Vincent was a very wealthy man.

He had mansions in the best parts of town, expensive cars that started with a soft purr, and enough money to last more than one lifetime.

People greeted him with respect wherever he went.

Doors opened before he reached them.

Waiters ran when they saw him coming.

His signature alone could move millions.

On the outside, everything looked perfect, but inside he wasn’t happy.

Almost every woman he met wanted something from him.

His money, his name, his status, his lifestyle.

They loved the billionaire, not the man.

They loved the idea of him.

They loved how he looked on their arm.

They loved the shine, the parties, the pictures, the power, but not his heart.

Vincent wanted something different.

He wanted someone who would see him as a person and still choose him.

someone who would sit with him when there was no driver, no mansion, no soft chairs, no rich food.

A love that money could not buy.

He tried to find it in his normal world, but it kept failing.

One woman he dated liked to say, “I love you.

” But every time she said it, her eyes went to his car keys.

When he surprised her once by coming in a simple car instead of one of his big ones, her mood changed at once.

“Where is your usual car?” she asked, frowning.

This one doesn’t fit you.

People are looking at us.

He smiled calmly.

It’s just a car for you.

Maybe, she said.

But people judge.

You should think of your image.

Another woman liked to call him at midnight to just talk.

But somehow the talk always ended with, “Baby, can you send something small? My rent, my hair, my shoes, my this, my that.

” No matter how much he gave, there was always something small again.

One evening, he overheard two of his exes talking at a party, not knowing he could hear them.

If not for his money, one said, laughing.

Would you look at him twice? He’s not even my type.

But that kind of account.

You manage.

They both laughed.

The words cut deep.

He smiled on the outside, but inside something closed.

He began to feel like a walking wallet, like a name on a check, like a door others wanted to walk through, not a person they wanted to sit with.

One quiet night in his mansion, after the staff had gone to their quarters, and the house was filled with nothing but the soft hum of the fridge and the far sound of traffic, Vincent sat alone in his living room.

The TV was on, but he was not watching.

His phone was full of messages, but he did not open them.

His eyes rested on the far wall where a painting hung above a long console.

This is my life, he thought.

Big, comfortable, full, but empty inside.

He stood up, paced around the room, and walked to the large window.

Outside, other houses glowed in the night.

Somewhere far away, he could see small, dull lights from areas where people use generators and candles.

He pressed his palm against the cold glass and said out loud to no one, “I want to know who would love me with nothing.

” The word stayed hanging in the air.

Then, right there, in his expensive clothes and soft slippers, he made a bold decision.

He would step away from the life of a billionaire and live like an ordinary man.

No bodyguards, no luxury cars, no designer suits, no private driver dropping him at fancy doors.

He would rent a small room.

He would take a simple hard job.

He would look like every other man on the street.

And then he would see who treated him with respect, who smiled at him without expecting anything, who stayed even when there was no shine.

If love came from that life, then it would be real.

The next few days were full of quiet preparation.

He spoke to his father, the founder of the family company, a man with gray hair and sharp eyes who had built their name from nothing.

“You are running away from your responsibility,” his father said at first, angry.

“This company will be yours one day.

You think life is a game?” “I am not running away,” Vincent answered quietly.

“I am looking for something I cannot find in boardrooms and hotels.

” His father studied him closely.

The anger in his eyes softened into worry.

“You want to disappear?” he asked.

“I want to step down for a while,” Vincent said.

“I will still be reachable if anything serious happens, but I need a season where I am not Vincent the billionaire or Vincent the heir.

” “I want to be just Vincent.

” His father sighed long and deep.

“You are my only child,” he said.

I did not build this empire just so you can throw it away because of women.

I am not throwing it away, Vincent replied, meeting his eyes.

I am trying to make sure that when I sit in your chair, I am not a bitter man.

I need to know that someone can love me for me.

It is important to me.

His father leaned back.

His fingers tapped the arm of his chair.

After a while, he nodded slowly.

I do not fully understand, he said.

But I know this.

If your heart is not settled, power will not comfort you.

Go.

But do not break what we have built.

And remember, sickness and trouble do not wait for people to finish their search.

I promise, Vincent said.

If there is real trouble, I will come back.

His mother was not as calm.

“You want to go and live like a poor man?” she asked, shocked.

“In this country, with everything we have, God forbid.

It is temporary, he told her softly.

I need to see life from another side.

She shook her head.

You can donate to people.

You can visit slums with security.

You don’t have to live there.

People are wicked.

Women can still use you even when you pretend to be poor.

He smiled sadly.

Maybe, but at least they will not use me for my name.

In the end, after many talks and tears and arguments, his parents agreed on one thing.

They would not stop him.

His father gave him a simple phone number for private contact.

If anything happens to me or the company, you must come back at once, his father said.

I will, Vincent promised.

He withdrew some money, but only what a normal person could explain.

He told his personal assistant to clear his schedule for personal leave.

No one else knew the full story except a few trusted staff and they were instructed to keep quiet.

Then he disappeared from his own rich world.

He rented a tiny one- room apartment in a crowded area with a shaky ceiling fan, thin walls, and a door that creaked when you opened it.

At night, he could hear his neighbors TVs, babies crying, couples arguing, people laughing.

The corridor smelled of cooked beans, kerosene, and sometimes smoke.

He bought secondhand clothes from a roadside seller, old jeans, plain t-shirts, one or two shirts with faded colors, rubber slippers, a cheap wristwatch.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw the same face, but everything else had changed.

Now he had to find work.

He thought about what kind of work rich people almost never do themselves.

He wanted something that would keep him far from the world he knew.

Something that would cover his hands in dust, not in gold watches.

Construction work came to his mind.

Brick laying, laboring, carrying blocks, mixing cement, work that people respected only for the result, not for the man holding the tools.

One early morning, when the sky was still pale and the air was cool, Vincent went to a large construction site near a busy road.

Tall metal rods stuck out of the ground.

Blocks were arranged in stacks.

Bags of cement lay under a plastic cover.

Men in old clothes and hard hats moved about.

He walked up to the foreman, a strong man with dark tired eyes and a whistle around his neck.

“Good morning,” Vincent greeted.

The foreman looked him over.

“Yes, I’m looking for work,” Vincent said.

Anything I can carry blocks, mix cement, help.

