Chiamaka lifted the lid off the pot and steam rushed her face, carrying the sharp sweetness of tomatoes and onions that had been frying since dawn. She stirred the jollof rice, grains separating perfectly, each one stained the deep orange-red that customers expected, tasted, then added salt. Same measure. Same wooden spoon, its handle worn smooth by two years of her grip. The radio across the road crackled with a presenter laughing about the new year, his Pidgin English bouncing between static.

A customer leaned on the counter, his work shirt already dusty though the morning was young.

"Happy new year, my sister."

Chiamaka nodded, her smile brief and professional. "Morning."

The SEASON'S GREETINGS banner above the provision shop opposite her stall had faded from red to rust-pink. One corner had come loose and flapped when danfo buses roared past, sending exhaust fumes mixing with the smell of her stew.

She served rice onto chipped enamel plates. Collected crumpled naira notes, some still damp from customers' pockets. Wiped the wooden counter with a cloth that needed washing. A man in worn sandals argued with a keke rider about transport fares, "You dey craze? From here to Oshodi na two hundred?", while someone else complained that January was already squeezing throats.

By nine, the site workers began to arrive in their dusty boots and cement-stained trousers, hunger making them impatient.

"Today go be better," one of them said, dropping crumpled naira notes onto her tray. His smile showed a gold tooth. "New year blessing, abi?"

She pushed his heaped plate toward him without ceremony. "Next."

The pot was half empty when the man stopped in front of the stall. He didn't ask for food. He didn't check his phone or call out a greeting. He simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back, watching her work with the stillness of someone who had nowhere urgent to be.

Chiamaka noticed his shoes first. Black leather, polished until they caught the morning sun. Not the kind of shoes that walked through market puddles or climbed construction sites.

"You're not eating?" she asked, already reaching for a plate.

He smiled. Slow, deliberate. "I will."

She served him a full portion, added an extra piece of meat without being asked. It was automatic. He sat on the bench and tasted slowly, his spoon moving with the care of someone judging rather than enjoying. After a long moment, he nodded once, as if confirming something he'd already suspected.

"You cook this yourself?"

"Yes."

"Every morning?"

"Every morning."

"How long have you been here?"

She glanced up from wiping her hands on her wrapper. His eyes were steady on her face. "Two years."

He smiled again, like that confirmed something he'd been told. "Good location. Morning and evening traffic."

"What's your name?"

The question came too easily, too familiar. Chiamaka felt the shift, the conversation moving from customer to something else.

"Chiamaka."

"Ah." He repeated it immediately, rolling the syllables as if testing their weight. "Chiamaka. 'God is beautiful.' Your parents knew what they were doing."

He reached into a worn leather bag and brought out a folded paper. Didn't open it yet. Let it rest on the bench beside him while he took another bite.

"I'm Mr. Maduka. Market supervision."

The words landed heavily. Chiamaka's hand paused on the ladle, her fingers tightening around the handle.

"No problem," she said, her voice carefully neutral.

"There is small problem," he replied, though his tone stayed light, almost apologetic. "Nothing serious. New directive from the local government."

He unfolded the paper with slow precision and placed it on the counter, careful to position it away from the steaming pots. The letterhead was official-looking, bold letters, a blurred government seal.

"This area now requires updated clearance. Health and safety, environmental impact, all that. Some stalls have it already." His finger traced invisible lines on the paper. "Some don't."

She leaned forward to read, but he kept his palm flat on the page, revealing only fragments: compliance, regulation, enforcement.

"You'll need to submit these," he said, tapping specific sections. "Business registration. Health clearance. Waste disposal receipt. And relocate by one meter. There's an obstruction issue, the walkway needs to be clear for emergency vehicles."

"One meter?" She looked at the narrow space around her stall. One meter would put her into the gutter or block the provision shop's entrance.

"Yes. Standard regulation. Or you can apply for exemption." He said it casually, like mentioning the weather.

"How much?"

He tilted his head. "For the documents? Depends who processes them. For exemption?" He shrugged. "That one varies."

A customer cleared his throat behind Mr. Maduka, notes already in hand. The man stepped aside gracefully, but didn't leave. He stood at the edge of the stall, watching Chiamaka serve, how she measured portions, counted change, spoke to each customer with the same tired courtesy.

When the customer left, Mr. Maduka stepped back into place, his shadow falling across the counter.

"You know," he said, his voice dropping to something almost confidential, "some people wait until enforcement comes. That one is noisy. They bring people, sometimes police. They pack everything into trucks." He gestured vaguely toward the road. "Then you're starting from zero."

She slid a plate across to another customer, her movements automatic. "And this?"

"This is better." His smile widened slightly. "This way, you still have choices. Time to prepare."

He folded the paper and handed it to her. When she took it, his fingers brushed the edge of her tray, a touch too deliberate to be accidental. He didn't apologize or withdraw quickly. The contact lingered for a breath longer than necessary.

"I'll pass by," he said, tucking his bag under his arm. "Just to check your progress. See if you need... guidance."

"When?"

"Before the deadline." He looked around the stall once more, his gaze moving from the pots to the bench to the small padlock on her storage box. Cataloguing. "I like your food. Best jollof in this area, I'm hearing."

He walked away, weaving through the morning crowd with the confidence of someone who knew every stall owner would step aside.

Chiamaka stood there, paper in hand. The radio started playing Flavour's voice, something about new beginnings and sweet life. Someone at a nearby stall laughed at a joke she didn't hear. The morning sun climbed higher, and sweat began to pool beneath her wrapper.

She folded the paper carefully and tucked it under the counter, beneath the cloth where she kept her daily earnings.

A customer was waiting.

"Next," she said, her voice steady, as if nothing had changed.