The Call that changed Everything
Port Harcourt never truly sleeps. The city hums like an overworked generator, choking on its own smoke and ambition. Even at midnight, you can hear the keke horns from Garrison, the drunk laughter near Mile 1, the church bell somewhere in Diobu where someone is praying for a better life that may never come.lk9pppp0
Tari lay on his thin mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. The fan above him clicked like it was keeping time with his heartbeat—fast, anxious, uneven. He hadn’t slept much these past few nights. Not since Mama fell sick again. The hospital bills sat folded beside his phone, accusing him silently.
Outside, a dog barked. The power had just gone out, and the neighborhood generator chorus began—a thousand metallic growls cutting through the night.
His phone buzzed.
Zino: “Guy, you dey?”
Tari stared at the message for a long second before replying.
Tari: “I dey. Wetin happen?”
He wasn’t ready for trouble tonight. Zino’s kind of “happen” usually meant something risky—money that came too fast and never clean.
Zino: “Job dey. Quick one. I fit cut you 30%.”
Thirty percent. Tari’s chest tightened. He knew what that meant. Probably another run—one of those shady deliveries near Eleme or a pickup for a politician’s boy who didn’t like being seen in daylight.
He hesitated, then typed:
Tari: “Where?”
Before Zino could reply, Mama coughed from the next room. It was deep, ragged—the kind that made your heart stop for a moment. He rushed in, flicked on the small rechargeable lamp.
“Mama, you no go sleep?” he asked softly.
She smiled weakly. Her skin looked too thin, too pale under the blue light. “How person wan sleep when the chest dey burn?”
He knelt beside her, pressing a hand to her shoulder. He could feel her bones like twigs beneath her wrapper. He hated that he couldn’t fix her. The doctors wanted thirty-five thousand just to admit her for tests. He had barely two thousand left.
She noticed the worry on his face and touched his cheek. “No worry, Tari. Tomorrow go better.”
He nodded, forcing a smile. But the words hit him like a cruel joke. Tomorrow had been coming for years now—and it never once arrived better than today.
When she finally drifted back to sleep, Tari returned to his room. The phone was still buzzing—Zino calling this time.
“Guy,” Zino’s voice came sharp, urgent. “You dey dull oh. We fit lose am.”
Tari rubbed his forehead. “Wetin the work be, Zino? I no wan wahala.”
“Na simple pickup. You go just carry package from Slaughter, drop for one man for Rumuokoro. No police, no stress. I swear.”
“Package of wetin?”
Zino paused. “You sabi say I no dey ask question when hunger dey choke.”
Tari exhaled slowly. Hunger was choking. The kind that doesn’t kill you outright—it just keeps you too weak to think straight.
“Send location,” he said at last.
When he ended the call, he sat there in silence, staring at the wall where the paint had started to peel. He imagined what Mama would say if she knew. But what choice did he have? The world had never offered him clean options. Only choices that came wrapped in risk.
He checked the time—12:43 a.m. The streets would still be alive. He slipped into his faded jeans, grabbed his black hoodie, and tucked the phone into his pocket. Before leaving, he stood by Mama’s door for a moment, listening to her shallow breaths.
“I go come back,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he was promising her—or himself.
Outside, the air smelled of oil, sweat, and diesel. Streetlights flickered weakly like dying candles. He walked past sleeping houses and the low murmur of distant arguments. Somewhere nearby, a generator exploded briefly, followed by cursing. Port Harcourt life. Nothing stays quiet for long.
At the junction, a keke slowed down.
“Rumuokoro?” the driver called.
“Slaughter first,” Tari said, climbing in.
The ride was bumpy, and the wind carried snippets of afrobeats from a roadside bar. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine something else—what life might’ve been if things had gone right. If his father hadn’t died. If school fees hadn’t swallowed every dream. If Mama hadn’t gotten sick.
But the fantasy vanished as they neared Slaughter. The air grew heavier, the smell of raw meat mixing with diesel fumes.
Zino was waiting beside a parked bike, wearing that mischievous grin that always meant trouble.
“You show, my guy!” he said, slapping Tari’s shoulder. “Money dey this one. Small risk, big gain.”
Tari said nothing. He just looked at the small black nylon bag Zino held. Something about the way Zino’s eyes avoided his made his stomach turn.
“What’s inside?” Tari asked.
Zino chuckled, tossing him the bag. “No open am. Just deliver.”
Tari caught it, feeling the unexpected weight. Whatever it was, it wasn’t light.
He looked at Zino again, his voice low. “If e go bad, I go hold you responsible.”
Zino smirked. “Bad? For PH? My brother, bad don tire.”
As Tari turned toward the waiting bike, a drop of rain hit his arm—then another, and another. The sky rumbled above the restless city. He pulled up his hood.
Port Harcourt was about to rain again, washing away nothing but leaving everything exactly the same.