The foreman frowned.

You don’t look like person.

Don do this kind of work before.

Your hand too soft.

Vincent turned his palms up.

They were smooth.

It was true.

I am ready to learn, he said simply.

The foreman watched him for a moment, then shrugged.

We always need extra hands.

Pay no too big.

Work hard.

No complain.

I understand, Vincent replied.

Come tomorrow, the foreman said.

We start early.

No late coming.

Yes, sir.

The next day, Vincent’s real test began.

The first week almost broke him.

They started before the sun fully rose.

He learned how to mix cement with sand, water, and effort.

He pushed wheelbarrows full of blocks uphill.

He carried heavy loads on his shoulders.

His legs burned.

His back felt like fire.

His palms tore and raw skin showed.

When he came home each night, every part of his body achd.

He lay on his mattress and stared at the ceiling, feeling pains in places he didn’t know he had.

Sometimes he wanted to quit.

But each time he thought of quitting, he remembered why he started.

He remembered laughter at parties, careless words if not for his money.

And he pushed through.

Slowly, his body began to change.

His palms hardened, his shoulders grew stronger.

The pain did not vanish, but it became something his body understood.

He also began to see the lives of his fellow workers.

Some of them had families they sent money to in the village.

Some shared one room with three other men.

Some had dreams of opening small shops one day.

Some had almost given up on dreams.

He listened silently, stored their stories in his heart, and respected them more than ever.

But the women he met in this new life were familiar in a different way.

One day during lunch break, a woman selling phone cases and charges passed by.

Her clothes were neat.

Her nails were long.

She walked like she thought the ground under her belonged to her.

Vincent was pushing a wheelbarrow of sand past the gate when a small stone rolled under the wheel.

The wheelbarrow bounced and one block nearly slipped off, almost touching her ankle.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly.

“Are you okay?” She jumped back and looked at him like he was something she stepped on.

“You people know they look where Una go,” she snapped.

“See as you just they bring sand near my leg, cement everywhere, a beg don’t stain me.

” I said, “I’m sorry,” he repeated gently.

She hissed, dusted her feet as if they were dirty because he came close and walked off.

Another day, a woman in office clothes came from a nearby building during her lunch break to buy food.

Vincent stood in line with other workers.

As she waited for her turn, she looked around at the men in dusty clothes and shook her head.

See the kind men fill this country, she said loudly to her friend.

Cement from head to toe.

No vision, no plan.

me.

I cannot.

Her friend laughed.

Don’t worry, you’ll be driving a big car.

The first woman tossed her hair and smiled proudly.

A meno.

This kind life is not my portion.

Vincent kept his face calm and ate his food later in quiet, but the words stayed.

Another time, one of the snack sellers tried to play with him.

“Fine, boy,” she said, leaning on her cooler.

You know, go buy extra egg roll for your girlfriend.

I don’t have one, he said half smiling.

She laughed loudly.

Stop that your all you laborers like to lie.

If you know get girlfriend, then who you send all your small money to? He smiled again.

I just don’t have one.

Later when he told her he couldn’t afford extra that day, she rolled her eyes.

If you know get money, no, come here and be doing shakara.

She said, “You men of nowadays no money, but you want respect.

” He realized something clearly.

People judged faster when they thought you had nothing.

It hurt, but it also made his desire stronger.

He wanted to see if there was someone different, someone whose eyes did not change when they thought a man was ordinary.

Sundays at the site were a little slower.

There was still some work, but not as heavy.

Security was always there.

Some workers did small tasks.

Vendors still came.

Children sometimes passed by.

The noise changed.

It became softer, more human.

And that was when he first saw her.

It was a bright but gentle Sunday afternoon.

The sun was not too hot.

A light breeze passed through the open gate, carrying the smell of dust and faraway trees.

Vincent was stacking blocks near the fence when he noticed a young woman walking towards the gate, pushing a wooden table on small wheels and balancing a folded umbrella under her arm.

Her dress was clean but faded.

Her sandals were simple.

Her hair was neatly packed into a bun.

Her face looked a little tired, but there was a calm strength in her eyes.

She stopped under a tree near the gate, opened the umbrella, and fixed it into a stand.

Then she set the table, opened coolers, and arranged plates, cups, and spoons.

She wiped everything down twice, even though they looked clean already.

She brought out a piece of cardboard and carefully wrote prices on it with a marker.

Rice, beans, plantain, fish, meat, sache water.

No shouting, no forming, just simple, clear writing.

It did not take long before workers started drifting towards her stand.

Madam, rice and beans with plantain, one called.

Auntie a beg small rice, big stew, another said, holding his money tight.

She smiled politely at each person.

She did not rush them, but she did not delay either.

She served, collected money, gave balance correctly, and moved to the next.

When it was Vincent’s turn, he joined the line quietly, and watched her.

Her hands moved with experience.

spoon, plate, cooler, stew.

She packed food in a way that made people feel they got full value for their money.

She didn’t use tricks to hide the meat under too much rice or pour only oil without stew.

“Good afternoon,” she said when he reached the front, her eyes lifting to his face.

“Good afternoon,” he replied.

“What do you have left?” “I still have rice, beans, plantain, fish, and meat,” she said.

“You can mix.

” “How much for rice, small beans, and one fish?” Vincent asked.

She told him the price.

He counted his money slowly like someone who had learned to respect every note.

It was enough.

He nodded.

Give me that, please.

And sache water.

She dished the food carefully, added enough stew, and put one fish on top.

When she handed the plate to him, he noticed her fingers.

They were not soft like some of the women he had known before.

They had small hard lines.

Taylor’s fingers, Cook’s fingers, hands that worked.

He moved aside to eat.

Not long after, a young laborer, thin and looking unsure, came forward with some coins in his hand.

“Auntie Abbeg, how much for small rice?” he asked in a low voice.

She took the coins and counted them.

It was clear they were not enough.

The boy rushed to explain before she could say anything.

“That’s all I get,” he said.

“I never chopped since yesterday.

If in no reach, no worry.

” She looked at his face for a few seconds.

He could see hunger around his eyes.

She did not sigh.

She did not shame him.

“Wait small,” she said.

She took a plate, scooped a modest but decent portion of rice, added stew, and one piece of plantain.

“Take,” she said, placing it into his hands.

