Chapter 10: The Dreams I Wasn’t Allowed to Dream

The sun had barely risen when a loud knock came on the wooden plank that served as their makeshift door. Mercy stirred from her thin mat on the dusty floor. Daniel, who had coughed through most of the night, was finally asleep in her arms. Faith and Anita lay side by side, still lost in dreams.

"Who is there?" Mercy asked cautiously.

"It's me, Mama Grace!" came the familiar voice.

Mercy quickly stood, pulling the scarf around her shoulders. When she opened the door, there stood the kind old woman who had helped them before, holding a small black nylon bag in one hand and her handbag in the other.

"Mama Grace," Mercy gasped in disbelief, her voice breaking with gratitude. "You came again."

Mama Grace smiled, stepping inside the poorly lit, unfinished building. The smell of damp concrete mixed with the sharp scent of poverty and perseverance.

"I've been thinking of you," Mama Grace said, placing her hand on Mercy's shoulder. "And praying for you."

Tears welled up in Mercy's eyes. "We've not eaten properly for two days, Mama Grace. The children—especially Daniel—he is not well. I feel so helpless."

Mama Grace reached into her handbag and brought out a folded ₦5000 note. "It's not much, but take this. Buy food. Something warm for the children."

Mercy fell to her knees. "God will bless you, Mama Grace. You don't know what this means to me."

Faith had woken up and rushed to her mother's side. "Mama, who is she?"

"She's an angel," Mercy said, her voice thick with tears. "She just gave us money to eat."

Faith turned to Mama Grace, her eyes wide. "Thank you, Ma. God will bless you."

Daniel stirred weakly on the mat and let out a soft cough. Mama Grace walked over and knelt beside him, placing a hand on his small chest. "You're strong, my boy. You will live. You will be great."

It was a prayer. A declaration. A seed of hope.

After Mama Grace left, Mercy did not waste a second. She pulled Faith aside.

"Get up. You'll follow me to the market today," she said. "We'll use this money wisely."

Faith nodded, still amazed by the sudden miracle. Mercy split the ₦5000 carefully. ₦1000 went into buying pain relief medicine and glucose for Daniel. ₦500 was kept aside for cooking ingredients. The remaining ₦3500? Mercy bought three bags of sachet water.

That afternoon, mother and daughter carried the heavy bags on their heads to the market square. They set up near a corner where people often passed by to catch buses or return from errands.

"Pure water! Cold water! Only ₦10!" Faith shouted, her voice still youthful but determined.

Some people passed without looking. Some bought. A few pitied them, giving ₦50 for just one sachet and telling them to "keep the change."

Mercy's heart was heavy, but she was also proud. Not of the poverty. Not of the circumstances. But of the resilience she was teaching her children.

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That night, as they sat together sharing a small plate of rice and beans, Daniel rested his head on Mercy's lap.

"Mama," he whispered, "why are we poor?"

Mercy paused. Faith and Anita looked up. Even Daniel, grew quiet.

She didn't have the answer. How could she explain adult failures, bad decisions, and the cruelty of the world to a sick child?

"We're not poor," she said slowly, stroking his hair. "We just don't have money yet. But we have love. We have each other."

Daniel didn't seem convinced. "But I want to go to school like others. I want to be a doctor."

"You will," Faith said fiercely. "One day, you will."

That night, while her children slept, Mercy stared at the concrete ceiling of the unfinished building. The dreams she once had now felt like stories from another lifetime—distant and unreachable. Once, she had dreamed of building a house, owning a store, sending her children abroad. Now, she only dreamed of the next meal and medicine for Daniel.

And yet, even with the weight of despair pressing on her chest, there was a flicker of something else—something that had returned with Mama Grace's visit.

Hope.

Not loud or flashy. Just a quiet strength. A whisper that maybe, just maybe, the dreams she wasn't allowed to dream might still come true… through her children.

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