THE COBBLER OF HUNGRY HIGHWAY

The first time I saw my grandfather talk to a road, I thought he had finally lost it.

I was ten. It was the dry season in Owerri, and the heat sat on everything like a heavy wrapper. Even at night the tar on the East-West Highway held the day’s anger and gave it back to your feet.

“Zainab,” Baba Sule said. “Bring the boot.”

I brought it. One brown leather boot. Left foot. The sole was new. He had spent all evening at his little wooden table by the roadside, hammer in hand, waxed thread between his teeth. People walked past and tossed him 200 naira, 500 naira. “God bless you, Baba.” He never looked up.

But at 11:57 pm, he always stopped. Washed his hands in a bucket. Stood up.

“Time,” he said.

We walked 20 steps to the shoulder of the highway. No cars. Just the sound of night insects and the far-away hum of a generator from somewhere in the estate.

Baba set the boot down. Right on the white line. Perfect. Like it was waiting for someone.

Then he did something strange. He put his palm flat on the tar.

“Good evening,” he whispered to the road.

I giggled. “Baba, roads don’t talk.”

“Shh,” he said, but he was smiling. “This one does.”

For a second, nothing. Then the ground made a sound. Not loud. Like a stomach, low and tired. Gruuuuuh.

The asphalt shifted. Just a little. A crack opened, no wider than my finger. The boot wobbled, then slid in. The crack closed. Smooth. Like the road just swallowed and licked its lips.

I stared. “Where did it go?”

“Home,” Baba said. He dusted his hands on his trousers. “Come. Let’s go and sleep.”

That was 12 years ago.

I’m 22 now. Unpublished. Still living in the same two-room shop with Baba Sule in Omele, just outside Owerri. I write stories in a black exercise book when business is slow. No one reads them.

Baba is 68. His back is bent now from years of sitting on that low stool. His eyes are milky but his hands are still strong. And every single night, at 11:57 pm, he still puts down one boot.

People in Omele have opinions about it.

“Witchcraft,” Mama Nkechi at the provisions store says.

“Government should arrest him,” says the keke driver.

“Let the old man be,” says Aunty Ife who sells akara. “Since he started, accidents on that stretch have reduced.”

I used to ask him why. Every year on my birthday.

“Baba, why the boot?”

“One day you’ll understand,” he’d say. “When it’s your turn.”

I thought he meant when I took over the cobbling business. Business has been slow. People buy new shoes from China now. They don’t repair.

But last week, Baba didn’t get up at 11:57 pm.

He was on his stool, but his chest was hurting. He pressed his hand there and breathed like the air was too small.

“Zainab,” he said. “The boot.”

I picked it up. Brown leather. Right foot this time. I had watched him make it for three days.

I carried it to the road. My hands were shaking. 11:59 pm. I set it down on the white line. Put my palm on the tar like I’d seen him do.

“Good evening,” I whispered. My voice came out small.

The road didn’t answer.

No gruuuuuh. No crack. The boot just sat there, looking lonely under the streetlight.

I waited five minutes. Ten. The tar was hot under my hand.

“Baba?” I called back to the shop. “It’s not taking it.”

Baba didn’t answer.

I ran back. He was asleep on the bench, breathing shallow. On the table beside him was his old hammer, and a piece of paper folded twice.

I opened it. His handwriting. Shaky.

_“Zainab,

The highway is hungry.

It’s been hungry for 40 years.

Because we built it with our hands and they forgot us.

Every night, one boot. One thank you.

If you miss one night, it remembers. August 31st is the last night. Don’t miss it.

I’m sorry I didn’t teach you sooner.- Baba”_

August 31st. That’s in four days.

Outside, the highway made a sound. Not a car. Not wind.

Gruuuuuh.

Longer this time.

I looked out. In the distance, down the East-West Highway, I could have sworn the tar moved. Like a ripple. Like something big turning over in its sleep.

The boot was still on the shoulder. Untouched.

And for the first time in 40 years, the road in Owerri didn’t get fed.