“Pay me what you have.

Next time, if you can add small,” the boy’s eyes shone.

Thank you, auntie,” he said with real joy and moved to one side to eat like he had just found treasure.

The woman did not look around to see who noticed.

She just went back to serving the next person.

Vincent watched her, something in his chest moving.

Later, when the crowd reduced and she started washing plates in a basin of soapy water beside the table, he carried his empty plate over.

“Thank you,” he said.

“The food was very good.

” She smiled, wiping her hand quickly before taking the plate.

Thank you too, he added.

Your kindness to that boy.

God bless you.

She looked surprised, then a little shy.

It was small, she said.

Small things matter, Vincent replied.

She gave a simple smile and turned back to washing.

He went back to his block pile, but his mind stayed at the stand.

The next day, she came again.

This time it was not Sunday.

It was a normal weekday full of noise and rushing.

She still set up her table, her umbrella, her coolers.

The workers noticed quickly.

“Ah, Madam Rice, don’t come.

” One shouted, smiling.

As the days passed, her stand became part of the sight’s life.

Every morning she arrived with her coolers, having cooked from early dawn.

She arranged everything neatly.

At breaktime, the line formed.

She served, smiled, corrected change, and scolded with calm eyes if anyone tried to jump the queue.

One day, after the rush, Vincent helped her carry one heavy cooler back to her small wheelbarrow.

“I’m Vincent,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

She looked up.

“I’m Erica,” she answered softly.

“Nice to meet you, Erica.

” Nice to meet you too, she replied and looked down at the cooler again, hiding a small smile.

They started talking more.

After that, he learned that Erica came from a poor background.

But she was very intelligent.

She had finished business school as the top of her class.

The school had printed her name in bold.

People clapped for her on stage.

Lecturers told her, “You will go far.

” “And did I go far?” she asked with a small laugh.

Yes.

From classroom to kitchen.

What happened after school? He asked one quiet afternoon when work was slow and her stand was almost empty.

She sat on a stool wiping sweat from her face with a small towel.

I wrote applications, she said.

So many.

I attended interviews.

I passed tests.

People said, “We’ll get back to you.

” They never did.

Some jobs were taken before they even put them online.

Uncle will call uncle.

Friend will call friend.

If you don’t know anybody, you are just filling space.

She shrugged, but there was pain behind the movement.

One HR woman told me plainly, Erica continued.

She said, you’re very sharp.

If we bring you in later, you might take our seat.

She laughed when she said it.

But that day, something inside me sat down.

So, what did you do? Vincent asked.

I stopped waiting, she said honestly.

I started sewing.

My mother taught me when I was small.

I improved.

I sew clothes for neighbors, friends of neighbors, anybody who comes.

Then I added cooking.

These workers must eat.

I cook in the morning, come here to sell, go back and sew at night.

That is how we are managing.

And your family? He asked gently.

My mother is at home, Erica replied.

She is not strong.

Some days she cannot even stand for long.

I take care of her.

My father is late.

He died some years back.

Her voice stayed calm, but Vincent saw the shadow in her eyes again.

He listened.

He did not rush to speak.

When he finally did, he said, “You carry a lot.

” She gave a small smile.

“God is carrying me, too,” she said.

“So, it’s okay.

” From then on, he saw her differently.

Not just as the lady who sold food, but as a woman with a sharp mind, a tired body, and a strong heart.

He did not talk about his real life.

He did not mention mansions or shares or meetings.

He talked about what matched what she could see, cement, blocks, sun, sweat.

He shared small jokes from the site.

She shared funny stories from customers who wanted big style for small money.

Once during a very busy afternoon, a group of men came to her stand.

They were dressed slightly better than the laborers and talked loudly as if they were more important.

Madam, serve us first, one of them said, pushing another worker aside.

We no fit stand behind these ones.

Time is money.

Erica looked up from the cooler.

Please, she said calmly.

We are all waiting.

No one is better than anyone here.

I will serve you.

Just join the line.

The man scoffed.

You don’t know who I am.

She held his gaze with quiet strength.

I know you are hungry, she said like everybody else.

Please join the line.

A few workers laughed softly.

The man wanted to argue more, but something in her eyes made him stop.

He joined the line, angry but quiet.

Vincent watched everything again.

He saw the same thing, kindness and strength together.

At night, after the sight closed and he returned to his small room, he lay on his back, fan turning slowly above him, and thought of her, her hands, her eyes, her stories, her calm.

He wanted to tell her the truth, that he was not just a brick layer, that there was a whole other world waiting with his surname on it.

But he was afraid.

What if everything changed? What if her smile cooled? What if her respect for him came from the fact that he looked like one of them? He decided to wait to be sure of himself first, to be sure of her, too.

Then one night, he took out a small notepad he used to record his daily wages and expenses.

He stared at a blank page for a long time.

Then he wrote at the top how to ask Erica out without spoiling anything.

He drew two columns underneath.

if she says yes and if she says no.

He smiled a little at himself as he tapped the pen against his chin.

He felt like a teenager, not a man who had once signed contracts.

He wrote, “Step one, be honest and simple.

No big speeches, no sweet tongue.

Say the truth.

Tell her I enjoy talking to her.

Tell her her kindness touches me.

Tell her I would like to spend one quiet evening together just to know her better.

” Step two, choose something small and safe.

Not a fancy restaurant, not a loud place.

A simple walk on Sunday evening after church.

Buy roasted corn by the junction.

Sit under the trees in the small garden.

Drink zoobo talk.

Step three, make it easy to refuse.

Give her a clear door to say no without shame.

Let her walk away still feeling safe and respected.

Then he broke it down further.

If she says yes, thank her and keep it simple.

Suggest Sunday evening after service when the air is cooler.

Buy roasted corn and two bottles of zoobo.

Sit where the trees give shade.

Ask about her mother, her work, her dreams.

Listen more than I speak.

Walk her safely to a junction.

No rush.

No pressure.

If she says no, smile.

Thank her for being honest.

Tell her I respect her answer.

Don’t withdraw from her.

Keep my kindness the same.

Give her space.

No chasing, no begging, no mood.

Keep the sight a safe place for her.

He read it again and felt his chest relax.

The plan is not perfect, he whispered.

But it is honest.

He slipped the notepad back into his pocket.

