The cries started out weak, then grew louder. Somebody help. Yet no one stopped. Not a single person. Under the scorching Abuja afternoon sun, traffic kept rushing past without mercy. Cars blared their horns in annoyance. A few onlookers glanced from a distance, shook their heads, and moved on.
There, by the dusty roadside of the expressway, lay an elderly man—likely in his late sixties. He wore a white CFAN that was now smeared with blood and dirt. His walking stick was snapped beside him. Moments earlier, a careless taxi had knocked him down and sped away. He had tumbled off the pavement and collapsed, groaning in agony. A small crowd gathered, but no one stepped forward.
Just a few meters away, a young girl in a red jacket and black jeans screeched her delivery bike to a halt. The time glowed urgently on her phone: 12:40:43 p.m. She had only 17 minutes left to complete a critical delivery—or lose her job. The package in her delivery box was clearly marked: urgent, fragile, prepaid. Her grip on the handlebars trembled as she looked back at the injured man.
People whispered nervously. “Don’t touch him.”
“Oh, if he dies, police will blame you.”
“You hear about that boy last week? He tried to help an accident victim. Now he’s in prison.”
“Me? I’m not getting involved. I don’t want to go to jail.”
Adana heard every word. But beneath the noise, another voice echoed softly in her heart—her mother’s voice.
Even if the world turns its back on you, never turn your back on those you can help. Help, Adana. Always help.
Tears filled her eyes. Her hands shook. This was exactly the kind of moment her mother had spoken about—the kind where kindness comes at a cost. She had seconds to decide. Save her job, or save a dying man. She leapt off the bike.
“Help me!” she shouted.
“Let’s take him to the hospital, please!”
No one moved. Not one person.
Adana rushed to the old man’s side. “Sir, please stay with me,” she whispered as she knelt beside him. She tried flagging down taxis, but none stopped. She glanced once more at her delivery box—then made her choice.
She removed her helmet, set it beside the box, and bent down to lift the man. He was heavy. Her arms shook violently, but she managed to hoist him onto her back and load him onto her bike. Holding him steady, she mounted the bike again and sped into traffic—into chaos, into uncertainty—without looking back.
Twelve hours earlier.
At 5 a.m., inside a cramped one-room apartment on the outskirts of Abuja, Adana—barely 18—was already awake. She had washed, prepared lunch, ironed school uniforms, and braided her sister’s hair while standing. Mara, the chatty twin, yawned. “Sis, mommy, you should sleep more.”
“I’ll sleep when you both become doctors.”
Adana smiled, gently tugging at Mimi’s hair.
Their lives had shattered one year earlier. Armed robbers broke into their home, stealing everything—car, phones, jewelry—before shooting their parents and disappearing into the night. No arrests. No answers. Just silence.
Overnight, Adana became a parent. No relatives stepped in. No help came. She sold what little remained just to survive. School was no longer possible. Dreams were postponed. Survival became the priority—for Mara and Mimi.
She took the only job available: courier delivery rider. Mostly men did the job, but Adana endured. She learned to ride fast, handle clients, endure harsh weather, and protect what little she had. Her red SwiftSend jacket became her armor. Every morning, she cooked, took her sisters to school, then vanished into the city on her bike. Her manager, Kunlay, was infamous for being cold and unforgiving.
“Delivery must reach the customer in 25 minutes max. One late delivery, and you’re gone.”
That morning’s delivery was urgent, prepaid, fragile—the worst one to fail. Adana stayed focused. But fate had other plans.
Back to the present.
The hospital reeked of antiseptic and tension. Adana burst through the glass doors, the old man still on her back. A nurse gasped.
“What happened?”
“Accident. Taxi hit him. He’s not responding.”
“Wheelchair—quick!”
Doctors rushed in, surrounding the man and wheeling him into emergency.
“Are you his relative?” a nurse asked.
“No,” Adana panted. “I found him on the road.”
“Do you have his phone?”
She searched his pocket and pulled out a cracked phone. One contact stood out: my son.
She dialed.
“Yes, dad.”
“This isn’t your dad,” Adana said urgently. “Please, your father was in an accident. He’s at Zenith Medical Hospital, Wuse Zone 6.”
“What?”
“I’m coming now!”
Thirty minutes later, a sleek black SUV screeched into the hospital. A tall man in his late twenties, dressed in white agbada and a designer watch, rushed inside.
“Where is he? My father!”
Adana stepped forward nervously.
“You’re his son?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the one who called?”
“Yes, sir. I brought him here.”
He froze. “You brought him on that bike?”
She nodded.
He bolted into emergency. “Do everything within your power to revive him. He’s all I have. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”
Adana rushed back to the accident scene. Her delivery box—gone. Stolen.
Crying, she returned to the hospital. Her phone buzzed. It was Kunlay.
“Wait—what do you mean the box is gone?”
The call ended.
She stood frozen outside, staring at the empty roadside. Then she turned back inside.
In the waiting area, she noticed the man—Andrew—pacing. His white cap gleamed beneath the lights, worry etched into his face.
“Adana, right?”
She nodded.
“Come.”
He led her aside. “My dad’s stable now. But a few minutes later and he might not have survived.”
“I… I’m glad he’s okay.”
“You lost your delivery, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your job?”
“He fired me.”
“You work for SwiftSend, right?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Because I own the company.”
She froze.
“You work at the Jabi branch. Kunlay reports to my team.”
He pulled out his phone.
“What’s your full name?”
“Adana Ugo Chuku.”
He dialed.
“Kunlay, it’s Andrew. You just fired a girl named Adana Ugo Chuku. Reverse it. Replace the goods. Assign another rider. No excuses.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did,” he said softly. “You risked everything to save my father.”
They sat.
“So tell me,” he asked. “Who are you?”
She told him everything.
About the robbery. The silence. Becoming a parent at 17. Selling her belongings. Dropping out of school. Riding the courier bike just to survive.
“Why didn’t relatives help?”
“They vanished after the funeral.”
“And yet you still stopped to help a stranger today.”
“My mother said to help anyone you can. Kindness is never wasted.”
That sentence hit him hard.
“Where are your sisters now?”
“At home.”
“You’re not going home alone tonight.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll drive you.”
That evening, a black Bentley rolled into Lugbe. Neighbors stared.
Inside the small room, Mimi screamed, “Sis, mommy!”
“Who’s he?” the twins asked.
“This is Mr. Andrew.”
“You’re very lucky,” he told them. “Your sister is extraordinary.”
“What’s your plan now?”
“I don’t know.”
“I want to help.”
He offered her and her sisters security, education, and opportunity. Not out of pity—but gratitude.
“My father said, ‘She didn’t save my life. She gave it back to me.’”
One week later, the mansion felt unreal. Slowly, it became home.
Months passed. Justice came. School resumed. Love grew quietly.
Years later, Adana stood on a stage in Lagos.
“My name is Adana Ugo Chuku Okafur…”
The crowd rose in applause.
Mimi and Mara, now medical students, watched with tears and pride.
All because one girl chose kindness.
