked around the cathedral. The wealth, the spectacle, the expectations. Then back at the old woman who had asked for nothing but $10. “I can’t marry today,” he said clearly. Joyy’s composure shattered. You’re choosing her over me.
David met her gaze. I’m choosing the truth. Security stepped forward again, uncertain. Pastor Moansa spoke softly. Perhaps we should pause. David nodded. The ceremony is over. Mama Adana turned to leave. David caught her hand. Don’t go, he said. She looked at him, eyes gentle. My part is done. No, David replied firmly. It’s just beginning.
As the guests erupted into confusion, as Joy stood frozen in disbelief, David Chibway walked away from the altar, not in shame, but with a quiet certainty he had never known. Outside, sunlight poured through the cathedral doors, and for the first time in years, David stepped into it, carrying the full weight of his past.
The cathedral doors closed behind David Chibway with a sound that felt final wood, meeting wood, echoing across the stone like a verdict. Outside, the noise of the city rushed back in. Car horns, voices, a breeze that carried dust and sunlight. David stood on the steps, chest rising and falling as if he had just run a long distance.
Mama Adonna stood a few steps away, leaning on her walking stick. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then David broke the silence. “You waited all these years,” he said horarssely. “Why now?” Mama Adana looked toward the sky, squinting against the brightness. because today was the last day I could wait. David frowned. What does that mean? She didn’t answer immediately.
