by Kashibu Victory
Photo by Jouni Rajala on Unsplash
The first thing you notice in Ajegunle Extension is not the noise, but the thirst.
It hides beneath everything else. Beneath the shouting of traders, the rumble of passing okadas, the laughter of children playing barefoot in narrow alleys. It lingers in empty drums lined outside homes, in plastic bottles turned upside down, waiting.
Waiting for water that rarely comes.
Every morning before dawn, fifteen-year-old Amina ties her scarf and lifts her jerrycan.
Her younger brother, Tunde, stirs as she steps outside.
“Will there be water today?” he mumbles.
Amina pauses.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But I have to try.”
At the far end of the settlement stands a single public tap.
It is old, rusted, and unreliable.
Still, by 4:30 a.m., a long queue forms.
Women, children, even elderly men are standing in quiet determination, holding containers like fragile promises.
Today, like many days, the tap coughs once… then nothing.
A murmur spreads.
“Again?”
“They said supply came last night!”
“Where did it go?”
Amina lowers her head. Another wasted morning.
On her walk back, she takes the longer route. Not because she wants to—but because she can’t stop looking.
Beyond a high concrete wall lies a different world. Glass buildings, smooth roads, security gates. And above it all, stretching like shining rivers in the air—Pipes.
Huge, silver pipes.
Always full.
Always moving.
Amina first noticed them years ago when her father was still alive.
“Baba, what’s inside those pipes?” she had asked.
“Water,” he replied.
“Then why don’t we have any?”
Her father had looked at the wall for a long time before answering.
“Because not everything that is near is meant to reach us.”
Now, standing alone, Amina isn’t sure she believes that anymore.
Because the pipes are too close.
Too full.
Too real.
That afternoon, she finds Chinedu behind his uncle’s workshop.
Chinedu is known in Ajegunle Extension as “the fixer.” If something is broken—radio, fan, wiring—he finds a way.
“I want to show you something,” Amina says.
He raises an eyebrow. “If it is trouble, I am not interested.”
“It is water.”
That gets his attention. They stand together by a weak spot in the wall, where cracks reveal glimpses of the world beyond.
Chinedu whistles softly.
“That is a direct supply line,” he says, studying the pipes. “High pressure. No interruptions.”
Amina turns to him. “Can we get some?”
Chinedu laughs nervously. “You don’t just ‘get’ from a system like that.”
“People are thirsty,” she says simply.
He stops laughing.
For days, the idea hangs between them.
Dangerous, Impossible but Necessary.
On the fifth night, Chinedu shows up at Amina’s door.
“I have been thinking,” he says.
“That’s usually how trouble starts,” she replies.
He smirks. “Or how solutions begin.”
They move under the cover of darkness. The settlement sleeps, but hunger and thirst never fully rest. Through a broken section of the wall, they slip into the restricted area. Up close, the pipes are even more overwhelming.
They hum softly—alive with movement. Amina reaches out, her fingers brushing against the metal. It felt cold, full but unfair.
“Keep watch,” Chinedu whispers.
He unwraps his tools—pieces of metal, rubber tubing, something that looks like it was never meant for this purpose.
“What if it doesn’t work?” Amina asks.
He doesn’t look up. “Then we walk away.”
“And if it does?”
He pauses. “Then everything changes.”
Minutes stretch.
Every sound feels louder. Every shadow feels closer.
Then—a sharp click.
A hiss.
A sudden vibration.
And finally, water.
It bursts through the small pipe Chinedu has created, flowing fast and clear into a waiting container.
Amina gasps, covering her mouth.
It is real.
It is real.
The next morning, Ajegunle Extension wakes up to something unfamiliar.
Abundance.
At the edge of the settlement, water flows from a hidden outlet. At first, only a few people noticed.
Then more.
And more. Soon, there is a crowd—but this time, not a queue of waiting but a gathering of relief.
Children splash their faces, laughing. Women fill buckets without arguing. Even the air feels lighter. For a moment, thirst loosens its grip.
Amina stands back, watching Tunde run up to her, his face wet and shining.
“It is real!” he says. “Water is coming!”
She kneels, hugging him tightly.
“Yes,” she whispers. “It is.”
But nothing hidden stays hidden forever.
By evening, security trucks arrive. The pipe is discovered. The connection is cut. The water stops.
Just like that.
Voices rise. In anger.
“You mean it was always there?”
“They have enough to waste while we suffer?”
“Why are we not included?”
The questions spread faster than the water ever did.
That night, Amina sits outside, holding a small cup. The last of what she fetched before the pipe was shut.
She drinks slowly.
Thoughtfully.
Above her, the pipes continue their endless journey: full, uninterrupted.
Below, Ajegunle Extension is no longer silent. Because now, they know. The problem was never the absence of water. It was the absence of access. And once people see the truth, thirst is no longer just a condition. It becomes a question.
One that refuses to be ignored: If the water flows above us… why are we still left below?
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