She Collapsed, Her 2yrs old Twins Dialled A Random Phone Number, A Billionaire Showed Up With…
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The Call That Changed Everything
The sun beat harshly on the corrugated iron roof of Amaka’s small one-room apartment in Surulere, Lagos. Inside, the air was stifling, thick with the smell of kerosene from the small stove in the corner. A pot of watery pap simmered gently—the only meal she could afford to prepare for her two-year-old twins that afternoon. Her children, Chisom and Chioma, played on the torn raffia mat by the bed. Their giggles carried a raw hunger—both for food and for the warmth of a life their mother struggled daily to provide.
Amaka stirred the pot slowly, her arms trembling. She had been feeling faint for days, her chest tightening now and then, but she pushed on. “I must not give up. Not for them,” she whispered, glancing lovingly at her children. But as she turned to remove the pot from the fire, a sudden pain—sharp and crushing—shot through her chest. She gasped, clutching her heart as her knees buckled beneath her.
“Mommy!” Chisom’s little voice rang out, confused. Amaka staggered toward the bed, but collapsed hard onto the cold cement floor before she could reach it. Her body went still, her breath shallow. The twins froze. Then Chioma let out a piercing scream. “Mommy! Mommy!”
Chisom crawled quickly to her side, tugging at her wrapper. “Mommy, wake up! Wake up!” His babbled words broke into sobs, but Amaka did not move. The children cried louder, their wails filling the room.
Chioma, in her panic, spotted the battered Nokia phone lying on the stool beside the bed. She grabbed it with her tiny hands, pressing the buttons at random. The phone came alive, dialing a number. Neither child knew what they had done, but fate had already decided someone, somewhere, would hear their cry.
On the other side of Lagos Island, in a towering glass building at Victoria Island, Kola Adeyemi sat behind his wide oak desk. At 36, he was the billionaire CEO of one of Nigeria’s fastest-growing tech companies. The office around him buzzed with activity—executives rushing to and fro with files, laptops, and reports. But Kola’s mind was far away. He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. To the world, he was a man who had everything—wealth, power, respect. Yet, in the quiet of his heart, there was an emptiness money could not fill. He lived alone in his mansion, his days swallowed by endless meetings and boardroom battles.
Just as he closed his eyes for a brief moment of rest, his phone rang. The screen flashed an unknown number. Kola frowned. “Another spam call,” he muttered, but something nudged him to pick it up.
“Hello, this is Kola Adeyemi speaking.” Silence. He was about to hang up when he heard it—a loud, heart-wrenching cry of a child. “Wawa! Mommy! Wake up!”
Kola sat upright, his hand tightening on the phone. “What? Who is this? Hello? Can you hear me?” Through the receiver came more cries. Another tiny voice, broken and desperate, spoke between sobs. “Mommy fall down. Mommy no stand up. Help!”
Kola’s heart pounded. He turned in his chair, gripping the phone tighter. “Child, listen. I need you to tell me where you are, okay? Where are you? Can you tell me?” But the only response was crying—sharp, helpless wails of children who couldn’t explain. In the background, he heard the faint static hum of a small television, the clatter of something falling to the floor, and muffled sobs echoing in a small room.
Kola rose to his feet immediately and pressed the intercom. “Segun, get the IT team here now.”
Within moments, his personal assistant rushed in. “Yes, sir?”
“I just received a call from children. Something’s wrong. Trace the call location fast.”
Segun blinked in shock but nodded, dialing the internal team. Minutes later, a voice came through the speaker. “Sir, we’ve traced the number. It’s coming from Surulere, a small compound off Alhaji Musa Street.”
Kola grabbed his car keys without hesitation. “Call emergency services—ambulance, police, everyone. I’m heading there now.”
“Sir, should you—” Segun stammered, but Kola was already striding out of the office, his voice firm. “If I don’t go, those children may lose their mother tonight.”
The elevator doors slid open with a sharp ding, and Kola stormed out. His long strides echoed through the marble-floored lobby of AdeTech headquarters. His driver, Musa, already stood waiting by the sleek black Range Rover, puzzled by his boss’s sudden urgency.
“Musa, start the engine. We’re going to Surulere. Fast,” Kola ordered, his voice sharp with urgency.
“Yes, sir,” Musa replied, rushing to open the door.
