Khadija hears the crowd before she sees them. Angry. Violent. Hungry for blood. She half stumbles, half runs through the darkness, her slippers slapping against the uneven road, her hijab flapping behind her like a frightened bird. The mob is closer now, closing in from different directions. She doesn’t see the stacks of plastic chairs as she turns the corner and crashes into them. Pain shoots through her left hip, slowing her even further.
She can see them now, hurling bitter curses and heavy accusations as they close in. Every one of them is faceless.
Someone reaches for her shoulder.
Her hand jerks before the rest of her body wakes.
Khadija bolts upright in her chair, breath catching in her throat. Her heart is still hammering, and her shirt clings damply to her skin. The digital clock above the pharmacy’s entrance reads 3:37 AM. It takes her a moment to remember where she is.
It’s going to be a long shift.
The nightmare loosens its grip, and the pharmacy returns, quiet except for the Mikano generator thumping outside, its vibration travelling through the tiled floor into her bones. The air conditioner overhead blasts a freezing current, making the dampness on the back of her neck turn icy.
She rubs her face hard, her palms scraping against the fabric of her hijab. Reaching into her tote bag, she pulls out her Eva water bottle. The water is lukewarm, but she drinks it greedily, trying to wash away the fear the dream left behind. She avoids opening the beverage cooler. The buzzer is louder than it needs to be, and sudden noises tighten something in her chest.
To keep herself awake, Khadija stands. Her left hip throbs. She rubs at it before reaching for the stock ledger.
Four o’clock. Time for stock.
It’s the same routine every night: counting boxes of Lonart and Amartem DS while the rest of the city sleeps. Walking down the narrow aisles, she taps each medicine box, her fingers moving mechanically. The fluorescent lights flicker twice.
She sighs.
As if tonight needs another problem.
She makes a mental note to tell Baba Festus to check the diesel.
The silence outside eventually breaks. From the megaphone of the mosque two streets over, the Adhan pierces the dark morning air. Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…
A few moments later, the distant, rhythmic clapping of a nearby white-garment church joins in, the sounds overlapping as they often do.
She walks into the tiny staff bathroom, shivers as the freezing tap water hits her skin for wudu, then returns to place her small prayer mat behind the dispensing counter. She prays with one ear turned toward the heavy iron gate outside.
By 5:03 AM, the sky is the colour of an old bruise.
The sharp metallic rattle of the outer security grille makes her flinch. Her pulse jumps before she can remind herself it’s probably just a customer. Khadija slides her feet back into her slippers and steps up to the secure counter window.
A man stands in the dim morning light, his face partially shadowed beneath a faded baseball cap. He shivers, shoulders drawn tight against the cold. Behind him, a yellow Danfo bus idles at the curb.
“Sister,” the man’s voice rasps through the small metal speaking grille. “Good morning o. Please, I need something for body pain. My chest, my back, everything is just burning.”
Khadija studies his eyes—bloodshot and framed by deep, dark circles. Just another tired driver trying to get through the morning.
“Have you eaten anything this morning?” she asks.
“Eaten? This early?” He lets out a weary chuckle. “If I no move this motor now, taskforce go pack me. Just give me something strong, abeg.”
She turns to the shelves, reaching first for the Emzor paracetamol before pausing over the Alabukun powder. He shouldn’t take either on an empty stomach. But she also knows the reality of his day.
She reaches beneath the counter for a sachet of water.
“Take the paracetamol now with the water,” she says, sliding the medicine through the rotating drum chute. “Don’t use the powder until you buy bread at the garage. You hear?”
The driver nods, slipping a crumpled, damp one-thousand-naira note through the cash slot. The paper smells of petrol and old sweat.
“Thank you, Sister. God bless your work,” he mutters, already turning back toward his idling bus.
Khadija watches him go, the heavy iron gate clicking shut behind him. She smooths the wrinkled note before dropping it into the metal cash box. The pharmacy is quiet again.
By 6:15 AM, the purple sky gives way to a hard orange morning. The aggressive thumping of the generator outside suddenly cuts out, replaced by the smooth hum of the national grid. Within seconds, vendors are shouting outside, and the distant blare of car horns signals that the city is fully awake.
The heavy front glass doors click open. The chime above the entrance rings. It is Chinedu, the morning pharmacist, smelling of fresh soap and cheap cologne, carrying a plastic bag that gives off the aroma of hot akara.
“Khadija, senior girl! Well done o,” Chinedu greets cheerfully, dropping the bag on the counter. “How was the night? Any drama?”
“Normal night shift,” Khadija replies, her voice flat with exhaustion. She slides the cardboard-backed stock ledger and the metal cash box towards him. “The cash is counted. The Amartem stock balances. No issues.”
“Perfect. Go home and sleep, my sister. You tried,” Chinedu says, already clicking the computer mouse to log into the morning system.
Khadija grabs her tote bag, slings it over her shoulder, and steps into the warm morning air. The sun catches her eyes, making her squint.
People say the streets are safer in daylight.
Khadija has never been sure.
Read more about the Author Temitope Oloruntoba
