Redemption
T-Boy couldn't meet the 24-hour deadline, but he managed to meet the 48-hour one. With a storm of emotions boiling inside him, he marched into the corner convenience store where he had once strong-armed an older woman out of her hard-earned money. The small bell above the door jingled as he pushed through. The moment his figure cast a shadow inside the store, a wave of panic spread through the place like wildfire.
Customers who had been browsing quickly dropped their items and slipped out quietly through the side exit. The cashier froze, wide-eyed. And the woman — the same one he had threatened before — was at the back counter, counting and logging the day's tiny revenue. She turned, saw him, and immediately her heart jumped.
"Oh God, please," she gasped. Her voice cracked as she fell to her knees, heavily pregnant, her arms wrapping around her midsection. She shuffled forward on her knees, sobbing, and grabbed onto T-Boy's legs, begging. "Please! This is a loan. I haven't even paid the interest yet. My husband just used the last of our rent money. I haven't paid my daughter's school fees and my boy's been sick. Please, I'm just a struggling woman trying to stay afloat."
The cash she'd been tallying sat exposed on the counter — vulnerable, tempting, undefended. But her eyes never left his face. She couldn't even look at the money for fear of provoking him further. It was a nightmare playing out in real life.
"My baby," she continued, clutching her stomach. "My child will rejoice in the womb if you spare us today. May your children never lack, may your soul never taste a bitter end. T-Boy, I'm begging you."
But T-Boy didn't come to rob her again.
"Ma'am," he said quietly, motioning for her to stand. "Please… stand up. Sit down. You don't have to cry." He removed his sunglasses slowly, revealing eyes puffed from days of grief, eyes barely holding back a fresh flood of tears.
He reached into his pocket and placed a thick wad of cash — $1100 in hundred-dollar bills — right there beside her day's earnings. She gasped, her hands shaking as she looked between him and the money.
"I came to return what I took," he said softly, trying not to let the emotion crack his voice. "I wish I could bring back more."
He turned and walked out, not saying another word.
Outside, no one saw him with any of his crew. No bulging backpack. No men lingering nearby. Just him, walking quietly down the sidewalk. A few people peeked from around corners, unsure if they had just witnessed a ghost or if he was planning something worse.
They didn't hear her speak until she burst out of the shop, hand on her swollen belly, looking down the street as T-Boy disappeared into the horizon.
"T-Boy," she called out, her voice trembling but filled with emotion, "as you have spared my life, may heaven spare yours! Your wife will not die in childbirth. You shall not weep again. May your path be blessed with grace, and may favor find you where you least expect it!"
She was still praying aloud when the other store owners came to her side, helping her back into the shop so she could rest. Her joy was mixed with disbelief, her tears now warm with gratitude. She sat down slowly, a peaceful look spreading across her face as the baby inside her shifted gently.
T-Boy, meanwhile, rode home in silence. He sat in the back of the cab, paid the driver before the ride ended, and stared out the window like he was watching a world he no longer belonged to. Back at the house, he entered quietly, locking the door behind him as if sealing himself off from the past.
He dropped his jacket by the door, sat down on the cold floor of the apartment his late father had left behind, and leaned against the wall. It was all too much. Loss after loss. Guilt biting deeper than any wound.
He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with trembling fingers, and let the smoke fill his lungs. His eyes landed on the group photo of his crew — the boys who had been with him through it all. Now gone. Dead because of a single night that he still couldn't wrap his head around.
Beside the photo was another frame: his mother's portrait. Her gentle smile almost mocking in contrast to the pain that surrounded him. He grabbed a tumbler and poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bottle sitting on the floor. He stared into the amber liquid like it might give him the answers he desperately needed.
His thoughts unraveled aloud.
"Who is this guy? A preacher? For real? Came in the night and took out my whole crew. How?! What kind of demon plans like this? Who backs this man? Who even is this guy? I never robbed him. Never crossed him. Why me? Why us? Who's sending him — Jesus Christ?! Nah… Jesus? Seriously? This gotta be something else… maybe I should just die. I can't take this. What if he comes for me next? Maleh, you still in heaven? I might be on my way."
He poured another drink. And another. The smoke in the room thickened, blurring his vision, but he kept going, needing to drown out the storm inside his head.
From his lips, a broken melody emerged — a song once filled with hope, now weighed down with sorrow:
"It's been a long day Without you, my friends And I'll tell you all about it When I see you again We've come a long way From where we began And I'll tell you all about it When I see you again…"
He sang it again. And again. The room seemed to echo with the voices of the past. He tried to drink and smoke himself into unconsciousness — maybe even death. But something stopped him. A force unseen. A spiritual restraint wrapped itself around his soul.
His body grew weak, but death wouldn't take him. Something — or Someone — wasn't done with him yet.
To Be Continued...