EPISODE: 2

• One evening, a Maka knelt beside her mother’s mat and held her hand tightly. “Mama, don’t worry. I’ll go pick trash. I’ll sell and make money for your medicine.” Her mother smiled through her tears. “Amaka, you are just a child.” But Amaka shook her head. “I am all you have. You’ve taken care of me all my life. Now it’s my turn.
• ” From that day onward, Amaka stopped going to school. Every morning she carried her sack on her tiny back and walked barefoot to the dump sites. She combed through mountains of rotting food, broken glass, and flies. Her small hands picked tirelessly. Her back achd, her skin darkened under the sun. But she didn’t stop.
• She sold bottles and iron scraps to dealers, collecting little coins. To her surprise, sometimes she made more than her mother ever had. But even that was never enough. Medicine was too expensive, food was too little, and the world too unfair. Yet, despite everything, Amaka’s spirit did not break. Her mother’s weak smile was her fuel.
• Each time, Mama Amaka whispered, “I am proud of you, my daughter.” Amaka felt like a queen. She was only 12, but life had already forced her to become a mother to her own mother. Far away from the swamp, where Amaka and her mother fought poverty and silence, the other side of the city glittered with wealth.
• The streets of Ecoy shown with polished mansions, tall fences, and neatly trimmed lawns. Behind one of the tallest gates stood a palac-like home, marble floors, crystal chandeliers, fountains that never stopped flowing. It was the house of Chief Anduka, a billionaire whose name commanded respect across Nigeria. To outsiders, he had everything. Power, money, fame. But inside those golden walls, a man was broken.
• For Chief Anduka had lost what all his wealth could never buy back, his wife, Lady Chica. She had been the love of his life, his confidant, his best friend. She was graceful, kind, and full of laughter. The day he married her, he had whispered into her ears, “Even if the whole world leaves me, you will be enough.” And she had smiled, promising to stand by him.
• But death is a cruel thief. Lady Chica died during childbirth. The joy of welcoming their first child was crushed by the agony of her last breath. One moment she was smiling through the pain, whispering, “Duca, promise me you will take care of our baby.” The next, her eyes shut forever. Chief Anda held her lifeless hand and screamed her name until his voice cracked.
• The hospital room was filled with his cries, but no one could answer him. Money could not bribe death. All the riches in his bank account could not stop the silence that swallowed her. Now every night he sat in her empty dressing room, holding her clothes close to his face, inhaling the faint scent of her perfume. Sometimes he spoke to her picture as if she were alive. His mansion echoed with his loneliness.
• The only piece of her left behind was their newborn daughter. Tiny, fragile, yet carrying Lady Chica’s beauty in her small face. Chief Anduka adored her, but each time he looked at her, his heart bled. She reminded him of what he had lost. He would rock her in his arms with tears rolling down his cheeks, whispering, “Your mother died to bring you here.
• You are my treasure, my little princess. I will protect you with my life.” Around the baby’s neck hung a golden necklace. It was an heirloom passed down in Lady Chica’s family, a symbol of love and lineage. Before she died, she had begged that the necklace never leave the child. But not everyone saw the baby as a blessing.
• Chief Anda’s relatives had been waiting for this moment. Greedy uncles and envious cousins who once bowed before him now gathered in shadows, whispering like snakes. This man is too rich. If the child grows, everything will go to her. We must act quickly. She is the only heir. Without her, we can take control of his fortune.
• One cousin, Usuzo, slammed his fist on the table during a secret meeting. The child must not live. Once she is gone, the man will break completely and his empire will fall into our hands. Their plan was wicked, but greed had blinded their hearts.
• They convinced one of the servants, a man named Dyke, with promises of money and position. Take the baby, they ordered him. Make sure she disappears. Leave her in the gutters, in the slums, anywhere she will not survive. Dyke hesitated, but the greed of wealth is strong. That very night, when the mansion slept in silence, he crept into the nursery. The baby stirred softly in her crib, her tiny fingers clutching the air as if reaching for her dead mother.
• Dyke’s hands trembled as he lifted her. She was warm, innocent, and helpless. But he wrapped her in a torn blanket and carried her out into the darkness. The city streets were silent. The further he walked, the dirtier the roads became. Street lights grew fewer, and the polished roads turned into muddy paths.

