Grace at the Edge
Chapter One: A Prayer and a Piece of Bread Grace Adefisayo hadn’t always lived like this – counting coins in the dark and whispering prayers like incantations. Once upon a time, she had a husband, a home with painted walls and children who wore socks to school. She had hopes stitched neatly into Sunday dresses and dreams folded inside the leather cover of her Bible. But those days were now as distant as the sound of joy in her laughter. At 33, she lived in a tiny self-contained room in Ijesha, Lagos, with peeling paint, a faulty socket that hissed every time she plugged her kettle, and three children who had learned to stop asking questions she couldn’t answer. Her mattress sagged like it, too, was tired of life. The only window in the room was permanently ajar because the rusted latch had snapped off, and the blue curtain was now half-brown from the dust of surviving Lagos. She sat at the edge of her bed that morning, holding a cracked plate. On it sat half a slice of Agege bread, cut so thin it could have passed for communion. She divided it into three even smaller pieces, calling each child like a mother hen calling her chicks. “Oluwatimilehin,” she said, her voice gentle. “Mummy?” her first son answered, rubbing his eyes and walking barefoot across the cold floor. “Take, my dear.” He took it without protest, without joy. He had learned that gratitude was better than complaint. He chewed slowly and went back to sit on the mat. “Oluwadamilola, come,” she called. Her daughter tiptoed over, eyes still red from sleep. Grace handed her a crumb and brushed her hair with a trembling hand. “God will provide better food soon, okay?” The girl nodded and turned away quickly. Grace wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t want to cry in front of her or because she didn’t believe her. The last was three-year-old David. He came crawling off the mattress with his oversized singlet slipping off one shoulder. “Good morning, mummy!” he chirped, too young to understand what lack meant. She smiled weakly and popped the last piece of bread into his mouth. He clapped. “Yay! Bread!” Grace bit her lip to stop it from trembling. She had lied the night before. She told them there was food in the kitchen and that she’d make beans in the morning. The only thing in the kitchen was a half-empty salt container and an expired tin of Royco. When the children settled back into their mat, she stepped into the bathroom – more like a cubicle attached with wood and shame. She locked the door behind her and sat on the cover of the plastic bucket. The tears came in waves. Not dramatic ones, but quiet, shivering ones. The kind that leave your throat dry and your chest aching. She wanted to scream. Not at God, no. She feared Him too much. But maybe at fate, or whatever force was writing this cruel script for her life. Her phone buzzed. She quickly wiped her eyes and reached for it. Maybe it was her younger brother, Seun. He sometimes sent ₦2,000 if he was feeling generous. But it wasn’t Seun. It was her landlady. “Grace, today is 15th o. I no dey joke this month. I don already warn you. If I no see my ₦20,000 before weekend, pack your wahala commot my house.” She didn’t bother replying. Twenty thousand. She didn’t have two hundred. After her divorce, Grace had tried to be strong. Her husband, Jide, left after a string of arguments that ended with him calling her “a liability” in front of the children. That word had etched itself into her bones. Liability. Like a leech sucking him dry. Never mind that she raised their kids, cooked every meal, prayed for him every morning, and even covered his cheating like a good Christian wife. When he left, he also left behind his responsibilities. No child support, no calls. The last time she saw him was in a Facebook post celebrating his new engagement – with the caption: “God gave me peace.” Grace laughed bitterly whenever she remembered that caption. Peace, ko. Piece of trash, ni. That afternoon, as the sun roasted the zinc roofs of Ijesha, Grace stood outside with her neighbor, Mama Adunni, who was rinsing clothes with all the strength in her arms and gossip in her throat. “Grace, your face don shrink finish,” the woman said without looking up. “You no go try do pure water biz again?” Grace smiled weakly. “The last time I did, children carried my whole basin when I bent to tie my wrapper.” Mama Adunni laughed. “Lagos no dey smile o. You go bend small, dem go bend your destiny!” That made Grace chuckle for the first time in days. She appreciated those tiny moments – like someone had opened a window and allowed fresh air into her spirit. But laughter never lasted long. It couldn’t. Not when you had children who hadn’t eaten properly in two days and a landlady who treated eviction like a calling. She was still standing outside when her phone rang. The screen showed an unfamiliar number. These days, she was more scared of numbers than of witches. But something made her answer. “Hello?” she said, voice tentative. “Ah-ahn! Grace Adefisayo! This one you don forget person like this!” a cheerful voice boomed on the other end. She paused. “Who is this, please?” “It’s Nneka! Your secondary school classmate! From Queensfield!” “Nneka? Chineke God! Nneka the troublemaker?!” Both women burst into laughter. “Where have you been?” Grace asked. “In this Lagos o! I just returned from Enugu. I saw your number in our old WhatsApp group and decided to call. How far now? How life?” Grace wanted to lie. To say “Fine, thank God.” But something in Nneka’s voice was warm. Safe. “My sister… things rough o. Very rough.” Nneka didn’t rush to offer pity.