The afternoon sun was brutal, turning the city of Lagos into an oven. In a park in Lagos, the shadows stretched long and sharp across the grass. But Chief Jeremiah Williams did not feel the heat. He was a man whose name carried weight from the high-rise boardrooms down to the gritty streets of Victoria Island.
Jerry sat heavily on a park bench, feeling every bit of his age. Beside him sat his seven-year-old daughter, Maya. She looked so small, wrapped in a thick designer cardigan. Despite the humid air, her tiny hands were gripped tightly around a white mobility cane, a sight that still felt like a punch to Jerry’s gut every time he looked at it.
Jerry checked his Rolex. He had built empires and conquered the cutthroat world of Nigerian real estate. But time was the one thing his money could not buy back. He watched Maya staring blankly at a group of pigeons she could no longer see. And for all his billions, he felt completely helpless. For six months, Maya’s world had been fading into a fog.
He had flown in the best eye doctors from London and Dubai, but they all gave him the same grim looks and confusing medical terms. They called it pediatric macular degeneration. They blamed genes. They blamed the environment. But in the middle of the night, when the house was quiet, Jerry felt a cold dread in his bones. This did not feel like a disease.