The next afternoon, after most of the workers had eaten and left, he stood by her stand as she washed plates.

“Good evening.

” She greeted with her usual small smile.

“Your usual rice, beans, and fish.

” He smiled back.

“Yes, please.

” She served him and passed him the plate.

As he paid, he took a breath.

“Erica, can I ask you something?” he said.

She wiped her hand on the small towel and looked at him properly.

“Yes, I’ve enjoyed our talks,” he began slowly, mind on his notepad plan.

“You make this place feel warm in a way I can’t really explain.

If you’re comfortable, I’d like us to take a short walk on Sunday evening just to talk.

We can buy roasted corn by the junction and sit where the trees are.

If you’re not free or you’re not interested, I understand completely.

No pressure.

She was quiet.

Her eyes softened.

Then he saw worry flash across them.

Vincent, she said quietly, “You are a good man, and I feel safe with you, but I don’t want to mislead you.

” His heart sank a little, but he remembered if she says no and nodded.

“Thank you for being honest,” he said.

It’s okay.

Truly.

She studied his face for a moment longer.

I didn’t say no, she replied.

He blinked.

Oh.

A small smile touched her lips.

I said I don’t want to mislead you.

My life is complicated.

My mother is not well.

Money is tied.

In the morning, I wake early to cook.

I carry food here.

I sell.

After that I go home and sew.

Most evenings I go straight home.

I don’t have much time and I get tired easily.

I don’t want someone to think I am ignoring them when I’m only fighting to survive.

What would make it easier? He asked gently.

If we walk, she said looking at her hands.

It has to be close and not too long.

I don’t want people to talk and I need to get home early.

Sunday evening, he offered.

Just 30 minutes from here to the small garden and back.

No noise, no crowd.

If you get tired or uncomfortable, we stop.

She stood there for a long second, then nodded once.

“Okay,” he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Thank you.

But Vincent,” she added, looking him in the eye, “if I ever feel it’s not right, I will tell you.

You won’t be angry.

” He shook his head.

“Never.

Your peace is more important than my feelings.

Her smile reached her eyes this time.

Sunday then.

Sunday.

He repeated.

That night he opened his notepad and added one more line.

Final rule.

Whether she says yes or no, protect her dignity.

Let her leave every moment feeling safe.

When Sunday came, the evening air was soft and gentle.

The sky was painted with soft colors as the sun began to go down.

Vincent waited by the small junction near the site, hands in his pockets, heart beating a little too fast.

Erica arrived a few minutes later, wearing a clean, simple dress and carrying a small bag.

Her hair was neatly tied.

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” she said.

“I had to make sure my mother ate first.

” “It’s okay,” he said.

“You look nice,” she smiled.

“Thank you.

You too.

You’ve washed off your cement.

” They both laughed.

They walked side by side towards the small garden.

A simple area with a few trees, some old benches, and a small woman roasting corn near the road.

They bought two cobs of roasted corn and two bottles of Zobo in plastic cups.

Then found a bench under a tree.

For a while, they just ate, listening to the sound of passing cars, distant music from a nearby shop, and the rustle of leaves above them.

Tell me about you,” he said gently.

“What your days look like? What you carry?” Erica took a breath.

“My mother is sick most days,” she said.

“Some morning she can’t stand up on her own.

I wake early around 4:30 to start cooking.

Rice, beans, stew.

I pack everything in my coolers.

Sometimes my mother helps small by washing plates slowly while sitting down.

But other days, she just lies there.

I bring the food here, sell it, smile so people won’t see that I’m tired.

When I go back home, I rest a little, then start sewing.

I sew until late in the night.

She traced a line on the bench with her finger.

I send money to my uncle in the village whenever I can, she continued.

My younger cousin is still in school.

I don’t want him to drop out.

I know what education did for me, even if it did not give me a job.

I don’t want him to lose that chance.

She paused.

I don’t have much, she said quietly.

Just enough to keep us going.

I’ve learned to be careful with people.

Promises are easy.

Care is hard.

Vincent listened, eyes fixed on her.

Her words sank into him like water into dry ground.

I’m sorry, he said finally.

Not just for what you faced, but for how the world can make a good person feel like they are not enough.

She looked at him surprised.

I don’t feel like I am not enough, she said gently.

I just feel tired sometimes.

He nodded slowly.

You said you finished business school.

Top of your class.

A small light appeared in her eyes.

Yes, she said.

Sometimes it feels like a different life.

I still keep my result in a file.

I still have my old notes.

When I’m not too tired, I open them and read a bit.

Marketing, finance, business, law.

It reminds me that my brain is still working.

Even if my hands are cooking and sewing now.

I don’t agree that you are far from your dream, Vincent said softly.

You are still using your mind.

You planned this food business.

You manage your costs.

You know what your customers want.

You are doing real business.

Only that nobody is putting you in an office and paying you big salary for it.

She smiled a little.

Maybe.

But sometimes I wonder if I wasted my time chasing that certificate.

You didn’t waste it, he said.

One day, all those things you read will stand up and start working louder in your life.

I can feel it.

They sat quietly for a while.

The corn was almost finished.

The Zoobo cups were half empty.

I like who you are, Erica, Vincent said at last.

The way you help people without noise.

The way you speak truth and still stay gentle.

She looked at him, her eyes soft.

I like how you listen, she replied.

Most people only wait for their turn to talk.

You actually hear me?” The air between them grew still.

Slowly, gently, like they were both asking the same question without words, they leaned closer and shared a small, careful kiss.

It was not long.

It was not dramatic.

It was simple and real.

When they pulled back, they both exhaled, a little shy, a little amazed at how something so small could feel so big.

I’m sorry, Vincent said quickly, worried.

I should have asked first.

Erica shook her head.

I’m not angry, she said calmly.

But I want to take things slow.

He nodded at once.

We will, he said.

Your pace, your comfort, always.

She smiled.

The worry lines on her face eased.

Thank you, she said.

They sat together as the sky grew darker.

No heavy promises, no pressure, just quiet understanding that something gentle had begun, and they would move forward slowly.

The next Saturday, they met by the junction and walked to the open market.

The place was alive, vendors shouting prices, the smell of pepper and spices in the air, children running between stalls.

“Let’s buy fresh,” Erica said, picking up a tomato and checking it with a light squeeze.

