Back to the present.
Anthony got up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city lights glittered below like stars that had come down to Lagos just to show off.
He folded his arms.
“People are sleeping peacefully. Just like that,” he muttered, as if sleep were free food being shared somewhere and nobody had invited him.
He turned back into the room.
His bed looked soft, inviting, expensive… useless.
“I bought you for comfort, not decoration,” he told the bed.
The bed said nothing, because even the bed had given up on him.
Anthony had tried everything.
One doctor had adjusted his glasses and said, “You need to relax your mind.”
Anthony had blinked. “My mind runs companies. It doesn’t relax.”
Another doctor prescribed strong sleeping pills.
The result?
Anthony slept, yes—but woke up looking like someone who had borrowed sleep and could not pay it back.
Groggy. Confused.
Once he had even greeted his driver with, “Good afternoon, my shareholders.”
The driver had almost resigned.
Then came the herbalist, a serious-looking man with beads and confidence.
“This one is spiritual,” the man said.
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Sleep is now doing juju?”
The herbalist ignored him and gave him a dark, suspicious-looking liquid.
“Drink this.”
Anthony sniffed it. “If I die, I will come back and sue you.”
He drank it anyway.
That night, nothing happened except stomach pain.
Anthony sat in his luxury bathroom at 2:00 a.m.
“Wonderful. Now I can’t sleep, and my stomach is protesting.”
Then came the prayer warriors.
They prayed.
They shouted.
They anointed.
One even laid hands on his pillow like it was a stubborn demon.
“You spirit of sleeplessness, come out!”
Anthony whispered, “If it comes out, please send it back inside my head.”
Nothing changed.
The only person who understood him was Mama Grace.
She knocked gently and entered his room the next morning.
“Did you sleep?”
Anthony looked at her. “Yes.”
She smiled.
Then he added, “In my dreams.”
Her smile disappeared. “Hmm.”
She walked closer, adjusting his pillow like he was still a little boy.
“You need peace, not medicine.”
Anthony sighed. “Mama Grace, if peace was for sale, I would have bought the factory.”
She laughed softly. “My son, some things are not bought.”
He looked away. “Then they should at least make them available for billionaires.”
Later that day, Mama Grace stood outside the mansion holding her small travel bag.
“I will go to the village for a few days,” she announced.
Anthony frowned. “Why?”
“I need to see my people.”
He nodded slowly. “Don’t stay too long.”
She smiled knowingly. “I won’t.”
Then she added quietly, “Maybe I will bring something back for you.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Food?”
She shook her head. “Better.”
He scoffed lightly. “Unless you are bringing sleep inside your bag, I’m not interested.”
Mama Grace just smiled—a mysterious, knowing smile.
“Oh, I might bring something even better than sleep.”
Anthony waved her off. “Safe journey.”
As her car drove away, Anthony stood on the balcony watching, unaware that somewhere in a small village, a loud, dramatic, unstoppable girl named Ma was about to enter his life and scatter everything.
The village did not believe in silence.
If a goat sneezed, three people would discuss it.
If someone coughed, five elders would form a committee.
So when Mama Grace arrived, the entire compound already knew before she stepped down from the car.
“Eh, Grace has come back from the land of money!”
“See her skin? She is now shining like generator oil.”
Mama Grace laughed, adjusting her wrapper. “You people will not kill me with greetings.”
She walked into her friend’s house.
The air was heavy—not with luxury like Anthony’s mansion, but with struggle.
Simple wooden chairs. A small table. A tired ceiling fan that rotated like it was doing the owner a favor.
On the bed lay her friend—Ma’s mother—weak but smiling.
“Grace,” she said softly.
Mama Grace rushed to her. “Ah-ah, what is this? Why are you lying down like a government project?”
They both laughed weakly.
“I’m fine. Just a small sickness.”
“Small sickness that is carrying you like this? Don’t lie to me.”
They held hands, years of friendship sitting quietly between them.
Outside, footsteps—fast, energetic.
Then the door burst open.
Ma entered like a whirlwind, sweaty, breathing hard, holding a nylon bag.
“Mama, I have brought the medicine.”
She froze when she saw Mama Grace, paused, then screamed, “Mama Grace!”
The nylon bag nearly fell.
She ran forward and hugged her dramatically.
“Ah, you have become fresh! Lagos is feeding you well!”
Mama Grace laughed loudly. “And you? You have grown into full noise.”
Ma pulled back proudly. “Yes, I graduated from Talking Academy with first class.”
Her mother shook her head. “This girl.”
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