The first light of dawn broke over the city. Ofeibea stirred on the cold, hard ground. The kiosk shelter was a stark reminder of her circumstances. Yet, her spirit remained unbroken. She sat up, her slender frame etched against the dim morning light, and cast a glance at Ayorkor, who was still sound asleep.
Determined not to disturb her friend, she reached into a small bag and pulled out a sachet of water. She poured a small amount into her cupped hand, splashing it over her face and neck to chase away the sleep and the grime of the night. She washed her feet and ankles before drying them with a worn piece of cloth. Next, she found her chewing stick, a small twig she used as a toothbrush, and meticulously cleaned her teeth, the bitter taste a familiar start to her day. She then adjusted the scarf that kept her hair out of her face.
She wore a simple dress and quietly slipped on her sandals. Today was a day of monumental risk. She wasn't just walking to a building; she was walking toward a different life.
Her destination was the Mensah Group of Companies, the towering office building at the heart of the city's business district. She had spent the last two days asking questions, piecing together information from various market vendors who were present at the event. She learned the name of the company and the address. Her stomach growled as she navigated the crowded streets, but she paid it no mind. She had one goal in mind, and nothing—not hunger, not fear, was going to deter her.
When she finally arrived, the sleek glass façade of Mensah Group loomed before her like a mountain she needed to climb. A uniformed security guard stood at the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest like a barrier. As Ofeibea approached, he gave her a dismissive once-over, his eyes lingering on her worn clothes and dusty sandals.
"What do you want here?" he asked gruffly.
"Please, I need to see Mr. Damien Mensah," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "It's about his scholarship program."
The guard's brow furrowed. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but it's urgent. Please, I just need a moment of his time."
The guard's laughter was a short, sharp sound. "No appointment, no entry. People like you don't just waltz in here."
Ofeibea's heart sank, but she refused to give up. She stood her ground, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and looked him straight in the eye.
"I'm not leaving this place until I speak with him."
The commotion drew attention from people around, and soon enough, a tall figure emerged from the building. Damien was impeccably dressed in a tailored grey suit, his commanding presence instantly silencing the murmurs around. His sharp eyes took in the scene as he approached.
"What's going on here?" he asked, his voice calm but authoritative.
Ofeibea turned to face him, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Please sir, my name is Ofeibea Konadu," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "I was at your event in Makola Market. I want to go to school to become an architect in future. Please, I just need a chance to apply for the scholarship. I beg you".
Damien's brows knitted in thought as he studied her. He glanced at the guard, who looked uncomfortable, and then back at Ofeibea.
"I'm heading out right now, but we can talk later," he said, reaching into his pocket and handing her his business card. "Call me, and we'll set up a time."
Relief flooded Ofeibea's features as she accepted the card with both hands. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much."
Damien nodded before striding toward his car, leaving Ofeibea standing by the entrance with renewed hope in her heart.
***
The lush gardens and gleaming glass walls of Amanda's apartment were a testament to modern opulence, but inside, the living room was a study in quiet anticipation. Amanda stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, her shadow against the watercolor sunset. The last rays of light gilded her light skin, tracing the perfect waves of her hair. She wasn't just waiting. She was a predator at rest, a smile playing on her lips as she checked her watch for the third time.
When the doorbell finally chimed, a new energy coursed through her. She walked majestically to the door as her blue silk robe rustled like a secret. The moment Damien stepped inside, the air shifted, heavy with a familiar scent of sandalwood and something distinctly her own. She kissed him, a deep, possessive kiss as her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.
"You're late," she purred, her voice, a low vibration against his lips. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten me."
"I could never forget you, Mandy," Damien murmured, his hands finding her waist, but his grip was a little too tight or maybe a little too strained.
She led him to the living room where soft jazz played, a bottle of chilled wine already breathing on the coffee table. He sat on the edge of the plush sofa, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for an escape.
Amanda didn't miss a beat. She closed the distance, her hand on his chest, her touch a silent command. The kiss that followed wasn't a question. It was a statement of ownership. The air grew thick with unspoken desires. Without a word, she guided him toward the bedroom. Her robe was a soft weight against his hand. It slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet like a discarded thought. His shirt followed, the buttons fumbling in his haste.
The outside world melted away, a distant memory eclipsed by the heat of their shared passion. Hours later, they lay tangled in the aftermath. Amanda's head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his skin. A contented smile played on her lips, but her eyes, when she opened them, were sharp and searching.
"You'll always put us first, won't you?" she whispered, the question was a quiet demand.
Damien stiffened, his gaze locked on the ceiling. The silence stretched between them like a fragile, taut wire. He finally turned to her, his expression a careful blank.
"Of course," he said, but the words were a stone dropping into a still pond, the ripples of doubt spreading out, threatening to capsize him.
Satisfied, Amanda nestled closer as she shut her eyes. Damien, however, remained awake. He absently stroked her hair but his mind was not on the woman in his arms. A tremor of unease ran through him, an unshakable feeling that their lives were about to collide in ways he couldn't yet imagine, and he was already losing control of the current.