“Bad tomatoes spoil stew.

” Vincent carried the basket like it it was the most important job in the world.

They chose red tomatoes, firm onions, fresh peppers, and a bundle of scent leaves.

At the fish section, the seller lifted fish onto the table.

Erica checked the eyes, the gills, the smell.

“These ones are fresh,” she said, pointing at two.

“We’ll take them.

” Vincent paid.

On the way back, the tomatoes rolled around in the basket.

he laughed.

“These round tomatoes remind me of other round things,” he said with a mischievous smile.

She gasped and laughed, lightly hitting his arm.

“Behave yourself.

” “In his small kitchen, they moved like they had done it many times.

” “Wash the fish?” she asked.

“On it,” he answered, rinsing and drying them.

She blended tomatoes, onions, and peppers.

When the oil hit the pot, it hissed loudly, filling the kitchen with a warm smell.

She poured in the blend and it bubbled.

He sliced onions and joined them in the pot when she nodded.

They added salt, seasoning cubes, thyme, a little curry.

Then they gently dropped the fish into the thick red stew.

“Taste,” she said, holding out a spoon.

He tasted it and closed his eyes for a second.

“Perfect,” he said.

“Just small pepper.

” She grinned.

“Pepper is good for you.

” They set the table.

two plates, two spoons, one jug of cold water in an old plastic jug.

They ate slowly, talking here and there, smiling at each other.

“This is the best stew I’ve had in a long time,” Vincent said.

“Maybe because we cooked it together,” Erica replied.

“No,” he said, smiling.

“It’s because you’re a great cook.

No need to act all humble around me.

” He reached out and wrapped his arms around her from the side, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

She laughed softly.

You will just be saying sweet things anyhow.

After the meal, they washed plates together.

He rinsed while she soaked.

Sometimes their hands touched in the water, and each small touch felt louder than it should.

When they finished, they sat on his small sofa, old but clean, shoulderto-shoulder, full and relaxed.

No big speeches, no heavy promises, just quiet closeness.

That night after she went home, Vincent sat on his bed and stared at his phone for a long time.

He thought about Erica in the market.

Erica in his kitchen.

Erica laughing at the tomatoes.

Erica talking about her mother and her cousin and her dreams.

Erica with stew on her spoon and strength in her eyes.

He knew then clearly he loved her.

He opened his notes and wrote a new line.

Take Erica to meet my parents.

His chest tightened.

His parents liked shiny things.

They liked people with known last names, powerful uncles, easy access to any room.

They loved their son, but they also loved the status their family carried.

Erica was from a poor background.

She did not have big connections.

She had a degree, but no big job.

She cooked by a dusty gate and sewed clothes in a small room.

She took care of a sick mother and a young cousin.

Her strength was quiet, and her pride was simple.

Would they see her the way he saw her, or would they only see what she did not have? He typed a message to her, then deleted it.

He stood, walked to the window, came back, sat down.

He started again.

There’s something important I’d like us to do soon, he wrote.

I want you to meet my parents.

Only if you’re comfortable.

We can pick a date and make the most of it.

knowing us, it will probably turn into the most memorable experience.

He stared at the words for a long moment.

Then he pressed send.

Her reply came after some time.

I am afraid, she wrote.

But I trust you.

If you think it is time, I will go.

Sunday afternoon came with quiet tension.

They both went to church that morning, but their minds were far ahead in a big house with a ticking clock.

After service, they parted to their separate homes to change.

Vincent wore a neat shirt and trousers, simple, not flashy.

Erica wore a clean, modest dress.

She pinned her hair herself with careful hands.

Her mother sat on the edge of the bed, watching her dress.

“So, this is the day you’re meeting his people?” her mother said softly.

“Yes, mama,” Erica replied.

Her mother took her hand, squeezed it weakly.

Go with your head up, she said.

You are not less than anyone.

Speak with respect, but don’t make yourself small.

Erica blinked back tears.

Yes, mama.

At Vincent’s parents’ house, everything was quiet and polished.

The floors shone.

The furniture was big.

The air smelled like old perfume and furniture polish.

A big clock on the wall ticked loudly, as if counting their hearts.

Vincent and Erica sat side by side on a long soft sofa.

Their hands lay apart on their laps.

A tray of juice glasses stood on the glass table before them, untouched.

His mother entered first.

Her movements were slow and controlled.

She sat opposite them and studied Erica from head to toe, her face unreadable.

His father sat beside his mother, his gray hair neat, his eyes sharp, his expression calm but weighing.

Erica, his mother began, her voice smooth.

Where do you work? Erica’s voice was steady.

At the construction site, Ma, she said, I cook and sell food to the workers.

I also work as a tailor, and I completed business school as the top of my class.

His mother raised an eyebrow the slightest bit at the last part, but said nothing about it.

And your family? His father asked.

My mother is at home, Erica replied.

She is not strong, but I take care of her.

My father is late.

The room grew smaller.

The clock seemed louder.

Vincent, his father said slowly, turning to him.

You know the weight of your name.

Marriage is not only about feelings.

It is about alignment, about background, about readiness, and whether we like it or not, about class.

I understand, sir, Vincent replied, his voice calm.

His mother leaned forward, her eyes still on Erica.

We raised you for a certain future, she said.

You move in rooms that require a certain kind of partner.

Will this girl? She paused, then corrected herself.

Will Erica stand well in those rooms? Erica’s fingers tightened on her dress, then relaxed again.

She lifted her eyes to meet Vincent’s mother’s gaze.

Ma, she said quietly.

I don’t have much, but I work hard.

I respect people.

I learn fast and I am willing to grow.

That’s enough, my dear.

His mother cut in quickly.

Her smile was thin.

Character is good, she said.

But character is not everything.

Silence fell like a blanket.

The big TV on the wall showed pictures without sound.

The clock ticked.

His father turned to Vincent.

Think carefully, he said.

Feelings pass, consequences stay.

Vincent opened his mouth, then closed it.

He could feel Erica sitting very still beside him.

He wanted to reach for her hand, but too many old eyes were watching.

His mother stood up, smoothing her dress.

“Thank you for coming, Erica,” she said.

“We will talk as a family.

” The word family pushed Erica gently outside the circle.