As the car roared to life, Kola dialed emergency services. “This is Kola Adeyemi. I just received a distress call from children in Surulere. Their mother has collapsed. Send an ambulance to Alhaji Musa Street immediately. They’ll meet me there.”
The dispatcher hesitated at first, but Kola’s voice was commanding, brooking no delay. “We’re dispatching now, sir.”
Kola ended the call and sat forward, his jaw clenched. His mind kept replaying the tiny voices—broken, terrified, pleading. “Mommy fall down. Help!” He ran his hand across his forehead. What if he was too late? What if those children lost her before they arrived?
The SUV weaved through Lagos traffic, honking and swerving past danfos and okadas. The city was alive with chaos—street vendors calling out their wares, hawkers tapping on windows—the usual Lagos noise. But inside the SUV, silence reigned, except for the pounding of Kola’s heart.
Finally, they turned into a narrow lane where small compounds stood packed tightly together. By then, an ambulance was already parked outside a faded yellow building. Neighbors had gathered, murmuring anxiously, pointing toward one of the rooms.
Kola jumped out before the car fully stopped, his expensive shoes splashing into muddy puddles without a second thought. He pushed through the crowd. “Where is she? Where are the children?” he demanded.
A woman carrying a baby pointed toward a door. “Inside that room, sir. The children have been crying since. The mother—she no dey move.”
Kola’s heart clenched as he rushed toward the open doorway. Inside, the room was dim and cramped. On the cement floor lay a woman, unconscious, her wrapper twisted, her face pale and damp with sweat. Two tiny toddlers clung to her, their little faces streaked with tears. One of them, Chioma, still held the Nokia phone in her tiny hand, her sobs filling the air. Her brother, Chisom, tugged weakly at his mother’s wrapper, his voice hoarse from crying. “Mommy! Mommy! Wake up!”
Kola’s throat tightened. He had seen many things in his life, but never this—innocence pleading against death. “Over here!” he called out to the paramedics.
They rushed in with a stretcher, checking Amaka’s pulse. “She’s still breathing—weak but alive. We need to move her now.”
As they lifted her, Chioma wailed louder, refusing to let go. Kola bent down gently, scooping both children into his arms. They clung to him, their tiny fists gripping his shirt as though sensing he was their only hope.
“It’s okay,” Kola whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You did well—both of you. You saved your mommy.”
The children buried their wet faces against his chest as he carried them out into the night.
The ambulance doors slammed shut, its siren blaring as it tore through the narrow Surulere streets toward Lagos University Teaching Hospital. Inside, Amaka lay on the stretcher, an oxygen mask fitted over her face, her pulse faint but steady. Behind the ambulance, Kola’s Range Rover followed closely. He sat in the back seat with the twins still clinging to him, their tiny bodies trembling, their cheeks wet with tears.
“Shh… It’s okay,” Kola whispered, rocking them gently, his voice soft in a way even he did not recognize. “Your mommy is going to be fine. We’ll make sure she’s fine.” But deep inside, his chest tightened. He had no guarantee she would live. He didn’t even know this woman’s name. Yet the thought of those children losing her filled him with a fear he couldn’t explain.
When they arrived at the hospital, nurses rushed Amaka into the emergency ward. Kola tried to follow, but a stern nurse blocked his way. “Sir, only medical staff beyond this point.”
“I’ll cover all her bills,” Kola said quickly, his voice urgent. “Just… just save her.”
The nurse blinked at him, surprised by his tone, then nodded before hurrying away. Left in the waiting area, Kola lowered himself onto a plastic chair, the twins still in his arms. They had quieted now, their exhausted sobs reduced to hiccups. Chioma clutched his tie tightly while Chisom’s little head rested against his chest.
Minutes turned into hours. The white walls of the waiting room, the faint smell of disinfectant, the occasional cries of other patients—all blurred around Kola. He couldn’t take his eyes off the door that led to the emergency ward.
Finally, a doctor emerged, removing his gloves. Kola stood immediately, heart pounding. “How is she?”
“She’s stable for now,” the doctor said. “She suffered a cardiac episode—very dangerous, but luckily help arrived on time. Another 10–15 minutes, and she might not have survived.”
Kola exhaled, his shoulders sagging in relief. He looked down at the children, still clutching him, and whispered, “You did it. You truly saved her.”
That night, as Amaka lay unconscious in the hospital ward, Kola sat beside her, the twins asleep in his arms. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt as though the lives of these three strangers had suddenly entwined with his. And deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.
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