EPISODE: 3

• The air rire of sewage. Finally, he reached the slums, a place where even stray dogs starved. There, beside a dump site buzzing with flies, Dyke laid the baby down. She whimpered, her voice fragile, but no one cared. He threw the torn blanket over her, muttered a quick prayer to silence his guilt, and hurried away.
• He did not notice the golden necklace still shining faintly in the moonlight. Back in the mansion, Chief and Duka woke the next morning and rushed to the nursery only to find it empty. His heart stopped. He screamed until the entire household gathered. “Where is my daughter? Where is my child?” The mansion erupted in panic, but none dared tell him the truth.
• Chief Anda fell to his knees, holding the crib where his baby once lay. “Chica,” he cried, his voice echoing. “First you, now our child. Must I lose everything?” He locked himself in his room, refusing food, refusing counsel. His heart was shattered beyond words. He thought his daughter gone forever. He thought fate had stolen both wife and child in one cruel sweep.
• But fate was not finished with the story. For in the very same city, just as one life was abandoned to die in the trash, another life, the life of a poor trash-picking girl, was about to cross paths with destiny. The night was unusually cold in the swamp.
• The wind howled through the cracks in the zinc walls, rattling loose sheets like the cries of ghosts. A maca, with her sack slung over her bony shoulder, trudged along the dirt path from the city’s dump site. She had spent the entire day digging through mountains of refues. her bare hands sifting through broken bottles, plastic bags, and rotting food.
• Her reward was a half-filled sack of bottles and cans that might fetch enough money for a few cups of girie. Her body achd, her stomach rumbled, and her feet were blistered. Yet, as she walked home, she hummed softly. It was a lullaby her mother often sang to her when she was younger. Somehow, singing made her forget the gnawing hunger, if only for a while. Then suddenly she stopped. A sound pierced through the night air. At first she thought it was the wailing of a key or the creed of a distant bird.
• But no, it was sharper, weaker, fragile. It was the cry of a baby. A mocka froze, her heart thutdded against her chest. She turned her head toward the sound, her eyes darting around the darkness. The cry came again, this time louder, desperate, trembling. Without thinking, she dropped her sack of scraps and ran toward the direction of the sound.
• Her bare feet slapped against the mud, her breath quickening. The stench grew stronger as she approached the dump site. Rats scattered in panic and fly buzzed in angry clouds. There, between heaps of rotten food and broken crates, lay a tiny bundle wrapped in a dirty torn blanket. The cries came from within. Amaka’s lips parted in disbelief. She knelt, her trembling hands reaching for the bundle.
• Slowly, she peeled back the filthy cloth and her breath caught in her throat. It was a baby. The child’s face was pale, her tiny lips trembling, her fists weakly moving as if fighting the cold. Amaka felt tears sting her eyes. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “Who could do this?” She looked around desperately, hoping to see someone rushing back for the child.
• But the dump site was empty, only shadows in the distant barking of stray dogs. Whoever had abandoned this baby had no intention of returning. For a moment, fear gripped her. She was just 12. She had no food, no money, not even a proper bed at home. What if I can’t take care of her? What if she dies in my hands? But then the baby let out another cry, weaker this time, as if her voice was fading. Amaka’s heart shattered. She couldn’t leave her.
• She couldn’t walk away. “No,” Amaka whispered firmly, lifting the child into her arms. “I won’t let you die here. I don’t care if we have nothing. I won’t leave you.” As she cradled the baby against her chest, something caught her eye. A faint shimmer around the child’s neck. It was a golden necklace, delicate yet beautiful, glowing faintly under the pale moonlight. A maca frowned.
• How can a baby left in the trash wear something like this? But she didn’t have time to think. The child needed warmth. Quickly, she pulled off her own thin scarf and wrapped it around the baby. She held her close, whispering words she herself needed to believe. Don’t cry. I’m here. You’re safe now.
• By the time Amaka reached their swamp batcher house, her arms achd from carrying both the sack and the baby. She pushed the wooden door open with her shoulder, her heart racing. Mama Amaka was lying on the mat, coughing weakly, her infected legs swollen and throbbing. When she saw Amaka enter with the bundle, she struggled to sit up.