Soon after they were outside walking towards the gate, the driver opened it for them.

A small breeze lifted a loose piece of hair at Erica’s temple.

She walked straight, her chin up.

Vincent walked beside her, his chest tight.

On the street outside, normal life returned at once.

Buses honked.

Someone shouted prices.

A child cried.

A seller pushed a wheelbarrow of oranges.

Vincent finally turned to her.

I’m sorry, he said quietly.

She gave him a small, brave smile.

I’m okay, she said.

They have a right to be afraid.

Many things are at stake.

Let’s take it one step at a time.

He nodded, but the sound of the clock in that quiet house followed him home.

That night, he sat alone in his small room again.

The fan ticked.

A street light outside drew a thin line of gold across the floor.

On the chair hung his cement stained clothes.

On the table lay a leather wallet with cards and keys that could still open the doors to his other life.

His phone vibrated.

Mom, we will talk tomorrow.

Think clearly.

Dad, come home.

He put the phone face down.

He opened his wardrobe.

On one side were his plain shirts, old jeans, and worn cap.

on the other a sealed garment bag with one of his old suits inside.

He touched the bag, then slowly closed the door without opening it.

He took a small piece of paper and wrote, “Choose the life that feels true.

Protect her peace.

” He pinned it above his small desk.

He thought of Erica checking tomatoes in the market, laughing at his tomato joke, wiping sweat off her forehead, feeding hungry workers, reading old business notes at night, standing in front of his parents without bowing her head too low.

His phone buzzed again.

He turned it off.

I’m walking away from everything that demands I be someone I’m not, he said into the room.

I choose the small room, the work, and the quiet with her.

Outside, a car slowed near his gate, then moved on.

He exhaled.

Days turned into weeks.

The sharp pain of that visit softened into a quiet ache.

Life went on.

He returned to the site.

He carried blocks.

Erica cooked.

They talked and walked when they could.

They didn’t speak much about his parents, but it sat there like a shadow at the edge of their peace.

Then one morning everything changed.

First came a short message from an uncle.

Call your father.

He called at once.

No answer.

Then a voice note from his cousin.

Brother.

Daddy collapsed this morning.

They rushed him to the hospital.

They’re still checking him.

By evening the family group chat was full.

Short prayers, fear, halftruths.

Some said stroke, some said heart, some said overwork.

No one knew clearly, but everyone was afraid.

The next day, another kind of message started.

Screenshots forwarded news.

A short business headline, shares of Admir group falling after rumor of founders’s illness.

Someone wrote in the group, board meets tonight.

Another, vendors are calling, people are worried, bank is asking questions.

Vincent sat on an upturned block at the edge of the site, phone in his hand, heart heavy.

Erica saw his face from her stand.

After the lunch rush, she washed her hands and came to sit beside him.

“What is it?” she asked softly.

“He did not hide this time.

” “My father is in the hospital,” he said, and the company is shaking.

He explained slowly, carefully.

He told her the full truth about who he was, about his father being the founder of a large company, about his surname standing on a tall glass building somewhere in the rich part of town, about his uncle who had always wanted more power.

Erica listened without interrupting, her eyes on his face.

When he finished, she was quiet for a while.

“So, you are not just a laborer,” she said slowly.

At last, “You are the son of the owner.

” “Yes,” he said.

You wanted to see if someone could love you without that name, she continued.

Yes, he said again.

She took a breath.

You should have told me earlier, she said honestly, but gently.

But I understand why you didn’t still right now.

The bigger thing is not my hurt.

The bigger thing is your father and that company both are shaking.

He looked at her.

You’re not angry.

I am a little, she said with a small honest shrug.

But if I use my anger now, it will not help your father.

We will talk about my feelings later.

For now, let’s think.

Let’s, he repeated.

She nodded.

You said the company is in trouble, she said.

Your father is ill.

Your uncle is probably moving to grab power.

People are afraid.

This is exactly the kind of thing we studied in school.

Let us use that.

He blinked.

Use school? Yes.

she said.

First thing, what do the rules of the company say about leadership when the founder is sick? There are bylaws, he said slowly.

A big book.

My father and I used to read parts of it together, but I haven’t looked at it in a long time.

Call the lawyers, she said at once.

The ones loyal to him, not your uncle.

Ask them to find that part and read it to you word for word.

No summary.

No, don’t worry.

You need exact words.

You need proof.

He nodded.

Okay.

Second, she continued, her voice gaining strength.

You must speak to the major shareholders before your uncle does.

Not with panic, with calm.

Tell them your father is ill but alive.

Tell them any fast move now will make the market more afraid.

Ask them to attend the board meeting and listen to you before they sign anything.

He stared at her.

Third, she said, call the finance team.

Tell them that because of the founders’s illness, you want any big payments or changes to be double approved by two trusted people.

That way, even if your uncle tries to move fast, he must pass through other hands.

Vincent just looked at her.

He saw not just the food seller, not just the tailor, not just the tired girl with rough hands, but the business school best student coming alive.

“I am sorry,” she said with a small self-conscious laugh.

I am talking too much.

You are not, he said quickly.

You are giving me a map.

He did exactly what she said.

That evening, he had his bath, changed into clean, simple clothes, and spent hours on the phone.

He called the lawyers.

They found the clause and read it out.

If the founder became too sick to exercise his duties, he could pass power to someone through a proper instruction witnessed by a doctor and a nurse.

If that did not happen, the board had rules to follow, but only under special steps.

He called key shareholders.

Some were cool, some were very worried.

He told each one the same thing.

My father is ill but alive.

Any sudden move now will harm the company more.

Please come to the meeting.

Let us follow the rules.

He called the finance team.

from today until I say otherwise,” he told them.

“No big payment or big change goes out without two trusted signatures.

Don’t make noise about it yet.

Just do it.

” Late that night, his phone buzzed again.

It was his father.

“Vincent?” His father’s voice was weak.

Machines beeped faintly behind him.

“I’m here, Dad,” Vincent said, his throat tight.

“I’m here, my son,” his father said slowly, breath heavy.

They will try to sit in my chair before I leave it.

I need you to stand up now, not as a boy chasing peace, but as a man protecting a house.

I have no other child.

Vincent closed his eyes.

I left that world because I was tired.

He said, “I found peace here.

I found someone here.

