What could one say upon seeing such people?
Happy?
Excited?
Not quite.
Angel stood by the peeling doorway of her modest apartment, arms crossed, her weight leaning on one leg in that unconscious stance she often took when unimpressed. The people before her—three adults, two of whom wore fake concerns like ill-fitting coats—stood stiffly, awkwardly, as if they knew exactly what they were doing but hoped she wouldn't realize.
She wasn't angry. Not really.
Just…tired.
And unimpressed by the cock-and-bull story being spun in front of her like she was some fool plucked fresh from the village.
"He's your cousin. From your family's friend—your father's brother's side," the older woman said, her voice breaking with carefully timed tears. Angel watched the glistening eyes, the trembling hands, and the gentle press of a tissue beneath her nose. It was an act. A painfully rehearsed one.
Angel glanced at the boy—or rather, the young man—standing limply behind the trio. Pale. Thin. As if he'd been drained of life and was just here waiting for someone to sign off on his exit. He didn't look at her. His gaze was locked on the ground. Ashamed? Or simply not interested?
She wasn't sure.
Angel's lips twitched in disbelief. "So…wait. My cousin from my what…to what?" she repeated, blinking in disbelief. The connections were so forced, they gave her a headache. She rubbed her temple, suppressing a laugh that felt like it might come out too sharp. "That doesn't even make any damn sense."
"It's just for the vacation," the woman continued, her tone suddenly shifting to a dismissive one. "Three months. He'll die anyway. Just take care of him… or leave him. Whatever suits you."
Angel's arms fell to her side as she took a small step forward, her voice barely raised, but her words carried a surprising weight.
"Just like you're doing?" Her tone was clipped. "What do you think I am? A training machine? A charity case? Or someone you can just dump responsibilities on like I don't have my own life?"
The man, possibly in his late thirties, gave a dramatic hiss and threw her a glare filled with contempt—as if she was the one committing a crime by questioning their decision.
"We'll pay you," he snapped. "Handsomely. Just let him die here. Quietly."
Angel paused.
"Will he also be buried here?" she asked coldly.
The question sliced the air, and for a second, it felt like someone had cut the thread of conversation altogether. Silence engulfed the room.
The woman shifted uncomfortably. The man looked away. Even the third person, who hadn't said a word since arriving, took a step back as if to physically escape the tension.
Angel exhaled deeply and shook her head. She didn't even have the strength to feign politeness anymore.
"Any amount, huh?" she scoffed. "Then be ready. Your bank accounts will cry blood. If he dies, I'll be requesting compensation too. For a job…well done."
There was venom in her voice. Sweet and slow. A warning in honeyed words. And they heard it—loud and clear.
"You gold digger—" the man spat, finger pointed like a weapon. "Shameless girl."
Angel leaned closer, her voice quiet and even more dangerous.
"I am a gold digger? Fine. So what? You expect me to use my own money to care for someone you brought here to die? Dream on. This man must survive. And he will. Not out of kindness—but because you've made him my problem. And unlike you, I don't leave my problems to rot."
She took a breath, chest heaving slightly with the force of her suppressed emotions.
"But here's my rule: you will provide the money. Monthly. Without fail. If not, I'll dump him at your gates or take this whole mess to child services. Let them teach you how to treat a child—even if he's almost a man now."
The finality in her tone silenced the room.
For a long while, no one spoke. They simply stared—at her, at the dying boy, at each other—caught in a discomfort they didn't expect to feel.
The old woman cleared her throat at last.
"Fine," she muttered. "Send your account number. You'll be credited every month."
And that was that.
Without another word, they turned and left like shadows retreating at dawn. The heavy door shut with a dull thud behind them, leaving only Angel and the pale young man in the room.
For a while, she didn't say anything. Just stared at him.
He didn't meet her eyes.
Finally, she stepped closer, her voice gentler now. "What's your name? I'm Angel, by the way."
There was a long pause. And then a low, rasped voice replied, "What a drag. You should have just left me to die."
Angel blinked.
His English was accented, broken—yet oddly firm. He didn't speak like someone from around here. His tone carried a weight, a detachment that didn't belong to a child who'd grown up in the city or countryside. He spoke like someone from somewhere else. Far away.
Maybe abroad.
She tilted her head, curious. She tried Igbo next, hoping he'd understand at least something.
But the way he looked at her—like she'd just grown a second head—told her everything she needed to know.
"Oh, this is going to take a long while to get used to," she muttered under her breath, letting out a heavy sigh that startled him.
He blinked slowly.
But she didn't mind. She could see through the hollow glare. Beneath that pale skin and distant gaze, she saw the edge of fear. Of loss. Of someone who'd given up long before arriving at her doorstep.
And despite her irritation, something stirred inside her.
She wasn't sure yet what.
But one thing was certain.
She wasn't going to let him die here.
Not like this.
Not on her watch.