THE BOY WHO STOLE BREAD — AND THE JUDGE WHO TAUGHT LAGOS A LESSON

THE BOY WHO STOLE BREAD — AND THE JUDGE WHO TAUGHT LAGOS A LESSON

🥖 THE BOY WHO STOLE BREAD — AND THE JUDGE WHO TAUGHT LAGOS A LESSON ⚖️

OSHODI MORNING

The sun had barely risen above the smoky skyline of Oshodi when Tunde tiptoed out of their one-room apartment. His little sister, Kemi, was curled up beside their mother on the thin mattress, her breathing soft, her tiny hand resting on their mother’s frail chest. The woman coughed weakly in her sleep.

Tunde stood by the door, staring at them for a long moment. His cracked lips trembled. He whispered softly,

“Mummy, I no fit watch you dey suffer like this again. I go bring something come today. Even if na small bread and pure water, una go chop.”

He looked around for his torn slippers, found one under the bed and the other outside. He slid his feet into them and dashed out into the humid, noisy street — the air thick with roasted corn, exhaust fumes, and the endless shouting of danfo conductors screaming, “Oshodi! Ojuelegba! CMS straight!”

THE TEMPTATION

By 9 a.m., Tunde had washed cars at a nearby junction, but the men he helped had laughed him off when he asked for payment.

“Ah, small boy like you wan collect money? Na training I dey give you!” one of them sneered.

His stomach rumbled like a broken generator. He looked across the street and saw a small kiosk filled with steaming loaves of bread and cold sachets of pure water stacked in a bowl of melting ice. The aroma of freshly baked Agege bread teased his hunger and weakened his resolve.

The owner, Mr. Bello, a stout man with a bald head and an impatient voice, was shouting into his phone:

“Madam Funke, if dem no pay by evening, I go lock their shop! No be charity I dey run here o!”

Tunde swallowed hard, staring at the bread. He whispered,

“God, forgive me. I just wan feed my mama.”

He slipped inside when no one was looking, grabbed a loaf of bread and a sachet of water, and dashed off.

THE CHASE

“Thief! Thief! Catch am!” Mr. Bello’s voice thundered across the market like a siren.

Within seconds, Oshodi came alive. Traders left their stalls, okada riders joined the chase, and street boys saw it as entertainment.

“Na small boy o!”
“E go learn today!”
“Bring tyre! Bring petrol!”

Tunde ran barefoot, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks. The bread fell, the water burst open on the ground, soaking the dust. He screamed,

“No be money I thief o! Na food and water! My mama dey sick!”

But no one listened. A man hit him with a plank. Another slapped him. He stumbled near the gutter. The crowd surrounded him, chanting for jungle justice. Someone had already brought an old tyre, ready to set him ablaze.

Then, suddenly, a police van screeched to a stop. Inspector Okoro, tall, dark, and pot-bellied, stepped out, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Wetin dey happen here?” he barked.

Mr. Bello shouted, “Officer, this useless boy thief my bread and water!”

Okoro stared at the trembling boy. “Bread and water? Na wa o! So na breakfast una wan roast person for?”

The crowd went quiet. Okoro shook his head in disbelief.

“Una don craze finish for this Lagos. Everybody enter your lane! Make I carry the boy go station. Court go handle am.”

He lifted Tunde into the van, muttering,

“Nigeria don turn wild forest. Hunger don make even stone get heart.”

THE COURTROOM

The courtroom was full the next morning. Traders, market women, and curious onlookers came to see the “boy who stole bread and water.”

Judge Adeyemi, a calm man with silver hair and deep eyes, presided. His voice carried the weight of compassion and authority.

Judge Adeyemi: “Young man, what is your name?”
Tunde: “Tunde, sir.”
Judge Adeyemi: “How old are you?”
Tunde: “Fifteen, sir.”
Judge Adeyemi: “What did you steal?”
Tunde: “Bread and water, sir.”
Judge Adeyemi: “Why?”
Tunde: “My mama dey sick. She no get work. My younger sister and I never chop for days now.”

The courtroom went silent. Even the clerk stopped typing.

Judge Adeyemi: “You don’t have a father?”
Tunde: “He die three years ago, sir.”
Judge Adeyemi: “Do you work?”
Tunde: “Yes sir. I dey wash car. But yesterday I stay house take care of my mama.”
Judge Adeyemi: “Did you ask for help?”
Tunde: “I beg since morning. Nobody answer me.”

The judge sighed deeply, looked around, and asked,

“Mr. Bello, you be the shop owner?”
Mr. Bello: “Yes, my lord. But stealing na stealing!”
Judge Adeyemi: “And you hand over a hungry child to the police instead of giving him food and water?”
Mr. Bello: “My lord, if I start that one, dem go thief me finish!”

The judge leaned back and was silent for a long while. Then he spoke, his tone both firm and tender.

Judge Adeyemi: “This court finds not only Tunde guilty, but every one of us in this room — including myself. We all allowed hunger to make a child a thief.”

Gasps filled the courtroom.

Judge Adeyemi: “Therefore, I fine every adult present here, including myself, ₦10,000 each — for letting a child go hungry in our city. No one will leave until they pay.”

He brought out ₦10,000 from his pocket and placed it on the table.

Judge Adeyemi: “And I fine Mr. Bello ₦500,000 for choosing punishment over compassion. If he no pay within 24 hours, the court go seal him shop for wickedness.”

Even Inspector Okoro couldn’t help but chuckle quietly,

“Na today Lagos go learn love by force.”

THE AWAKENING

When the session ended, the clerk handed Tunde an envelope. Inside was ₦210,000 — contributions from everyone in the courtroom.

Tunde stood frozen, tears rolling freely down his cheeks. He looked at the judge, his lips quivering.

Tunde: “Sir, I no fit thank you enough. God go bless you.”
Judge Adeyemi: “No, my son. Go and take care of your mother. And promise me — when you grow up, feed the hungry.”
Tunde: “Yes sir. I promise.”

The judge smiled faintly.

“Good. Now go… and eat first.”

EPILOGUE

That evening, Tunde returned home with bread, medicine, and groceries. His mother cried as he narrated everything.

“Mama, the judge talk say na all of them cause am… even him sef.”

She held his face, her frail hands trembling.

“My son, the world still get good people. Don’t ever lose hope.”

NARRATOR’S REFLECTION

That day, Lagos learned a powerful lesson. Justice was not just delivered — it was felt.

Hunger is not a crime. It is a wound society inflicts on its poor. Across Nigeria, millions of Tundes roam the streets — not thieves, but victims of neglect.

If one courtroom could save a boy’s life, imagine what compassion, good governance, and sincere leadership could do for a nation.

Let food be affordable. Let work be available. Let kindness rule over punishment.

Because true justice is not about law —
It is about love, mercy, and the courage to heal a hungry people.

CURTAIN FALLS.