Nobela ni Ayomide Akinsola

Tunde waited until her breathing evened out, shallow and soft like rustling paper. He pulled the thin blanket over her shoulders, adjusted the bowl catching leaks near her bed, and stood in silence. The lantern's light flickered, then died with a sigh.The darkness was heavier inside than outside. Sleep didn’t come. Every breath still felt jagged, and lying down only made his ribs throb harder.So he climbed.Each movement up the side of the hut made him grit his teeth. The wood groaned in protest under his weight, and he half-expected the rusted nails to give way. The rooftop was barely more than patchy sheets of metal and old tarp but it was the only place that felt wide enough to hold the noise in his chest.He sat there, legs crossed, staring at the stars barely visible through the smoke-haze sky. The ruins of Quarry 3A stretched out below, quiet, sleeping, broken. The citadel lights blinked far off in the distance, cold and untouchable.Then, softly, he sang. Not loudly, just a

Evening. Near Quarry 3A.The sky had gone deep purple, like bruised fruit. The sun had almost disappeared behind the clouds, but the heat lingered. Abigail sat on a slab of broken concrete, arms folded tightly. Her leg tapped the ground, restless. She kept looking at the path leading back from the trade quarter.Samuel stood nearby, pacing. Third time around the same circle. “You don’t think he just went to get water or something? Or maybe he branched off to check that boy who sells radio parts.” “He’s been gone for over four hours, Sam.”“Okay… maybe he found a better buyer. You know how he gets when he thinks he’s being clever.”“Stop talking like this is normal. You saw his face after that drone left. He already made up his mind. Tunde didn’t disappear. He made a move.”Samuel paused. He sighed, dragging his palm across his sweaty forehead. “He’s probably trying to do something crazy again. That boy, he carries too much dream in his head.”Abigail stood now, brushing dirt from her

October 15th, 2045 Golden light bathed the Citadel Plaza. Tunde stepped out of the sleek black limo, welcomed by a graceful burst of camera flashes and warm orchestral music rising from a live quartet nearby. The plaza sparkled with white marble tiles, water fountains, and floating light drones capturing every moment in soft focus. He was dressed in an elegant white agbada embroidered with fine gold thread, a custom piece from the Citadel’s top designer. His smile was calm, collected, but unmistakably proud. This was not arrogance—it was earned triumph. Above him, digital banners flashed: “Tunde: From Dust to Dominion – 1.3 Million Albums Sold” “Live from Eko Citadel – Acorn awards. As Tunde walked the glass-carpeted steps, gentle applause rolled across the assembled guests—diplomats, scholars, artists, dignitaries. No wild chants. No chaos. Just admiration. He made his way to the other side of the car and opened the door gently. His mother stepped out. She wore a flowing s