You don't need to be guilty before you face injustice. Martha learnt this the hard way.

Martha’s hands were shaking when her phone rang. It was Friday evening, right in the middle of Easter break. She’d barely sat down with her two kids, Jessica who was six and little Philip who was four, when her boss barked down the line:  

“Martha, you’re needed in Anambra State by 12 tomorrow. Don’t be late.”  

No “sorry for the short notice,” no “we’ll sort out your pay,” just that. And then he hung up. Her heart sank for a second, then she remembered her husband, lying in a hospital bed for months. She had to go.  

Jessica peeked around the sofa arm. “Are you leaving us again, Mummy?”  

Martha forced a smile. “Not this time, baby. I’ll take you both.”  

Their holiday trip turned into an overnight car ride at dawn. Their old Toyota rattled down potholed roads out of Lagos, the children asleep in the back.  

Soon enough, the checkpoints started. There was no “please”—just guys in uniforms stepping in front of her bonnet, hands out. Martha gave what she could, each N200 or N100 bill feeling more precious than gold.  

By the third stop, she’d only 200 naira left. Then she saw a young hawker balancing cashew nuts on her head. She spent the last cash on them and gave to Jessica and Philip. For a moment, Martha felt proud that she still managed to get her kids something nice.  

A few miles down, another checkpoint. Same routine. “You got anything for us?” the officer demanded.  

Martha opened her purse. Empty.  

He looked at her in annoyance. “Park that side first,” he said, pointing to the roadside.  

She obeyed, heart pounding. He called another officer over, whisperedto him, then went off to stop the next car.  

The second officer approached, adjusting his cap. “Name, papers.”  

Martha handed over her license and registration. He strolled off and, just like that, vanished to the other side of the road.  Martha waited for a while yet no one returned.  

Inside the car, Jessica started cough. A deep, rattling cough. Martha’s blood froze - Jessica had asthma. Door flung open. No inhaler. Forgot to check it last night in the rush.  

“Jessica!” Martha held her daughter upright, patting her back. Panic rose. She ran toward the highway, waving, begging for help. The checkpoint officers shrugged. Nobody stirred.  

Finally, a bus driver stopped. Martha jumped in with Jessica, leaving Philip crying for her. She didn’t care.  

The hospital was kilometers away, every second dragging. Jessica’s wheezing got louder, her face turning pale. Doctors shouted, gave injections, hooked her up to oxygen. Martha waited in the corridor.  

By the time they called her into the room, Jessica’s small chest lay still. Martha’s scream echoed off the walls.  

A week later, she got a text from her boss: “We’ve replaced you. Good luck.”  

Luck. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any left.  

Martha filed complaints. Went to court three times. Officers didn’t show. Cases thrown out for “lack of evidence.”  

They never said sorry. They never paid.  

But Martha kept breathing. Because if she stopped, she’d die too.  

Every time she passes a roadside stall now, she remembers those cashew nuts. Just cashew nuts, yet they cost her everything.  

In a lawless country, the smallest thing can shatter a life. And no one says they’re sorry.  

But Martha still hopes. Someday, she tells herself, someone will learn that injustice can’t be brushed off so easily.  

Until then, she tells her story - one nut at a time.