Ikorodu Road, Lagos — Midmorning
The sun hung like a merciless, white-hot coin in a bleached-out sky. Heat shimmered above cracked asphalt, heavy with the diesel breath of a thousand struggling engines. Yellow danfos and sleek SUVs crawled through Lagos's infamous go-slow — a metal river of impatience and survival.
A chorus of chaos filled the air: horns blaring, hawkers shouting, Afrobeats thumping from a broken speaker. Life pressed forward in a messy, unstoppable tide. The smell of roasted plantain mingled with exhaust, the scent of sweat and survival thick enough to taste.
Inside a black SUV that barely moved an inch every five minutes, ADEBAYO "BAYO" ADENIRAN sat untouched by the madness. Cool air hummed through his vents, cutting off the city's humidity. His shirt was crisp, his wristwatch gleamed, his expression unreadable.
He spoke calmly into his hands-free earpiece.
"The projections are non-negotiable, Tope. If their numbers don't align by close of business, we walk. My patience is a line of credit they've already spent."
A pause. Then Tope's voice crackled back through static.
"Bayo, that'll kill the deal. The commissioner's office won't take that kindly."
"Then they can choke on their inefficiency," he replied, voice even, surgical. "You can't build clean air with dirty numbers."
He ended the call, gaze drifting to the side mirror. The reflection staring back at him looked calm, composed — yet somewhere behind that calm lurked fatigue. The kind that didn't come from work, but from seeing too much rot dressed as reform.
Outside, street vendors tapped his window, thrusting bottled water and phone chargers at him. He waved them off gently. None of it touched him. None of it ever did.
This was his world: controlled, ordered, efficient. The illusion of progress inside a bubble of tinted glass. Yet beneath that order, something restless stirred — a memory of fragility, of nights when his own breath came shallow. He knew how precious air could be.
The lane ahead cleared slightly. He smiled.
Then it stopped again.
Surulere — Late Morning
Traffic had spilled into every side street. The horns became an orchestra of impatience. Sweat gleamed on faces, tempers rose like the heat itself.
Up ahead, chaos brewed at a supermarket gate. A black Toyota Corolla was trapped between three LASTMA officers and a crowd of shouting bystanders. A middle-aged man stood pleading, his shirt clinging to him like second skin.
"Please! My son's not even moving anymore. He's sick — very sick. I just ran in to get his medicine!"
One officer smirked.
"You people always have stories. ₦70,000 or we tow it. From the yard? ₦400,000 to release."
Laughter followed from the others, cruel and careless.
"Officer, abeg, have mercy!" the man cried. "He's dying!"
Inside the car, a boy of about ten gasped for air, his small chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes fluttered, lips pale. The wheeze was faint, wet — the sound of lungs collapsing under an invisible weight.
Something inside Bayo cracked.
He opened his door and stepped into the heat, his polished shoes touching the chaos of Lagos asphalt.
"What's wrong with him?" he asked the father.
"Asthma," the man said, voice shaking. "Please—help us."
Bayo glanced at the officers. "Why's this boy still here?"
One officer shrugged. "We warned him. Rules are rules."
"Rules?" Bayo said sharply. "You tow a car with a dying child inside?"
The words cut through the air like a slap. The officer's smirk faltered.
Bayo turned back to the father.
"Get his things. I'll take him to the hospital."
The man hesitated. His eyes searched Bayo's face — a stranger's face — for something human.
"You're a stranger."
"I am," Bayo replied, voice steady. "But your son is dying."
Something in his tone — quiet but unyielding — made the man trust him. He nodded, tears spilling freely now. Together, they lifted the boy into Bayo's SUV. The officers watched but said nothing. Perhaps shame, perhaps fear. Perhaps neither.
Faithview Hospital, Surulere — Late Morning
The emergency ward smelled of disinfectant and stale fear. Nurses rushed the boy onto a gurney. Oxygen hissed to life. The doctor barked orders: nebulizer, IV line, steroids.
Minutes stretched into forever.
Bayo stood outside the door, arms folded, his reflection caught in the glass — a man used to fixing systems, now helpless before something as simple as breath.
Finally, the doctor emerged.
"He's stable," he said. "You brought him just in time."
Bayo exhaled slowly. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.
₦89,000 later — medication, oxygen, emergency fees — he stepped outside and called the boy's father.
"He's safe. Still on oxygen."
The man's sobs came through the line.
"God bless you, sir. They've taken the car… ₦385,000 to release it. That car feeds my family."
Bayo's jaw tightened. "I'm coming."
LASTMA Office, Iponri — Early Afternoon
The compound was a gray sprawl of impounded vehicles, heat, and hostility. Officers lounged under trees, laughter mixing with the sound of a distant generator. The father stood by the gate, shoulders slumped.
Bayo walked straight in, his calm now cold, deliberate.
Inside, the officer-in-charge looked up from his desk.
"Yes? What's the issue?"
Bayo spoke evenly. "Your men towed a car with a dying child inside. The father was buying medicine. The child nearly died."
The officer frowned. "Who authorized that?"
The junior officers who had been lounging earlier now stood at attention, avoiding eye contact. Bayo could feel their fear — not of conscience, but of exposure.
"Release the vehicle," the officer said sharply. "Now. No fines."
The father broke down, tears streaming freely.
"You saved my son… and my life."
Bayo only nodded. "Your son is breathing. That's enough."
The man tried to kneel in gratitude, but Bayo stopped him, lifting him by the shoulders. "Stand tall," he said quietly. "You've done nothing wrong."
Outside — Afternoon Sun
The city continued to roar — danfos speeding past, markets pulsing with noise, people shouting into phones. Yet for a moment, it felt like Lagos had paused to breathe again.
The father stood beside his reclaimed car, eyes shining with disbelief.
"How can I repay you?" he asked.
Bayo smiled faintly. "Teach him to keep breathing. That's all."
He turned to leave, his phone vibrating again — another call, another crisis. But as he reached the SUV, he paused and looked back. The boy was awake now, head resting against the window, small fingers waving weakly.
Their eyes met briefly through the glass. The boy smiled.
And for the first time that day, so did Bayo.
Evening — Bayo's Apartment, Surulere
The sun had bled out across the skyline, painting the smog orange and gold. Bayo's apartment was neat, minimalist — the kind of place designed for someone who believed clutter was a moral failure.
He loosened his tie and poured a glass of water, staring out the window as Lagos glimmered with life again. Below, a generator hummed, and children chased one another through puddles from a broken pipe.
He opened his laptop. The Lagos North environmental contract file blinked back at him, numbers, projections, promises. Somewhere in those figures, he knew, was rot. A smell he'd spent years ignoring.
But today had shifted something in him — a child's struggle for air, the weight of a father's desperation, the silent corruption that made it all normal.
He rubbed his temples, whispering under his breath.
"Maybe air was never free after all."
His phone buzzed again — a message from Tope.
Chief Balogun wants to meet. Tonight. Private.
He stared at the text, the corners of his mouth tightening.
Balogun — his mentor, his father's old friend, now a man too comfortable in the system he once swore to change.
Bayo looked back out the window. The city was breathing again, but its breath was shallow, strained — like the boy's.
Outside, thunder rolled across the mainland.
He straightened his shirt, grabbed his keys, and muttered to himself,
"Let's see who's really choking Lagos."
He stepped into the night.
Sometimes, the cost of air isn't money. It's mercy.