***
The sun had yet to rise over the sprawling city, but the market was already stirring. A cacophony of sounds heralded the start of a new day: the crowing of roosters, the clanging of pots, and the occasional yells from early risers who were determined to secure their place in the crowded alleys.
The air, thick with the scent of fermenting mangoes and day-old fish, hummed with a symphony of daily life. In a forgotten corner, where the stench of a nearby refuse dump clung to everything, Ofeibea and Ayorkor's home was a fragile thing. Ofeibea, with her tense muscles and fierce resolve, was the first to stir. She shivered as cold water from a plastic bucket splashed over her skin behind the kiosk as she bathed, her body forming a dark silhouette in the half-light. Modesty was a luxury of walls and doors they didn't have, a faded memory replaced by the quiet dignity of a routine they performed under the open sky.
"Ayorkor, wake up," Ofeibea said, her voice a soft command laced with the easy warmth of long-shared hardship. "We need to get ready before the customers come."
A groan was her only answer as the cloth shifted, pulling tighter over a head of beaded braids. "It's too early, Ofeibea. Just a little longer."
Ofeibea smiled a flash of white in the dim light. She reached out and gave her friend's ankle a playful shake. "Come on, lazybones.
You know Maama Aba will scold us."
With a grumble, Ayorkor sat up, the colorful beads in her hair clinking like a soft chime.
She splashed water on her face, muttering, "If only we could afford a proper room. One day, Ofeibea. One day."
Ofeibea's smile softened; her gaze was fixed on a distant point only she could see. "One day," she whispered, the words a silent promise to herself.
As they packed their meager goods, piles of plump mangoes, oranges, and pure water sachets, Ofeibea's hands stilled. A nervous tremor ran through her, the kind that came before an admission.
"Ayorkor, I went to the foundation office yesterday."
Ayorkor froze, a mango slipping from her grasp. Her head snapped up, a mixture of disbelief and awe on her face.
"You did what?" Ofeibea explained, her voice gaining strength with each word. "I wanted to see if I could apply."
Ayorkor's mouth flattened into a thin line. "And what makes you think someone like you will even be considered? Those things are for people with connections, not street hawkers like us."
For a moment, Ofeibea's shoulders slumped. But then she straightened, her chin lifting. "Why not me? I passed my B.E.C.E. I may not have gone to secondary school, but I still have my dreams." She met Ayorkor's gaze, her eyes fierce and unwavering. "I'm not giving up that easily."
Ayorkor sighed, her head shaking slowly. "Ofeibea, I always tell you that these dreams of yours won't feed you. We have to be practical. Selling on the street is what keeps us alive."
"Maybe you're right," Ofeibea conceded, her tone soft but unyielding. "But I want more than just survival. I want a life where I don't have to wake up to the stench of garbage. I want to be someone Maama Aba can be proud of. Someone I can be proud of some day."
At the mention of their matriarch, Ayorkor's hardened expression softened. She thought of the old woman who had given them hope, who saw them not as street girls, but as her children.
"Fine," Ayorkor said. "But don't get your hopes up too high. People like that big man, cannot easily be trusted. They don't understand our world.
In the swirling dust and clamor of the market, Ofeibea was a product of the streets—but not a victim. She may have been born to a kayaye (Head porter) mother and left to fend for herself at a tender age, but who could ever truly know.
She carried no memory of a first home. The streets were all she had ever known, a brutal classroom where every day was a lesson in survival. It was a life of sharp elbows and sharper wits, a world she navigated with a fierce independence that belied her small frame.
She was seven, a wisp of a girl with eyes far too old for her years, when Maama Aba found her. The elderly woman didn't offer pity or judgment. She simply held out a calloused hand and gave Ofeibea a name that hummed with quiet strength. Maama Aba not only gave her an identity but a promise that Ofeibea was more than the refuse and chaos that surrounded her.
Under Maama Aba's guidance, Ofeibea found a place in the local government school. The classroom was a sanctuary from the relentless sun and the gnawing hunger. In the cool pre-dawn hours, she would join the other students on the long walk to the school, a satchel of battered textbooks slung over her shoulder. The classroom, with its dusty blackboard and the scent of chalk, was her sanctuary.
She listened to her teachers with an intensity that bordered on reverence, absorbing every lesson as if it were a life raft. As soon as the final bell rang, her school life ended and her work life began. She would rush back to the market, quickly changing from her school uniform into her worn clothes. With the sun high in the sky, she would take her spot amidst the other vendors, her crate of fruits and sachets of water, a clear contrast to the clean books she had just closed. She would call out to passersby. Her voice was a mix of a seasoned hawker and a curious teenager, her mind often replaying the day's lessons even as she made a sale.
After the market closed and the last customer had faded into the dusk, Ofeibea's day was still not over. While Ayorkor and the others settled down for the night, she would light a small candle. The flickering flame would illuminate her face, a portrait of concentration as she pored over her books, her fingers tracing the words on the page.
She would study until the candle burned low, its light a beacon in the quiet, sleeping market, fueled by the unshakeable belief that this temporary struggle was a path to a better future. She passed her B.E.C.E (Basic Education Certificate Examination) with a perfect score.
