Obinna stood apart from the others, helmet tucked under his arm, watching the dust settle where a truck had just reversed. The generator coughed twice, protesting the afternoon heat, then settled into its familiar grinding rhythm. Someone shouted for cement. "Abeg, bring that bag sharp sharp!" but the voice seemed to come from somewhere far away, muffled by the weight of his own thoughts.

He didn't move.

The construction site sprawled before him like organized chaos: workers hauling buckets of sand up wooden planks, the mixer churning gravel and water into thick gray sludge, metal rods clanging against each other as they were offloaded from a trailer. The air tasted of cement dust and sweat, of diesel fumes and the particular sharpness of fresh concrete. This was his world, had been for seven years. He knew every sound, every smell, every rhythm of the work.

But today, his mind kept wandering back to the food stall. To the way she'd served him without fuss or conversation. To her hands, quick and certain. To the brief smile when he'd mentioned the woman who used too much Maggi.

What was her name again? She hadn't offered it. He hadn't asked.

Chibuzo walked over, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since stopped being useful. "Oga, you no dey join us today? Them don bring the iron wey we dey wait for."

"I'm fine here," Obinna said, his voice flat.

Chibuzo followed his gaze toward the road, toward the direction of the market junction where the food stalls lined up like colorful boxes. A knowing look crossed his face, the kind of look men exchanged when they understood something without needing words.

"That food place?" Chibuzo asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Obinna didn't answer. His jaw tightened instead.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, a familiar double pulse that meant a call, not a message. He ignored it. Let it ring until it stopped. Then, almost immediately, it started again. The insistence made his stomach clench.

He knew who it was without looking.

When it stopped the second time, he pulled the phone out slowly, as if the delay might somehow change what he'd see.

Ifunanya — 2 missed calls

My wife.

He turned the phone face down on a block of sandcrete, the rough surface scraping against the screen protector. The concrete still held warmth from the morning sun. He stared at it lying there, feeling something twist in his chest.

What was wrong with him? He'd never avoided Ifunanya's calls before. In six years of marriage, he'd always picked up even when he was exhausted, even when work ran late, even during their worst arguments. She was his wife. The mother of his daughter. The woman who'd stood by him when he had nothing but promises and potential.

But what was happening at the moment? Why did answering suddenly feel like stepping into a trap?

Chibuzo was still watching him, concern replacing the earlier amusement. "Everything okay, boss?"

"Yes."

The answer came too fast, too sharp. Even Chibuzo looked unconvinced.

Obinna shifted his weight, and dust rose around his boots in small clouds that caught the afternoon light. He told himself he was just tired. January had started heavy, everybody said so. The city had roared back to life after the holiday break, and with it came all the pressure: bills from Christmas still unpaid, school fees looming, transport costs that seemed to climb every week, food getting more expensive. The weight of being a man, a provider, pressed down harder in January than any other month.

That's all this was. Exhaustion. Stress. Nothing more.

The phone vibrated again, this time with the softer pulse of a notification.

He picked it up, and his throat went dry.

Reminder: Nkiru - Birthday today. Gift: Pink bicycle with basket.

He stared at the screen longer than necessary, the words rearranging themselves without actually changing. His daughter's birthday. The one day of the year when she woke up expecting magic, when her eyes held that particular brightness that made him want to give her the world.

The bicycle. Pink with a basket. He'd promised it three weeks ago when they'd passed the toy shop on their way back from church. She'd stopped walking, pressed her face against the glass, and whispered, "Daddy, see." Not demanding. Not begging. Just hoping.

"For your birthday," he'd said, his hand on her small shoulder. "I promise."

She'd looked up at him with absolute faith. "You promise?"

"I promise."

The memory made his chest ache. He tried to calculate rapidly: the bicycle was one hundred and twenty thousand naira. He had... what? Fifty thousand left from last week's pay after settling the landlord's deposit for next month, after giving Ifunanya money for monthly upkeep, after transport, after the small debt he owed Chibuzo. Maybe ten thousand if he counted the money he'd been saving for new work boots.

Still not enough.

And even if he left now, ran to the market, found a shop still open would they have it? Would they take partial payment? Would there be time to wrap it, to hide it, to see Nkiru's face light up the way it should on a child's birthday?

Behind him, someone laughed, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to belong to a different world. Someone else called his name: "Obinna! We need you for this measurement!"

But he couldn't move. Couldn't step back into the rhythm of work when his mind was spinning with calculations that wouldn't balance, promises he might not keep, and underneath it all, dangerous and unwanted the memory of a woman at a food stall who'd smiled at him like he was just a man, not a husband, not a father, not someone carrying the weight of everyone's expectations.

Obinna slipped the phone into his pocket and picked up his helmet. The plastic was warm, slightly grimy from weeks of use. His hands were shaking.

"I'm heading out," he said.

Chibuzo frowned, genuine confusion crossing his face. "Now? But we never finish the..."

"Yes. Now."

The words came out harder than he'd intended. Around them, the site continued its afternoon rhythm: the generator groaning, metal scraping against metal, voices calling out measurements and instructions. No one else had noticed him yet. If he left quickly, if he walked with purpose, maybe the site supervisor wouldn't ask questions. Maybe he could slip out before someone demanded to know where he was going in the middle of a work day.

"Everything alright at home?" Chibuzo asked, his voice dropping lower.

Obinna couldn't meet his eyes. "I just need to handle something."

He walked toward the gate without looking back, his boots crunching over scattered gravel and cement dust. Halfway there, he felt it, the shift inside him, like a door opening onto something he hadn't known was there. A restlessness. A hunger for something beyond the daily grind of work and duty and never quite enough.

The food stall was in the opposite direction from the toy shops. He told himself he was just thinking about lunch tomorrow. Planning ahead. Being practical.

But beneath that lie, quieter and more dangerous, was the truth: he wanted to see her again. Wanted to stand at that counter and feel, just for a moment, like someone new.

He pushed through the gate, the metal creaking under his hand.

Not sure if he'd make it to the market on time. Not sure if any shop would still have the bicycle. Not sure if Ifunanya would understand why he'd left work early without explanation, why his phone had been turned face down, why he seemed distracted lately.

But he had to try.

For Nkiru. For his daughter, who believed in promises.

Not for the woman at the food stall. Not for that.

He repeated it to himself as he walked: Not for her.

But his feet carried him past the first keke rider who called out offering transport, past the shortcut that would take him directly to the main market, and somehow though he couldn't quite explain how, he found himself on the road that led past the junction where her stall stood.

Just to see if she was still there. Just to check.

Just once more.