Ijamba Moto

Seemed she'd glanced at her phone for a second too long, her heart skipping a beat as the car veered slightly. Her subconscious self had taken the lead in slamming her heels on the brakes, the Lexus jerked violently before stopping just inches ahead. Her heart pounded in her ears as she watched rain traced lines down her windshield like tears.

It was supposed to be one of those not really eventful Wednesday only for the unlikely beginning of this one in particular. It had started raining since five, loud thunder storms echoing through the city. It was as though a grey Wednesday, the kind that clung to the city like a wet cloth. Though the heavy downpour lastest for a consecutive three hours, it was now reduced to a pitter patter leaving Lagos glistening but moody, its usual chaos reduced to muted murmurs and slippery streets.

Kemi Jacobs, twenty-six and running on two hours of sleep, gripped her steering wheel with one hand and dabbed her phone with the other. The deadline for rounds loomed, and traffic had cleared just enough to tempt speed. Then it happened....

Why hadn't she seen her sooner enough, she thought. She wasn't sure of her expectations but for a second she feared the very dead possibility of hitting the girl. She jumped out, rushing towards the child. The street was empty except for the teenage girl laying sprawled on the wet road, her tray of oranges scattered and broken like glass. Her dress clung to her thin frame, soaked and stained—with mud… 

“Are you okay?” Kemi crouched beside her. “Did I hit you?”

The girl shook her head slowly, clearly shaken, her eyes wide with fear--not of injury, but of something deeper.

“I’m… I’m okay, Aunty. My oranges—”

Kemi's eyes caught the dark red spreading at the girl's waist. Her medical instincts surged.

“You’re bleeding.” Kemi blinked, then gently wrapped her jacket around her. “Come with me.”

The girl said nothing but crouch to pick up her already savaged fruits. She looked at the dirty oranges with pain and the uncertainty if she should be grateful to God for sparing her life or break into a sob for her lost market. By the moment they were done picking. Kemi insisted on helping her to the hospital and paying a sum for the oranges. The girl who had earlier declined the lift to the hospital eventually consented to the offer when she noticed blood stains on her skirt. A cause for care and at least a compensation of triple the price for her wasted goods.

----

At the general hospital, after settling the girl into a nurse’s care and handing over ₦50,000 for her lost goods, Kemi retreated to the staff lounge, still shaken. There she found Bimpe, her colleague and friend, sipping hot Lipton and scrolling through news on her tablet.

“Wassup with you?” Bimpe asked, raising a brow.

Kemi sat heavily. “Almost ran over a hawker. Young girl. She was on her period and had no idea how to manage it. No pads. Nothing. Just trying to sell fruit in the rain.”

Bimpe sighed. “Typical. It’s like this country conspires against girls the moment they hit puberty.”

Kemi nodded. “It made me think… we don’t talk about this enough. Girls are still being cut. Still bleeding in silence. If it’s not genital mutilation, it’s being shamed for having periods.”

“Or forced into marriages before their hips can carry the weight,” Bimpe added bitterly.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“I feel like I need to do more,” Kemi said quietly. “Outside these hospital walls.”

----

That evening, Kemi returned to her Lekki apartment, drenched in exhaustion. Preceding the early morning episode she'd been bombarded with a number of patients for the day. She was a pediatrician and her week days always spelt busy. The drive home wasn't any better as the city had reclaimed its noise, honking and shouting in the background like a heartbeat. She noticed five missed calls from Mum.

She rolled her eyes.

“Mum again. Probably another marriage pitch. As if I can just prescribe a husband like paracetamol.”

She tossed her phone aside and made for the shower.

Later, as she sank into her bed, Kemi’s mind spiraled with thoughts—the accident, the girl, the blood.

She remembered the presentation due the next morning. Her eyes widened. “Crap!”

She scrambled for her laptop. Power flickered. She made notes half-conscious, then finally gave up, collapsing into bed.

-----

The nightmare came fast and cruel.

She was nine again, in the backseat beside her twin sister, Kehinde. They were singing a made-up song about chewing gum and clouds when the car spun. Screams. Metal. Fire. Kehinde’s lifeless body flung across broken glass.

Kemi jolted awake, her sheets drenched in sweat, her breath uneven.

She hadn’t dreamt of Kehinde in years.

And now—after almost hitting another girl in the exact same way?

Her mind replayed the hawker’s face. Something about her eyes. About the silent panic.

Was it guilt? Fate? Karma?

She couldn’t sleep. Instead, she got up, 

paced the apartment, and whispered aloud:

“I need to find her.”