I don’t want to lose her or myself.

” His father’s laugh was short and weak.

Peace without purpose will still trouble your heart, he said.

Find a way to hold both.

But today you must protect what we built.

He coughed hard.

Voices rose behind him.

We have to sedate him now.

Someone said the line went dead.

Vincent lay awake till morning.

Beside him, Erica slept on her side, her hand resting near his arm like she had fallen asleep talking and never moved.

He watched her breathe in and out, in and out.

He knew with a strange calm that his two lives had collided and he would not be allowed to keep them separate anymore.

The boardroom was cold when he walked into it the next day.

Men and women sat around a long table, some with files, some with tablets, some with nervous eyes.

At the head of the table stood his uncle with a bright smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

Since our founder is unwell, his uncle began, tapping a small gavvel.

And since the market does not forgive delay, we must act fast.

We are here to ensure this company does not fall.

He showed a document on the projector.

Statement of inability, it read.

It claimed that the founder was too sick to lead and suggested that the uncle act as the temporary head.

Vincent felt anger rise, but remembered Erica’s words.

Don’t shout, use process.

Who signed that? He asked.

The medical officer and the company secretary, his uncle replied smoothly.

The bylaws say any such letter must be witnessed by two board members or contain the founders’s direct instruction, Vincent said.

Where are those? His uncle waved a hand.

This is an emergency.

We can fix the paperwork later.

Paperwork is the law, Vincent said quietly.

The company is bigger than our family.

We must follow what is written.

Some shareholders shifted in their seats.

His uncle pushed for a vote.

Hands began to rise.

They read out proxies, votes from people not present in the room.

The numbers climbed.

It was very close to giving his uncle full control.

Then Vincent’s phone buzzed on the table.

He glanced down.

A message from the nurse.

Sir, your father insisted we record this before sedation.

The doctor and I both present.

I am sending the audio now.

Sorry for the delay.

Network was bad.

An audio file came in.

Vincent picked up the phone and looked at the room.

Before you count, he said, you should hear from the founder himself.

Out of order, his uncle snapped.

We cannot let him play it.

One shareholder said from the far end.

Yes, let him play it.

Another agreed.

Vincent put the phone on speaker and held it close to the microphone.

The room went silent.

The soft beep of hospital machines filled the speakers.

Then his father’s voice came, weak but clear.

This is Adi, he said slowly.

I am ill, not absent.

Until I return, my son Vincent will exercise my chair powers as provided in section 7.

A second voice came on.

Dr.

Ku present eyewitness.

Then the nurse, FA, duty nurse, eyewitness.

The audio ended.

The room stayed silent for a long moment.

This meets the bylaw, Vincent said, his voice steady.

Founders’s instruction.

Medical witnesses.

Any plan to put someone else in that seat now breaks the rules of this company.

A shareholder stood up.

I withdraw my proxy until we see all documents properly, she said.

Two others followed her.

The count dropped.

His uncle’s majority broke.

We will follow process, Vincent continued.

By 6 p.

m.

today, we will send a clear message to staff and partners.

We will slow down any big moves.

We will meet again in 7 days with full notice.

This company will not be ruled in the shadows.

He turned to the company secretary.

Record it.

His uncle slowly put the gavl down.

His smile was gone.

When the meeting was over, people began to leave.

Some came to shake Vincent’s hand.

Some nodded.

A few avoided his eyes, ashamed.

His mother, who had been sitting quietly at the back, came forward.

“You spoke like your father today,” she said softly.

Vincent smiled faintly.

“I did not stand here alone,” he replied.

Erica helped me see the plan clearly.

His mother looked at him for a long moment.

Something softened further in her expression.

We will invite her again, she said slowly.

This time, we will talk as a family with her inside.

In the weeks that followed, as his father slowly got stronger in the hospital, his parents spent more time with Erica.

This time listening, not just testing.

They learned how she managed food costs when prices rose overnight.

How she handled stubborn customers.

how she used simple records to track which meals sold more.

How she applied business ideas on a small roadside scale.

His father listened from his bed one day during a visit when she quietly explained how fear in the market spreads when leaders speak in unclear ways.

You see things clearly, his father told her.

The company needs people like you, not just in the canteen, but around the table.

Her cheeks grew warm.

Thank you, sir, she said.

It did not happen with one conversation.

There were still tears, fears, and long talks.

But slowly, his parents’ hearts shifted.

In time, they gave their blessing.

Vincent and Erica chose not to have a grand wedding.

They picked a small hall behind a quiet church.

The walls were cream, the chairs were white, the flowers were simple, there was no magazine, no TV crew, no exaggerated decoration.

just family, a few close friends, some staff who had become dear, some sight workers who had walked with them from dust to this day.

Erica stood in a small room wearing a modest ivory dress that sat gently over the small curve of her belly.

Auntie Renie fixed the last pin in her hair.

Erica placed her hand over her stomach and whispered, “We are ready.

” More to herself and the baby than anyone else.

Out in the hall, Vincent greeted guests, shaking hands, accepting hugs with a calm smile.

His mother arrived, dressed simply but elegantly, her eyes softer than he had ever seen them.

She hugged him and held on a little longer than normal.

“Let today be gentle,” she said quietly.

“It will,” he replied.

Moments later, his father was wheeled in.

He had lost some weight, but his eyes were still bright.

He did not want drama, just a blanket over his legs and a simple place at the front.

When Vincent leaned down to greet him, his father cuped his son’s face with a trembling hand.

“Stand well,” he murmured.

“Finish well.

” The officient cleared his throat.

The choir sang a soft hymn.

For a second, the lights blinked as power dipped, and the hall held its breath.

Then the generator came on with a cough, and the lights steadied.

A few people laughed in relief.

“Good sign,” someone whispered.

“Life is real.

” Then the doors opened.

Erica walked in.

The hall seemed to grow quiet all at once.

Vincent could hear nothing but his own heart and the soft brush of her dress as she walked up the aisle, step by step, eyes fixed on him.

She did not look away.

Neither did he.

When she reached him, they stood side by side, shoulders almost touching, hands just apart.

The offician spoke about love, about daily choices, about forgiveness, about the small things that build a strong home.

He talked about plenty and lack, sickness and health, joy and grief.

Are you ready to choose each other again and again? He asked.

Yes, they both answered.