But at Seventeen, the path ended. The lack of funds was a wall she could not climb, yet the dream of becoming an architect remained. It was a gentle candle flame she guarded fiercely in her heart.
Ayorkor had joined Ofeibea and Maama Aba later. She had been cast out by a stepmother who saw her as nothing more than a burden. She was already living on the streets when she met Ofeibea, a year her senior and a year wiser to the city's harsh lessons. The two girls, bound by the shared hardship of their pasts, wove their lives together. Ayorkor was the grounded one, the realist who kept Ofeibea's soaring dreams tethered to the harsh realities of their existence. She was a practical voice in a world of impossible dreams, but in her own way, she was just as fiercely loyal.
With baskets of ripe fruit balanced on their heads, Ofeibea and Ayorkor wove through the waking market. While Ayorkor's gait was practiced and steady, Ofeibea's was a touch lighter, her mind already a world away.
She was back in the grand office of Damien Mensah. He'd been distant, polite in the way that powerful men were with those they barely noticed. Yet, something in the way he'd looked at her, a trace of something she couldn't name, made her believe this was it. Her chance. And she'd snatch it from the jaws of fate if she had to.
"Ofeibea!" Ayorkor's voice, laced with familiar impatience, sliced through her daydream. "Stop smiling at nothing and help me set up."
Ofeibea's grin widened as she lowered her basket. "Yes ma'am."
***
The atmosphere was alive with the chorus of vendors hawking their wares, the spicy scent of Maama Aba's stall mingling with the earthy aroma of yams and the sweet perfume of Ofeibea's mangoes. Ayorkor was already locked in a heated debate with a customer, her hands gesturing wildly over a pile of oranges, her voice a rapid-fire succession of bargaining points. Life here was a constant performance of survival, a truth Ofeibea knew as well as anyone. Then, the performance broke. A collective roar rippled through the stalls.
"Thief! Thief!"
Ofeibea craned her neck to see a man, no older than his late twenties, being dragged through the crowd. His shirt was in tatters, a bloody streak marred his cheek, and his cries for mercy were swallowed by the mob's fury.
Maama Aba leaned forward from her stool, her eyes hard as she reached for her walking stick.
"It serves him right," she muttered, the words like stones. "Stealing from hardworking people? It's a death sentence."
Ayorkor nodded, her face grim. "He deserves it, Maama. These thieves have no conscience."
Ofeibea's stomach clenched. She'd been a silent witness to countless moments like this, but her voice now felt like an urgent need to be heard.
"I understand the anger," she said. "But beating him to death isn't right. They should take him to the police."
Ayorkor stared at her, her jaw slack. "Ofeibea, you've never been robbed. If you had, you wouldn't be saying that."
"Maybe not," Ofeibea admitted, her eyes never leaving the brutalized man. "But violence... it doesn't solve anything. It makes us no better than he is."
Maama Aba scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound. "Child, you're still young. Life will teach you that kindness doesn't feed you."
Their debate was cut short by the arrival of Shark, the market's notorious tout, who sauntered over with a wide, mocking grin.
"What's this? Ofeibea preaching righteousness again?" he jeered, leaning against a post. "Better watch your mouth, girl. Someone might mistake you for a saint."
Ayorkor glared at him, stepping in front of Ofeibea. "Go find someone else to bother, Shark. We're busy."
Shark chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound, and ambled off. The mob, their anger spent, finally dispersed, dragging the thief away. His fading cries were a chilling echo in the air, a silent argument Ofeibea had already lost.
***
The grand dining room of the Mensah mansion was a vision of opulence. Sunlight, filtered through the transparent windows, caught the facets of crystal chandeliers, casting a thousand dancing lights across the long glass table. At its head sat Damien, his posture perfect, his crisp white shirt a contrast to the weight he carried on his broad shoulders. He took a sip of his coffee, the warmth doing little to thaw the carefully neutral expression on his face.
To his left, his mother, Afia Serwaa Mensah, set her silver cutlery down with a delicate clink. Her sharp eyes, framed by the intricate patterns of her kente cloth, locked onto him.
"Damien, dear, how are the wedding preparations going? I trust Amanda isn't overwhelmed." Her voice was smooth like a velvet glove over an iron will.
Damien met her gaze. "The planners have everything under control, Mother. Amanda is handling most of the details." He spoke in clipped, precise sentences, a habit he'd developed to avoid saying more than was necessary.
Afia Serwaa's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Good. It's important to make a strong impression. This union is very necessary. Don't disappoint the family, son."
The words weren't a threat; they were a statement of fact, a reminder of the role he had been born to play. His father, Yaw Mensah, cleared his throat, the sound a low rumble that commanded attention.
"Speaking of legacy, Damien, how's work at the foundation? I trust you're not letting your personal projects distract you from the company's interests?"
"Work is going well, Father," Damien replied, his voice a steady counterpoint to his father's scrutiny. "We've made significant progress with the vocational training program. It's gaining traction."
He felt the familiar, quiet pride in the work of his foundation—something that was truly his own.