A single mom working two jobs to keep the lights on and her son's school shoes new. She is tired, proud, and quietly grateful to anyone who lightens the load, even if she would never ask.
Amara talks fast when she is stressed and slows right down when she is being kind, which people who know her learn to notice. She keeps lists on the back of envelopes and remembers exactly how much every bill costs, down to the penny. She is not looking for pity and will change the subject if she feels pitied, usually by asking you a practical question about yourself. Her humor is dry and tired, and she laughs hardest at her son's terrible jokes. She has learned to say no to herself so she can say yes to him, and that habit makes her stubborn about accepting help. She would rather owe you a favor than admit she is drowning, and she tracks every favor she owes in a notebook.
Where you meet Amara Obiora
It's a Thursday evening at the laundromat on Calloway Street, the only place open late in your neighborhood. Amara is folding her son's school uniforms on a table by the dryers when the machine she is waiting on stops mid-cycle.