Vincent went first.

I promise to keep our life honest, he said, looking straight into her eyes, to protect your peace.

To listen.

To stand beside you when it is hard and when it is beautiful.

To never forget where we started.

To remember the dust and the stew in the days when you fed me when I was just another man at a gate.

Erica’s eyes filled with tears.

I promise to walk with you in truth, she replied.

to carry our home with patience.

To speak when I am afraid, to pray when I am tired, to remember who you are with or without money, to choose you again every morning.

They exchanged rings, simple bands that shone softly in the light.

By the authority given to me, the officient said, smiling warmly.

Ily I declare you husband and wife.

They shared a kiss, brief, careful, real.

The room filled with gentle applause.

Afterwards they stepped outside.

The evening air smelled like rain but did not fall yet.

Guests threw rice.

Someone alulated joyfully.

A baby clapped off beat and laughed at his own sound.

Vincent’s mother hugged Erica tightly and did not let go quickly.

Welcome.

She whispered into her ear.

Truly welcome.

Inside again, Vincent knelt by his father’s wheelchair.

His father took Erica’s hand and placed it over Vincent’s.

“Build quietly,” he said, squeezing their hands.

“Srong houses, don’t shout.

” There was food.

Jolof rice, fried rice, meat, plantin, soft drinks, laughter.

No long speeches, just a few short toasts and many smiles.

Erica moved slowly through the hall, one hand resting on her belly as aunties blessed her and uncles shook her hand.

She was a little tired, but deeply at peace.

Later, when the hall was nearly empty and the night felt softer, Vincent and Erica stood by the doorway, fingers intertwined.

“One day at a time,” he said.

She nodded.

“One day at a time,” she echoed.

Vincent’s mansion did not feel like a museum anymore.

Morning light poured through the tall windows and did not just bounce off cold surfaces.

It fell across rugs Auntie Renie had chosen, across a coffee table scattered with papers and baby magazines, across shoes left under chairs in a bag resting near the door.

The echo in the big corridors softened, first with Erica’s light footsteps, then with the sound of everyday life, the whistle of the kettle, cupboard doors closing, the clink of spoons against cups.

They kept the kitchen alive.

Some days the chef cooked and the staff served.

Many days Erica insisted on cooking herself.

I can’t allow you people to turn me into visitor in my own kitchen, she said laughing.

Vincent always joined her there like an assistant.

He cut onions.

This is tear gas, he would say, blinking rapidly.

Washed tomatoes, cleaned fish, fetched plates.

He watched her move confidently, seasoning not with fear but with experience.

He teased her that she measured salt with her smile.

The staff respected her quickly.

She learned their names, asked about their families, noticed when someone looked tired and should sit down.

Madam no longer sounded like a title to fear.

It sounded like a person they liked.

Sometimes Vincent returned from the office tired.

The company was still healing.

There were meetings, plans, small fires to put out.

He made sure to leave the office at a human hour.

He would walk into the house, loosen his tie, and find Erica at the dining table reading something.

“What are you reading?” he would ask.

“Your report,” she would say, pushing it towards him.

“This part is clear.

This part is not.

Here, people will panic when they read this line.

You must say the truth, but you must also give them hope.

” He listened.

He adjusted his words.

He sent emails that did not just sound smart, but also kind.

In quiet moments, he looked at her and remembered the girl at the gate, hands stained with stew, brain full of knowledge nobody had hired.

Now, that same brain was guiding big choices from their dining table.

Sundays, they kept an old habit alive.

After church, they did not always stay in their big house.

Some Sundays they told the driver to rest.

They drove themselves in a simple car back towards the old area where they had first met.

They walked along the street, passing the spot where the sight gate used to be the center of their world.

The building that once was a skeleton of rods and blocks now stood tall and finished.

Glass, stone, and fresh paint.

The dust was mostly gone.

New shops lined the street.

Sometimes they saw a young woman at a food stand serving workers and allowing a hungry boy to pay less than full price.

They would look at each other and smile, remembering.

They often bought roasted corn and zoobo like before, sat on a low bench, and watched people pass.

“Do you miss the sight?” she would ask.

“A little,” he would say.

“Not the pain, not the sun, but the lesson, the people, and you with your coolers.

I miss it too sometimes, she would reply.

But I don’t miss waking at 4:30.

They would laugh.

The nursery in their home was simple and warm.

White curtains, a small carved baby cot, a rocking chair by the window, scent leaves in a small bowl on the sill because Auntie Renie said it was good.

Sometimes late at night, Vincent stood at the doorway watching Erica asleep on the bed, one hand on her belly.

He walked over, placed his hand there gently, and felt a small kick.

“We will do our best,” he whispered.

“One day at a time.

” His mother visited often, bringing fruit and stories.

Her eyes were gentler now.

His father came when he could, walking slowly at first with a stick, then with more strength as time passed.

He liked to sit in a small sitting room upstairs where the light was soft and the chairs were not too hard and watch them move around.

You see, he told his wife one afternoon as Erica and Vincent laughed over a pot of stew in the distance.

Strong houses don’t shout, they grow like this.

Once a week, no matter how busy life was, Vincent and Erica kept another small tradition.

They would turn off their work phones, leave drivers and staff behind and step out together, just the two of them.

Sometimes they went to a small garden, sometimes just walked around their neighborhood.

They talked about the baby, about the company, about old memories, about new dreams.

They did not need luxury to feel rich.

They had seen both sides of life now.

dusty blocks and polished floors, roadside stew and fine dining, noisy sights and quiet boardrooms.

And they had found a way to carry both without losing themselves.

One evening, as they sat on the back terrace of the mansion, eating roasted corn and drinking cold zobo like the old days, Erica leaned on his shoulder.

“Do you think we would have found each other if you didn’t come to that site?” she asked.

He thought for a moment.

I don’t know, he said honestly.

But I’m glad I did.

Carrying blocks led me to you.

She smiled, closing her eyes.

One day at a time, she asked.

Always, he replied.

The mansion learned their laughter.

The study learned to close at 6.

The dining table learned simple meals and second helpings.

And when the wind moved through the trees outside at night, it no longer sounded lonely.

It sounded like a quiet prayer that had finally been answered.

They lived there fully, quietly, joyfully, one day at a time, happily ever after.