Tracy looked at Joy like she had lost her mind.
“Joy, are you mad? Who is your mother? Is this your mother? You don’t even know this woman. Come, let’s go now.”
Joy shook her head, firm in the quiet way she always was.
“I can’t leave her like this. She is weak. She might fall.”
Tracy grabbed Joy’s arm, anger sharp in her fingers.
“So you want them to punish you because of a stranger? You like suffering too much. You always want to act like a saint.”
Joy gently removed Tracy’s hand.
“It’s not about acting. It’s about helping.”
Tracy’s eyes went cold.
“Fine. Carry the firewood. But don’t call me when you get punished. And listen—soon you will stop being my friend. I don’t follow stubborn people.”
She turned and marched away toward school, still talking to herself, not even looking back.
Joy watched her go for a second, that familiar pain tightening her chest. Losing Tracy’s friendship felt like losing shade in the middle of harmattan—small, but cruel.
Then she faced the old woman again.
“You really want to help me?” the old woman asked, as if kindness had become something unbelievable.
“Yes, mama,” Joy said.
She knelt, arranged herself, and tried to lift the firewood. It pressed down on her head so hard her knees shook, but she refused to cry. The old woman steadied it and pointed toward a narrow path away from the main road.
“This way,” she said.
Joy took her first step into the path—late for school, abandoned by her best friend, carrying a weight that felt too heavy for her age.
And she had no idea that this one small choice was already pulling her toward a life she couldn’t imagine.
The sound of the main road disappeared behind them. Trees rose tall on both sides. The bushes grew thicker. The air felt cooler, but Joy’s neck burned under the firewood. She kept adjusting the bundle with her hands, sweat slipping into her eyes.
“Mama,” Joy said through her breath, “are you sure your house is not far? This wood is heavy.”
“It is not far, my daughter,” the old woman replied weakly. “Just a little more.”
Joy nodded, but inside her mind she saw the school yard, Madame Rose’s face, the latecomers kneeling while others laughed. She imagined Tracy entering alone, telling anyone who would listen that Joy was foolish.
Shame tried to rise in her chest.
Joy pushed it down.
Let them laugh, she told herself. This woman needs help.
After some minutes her legs began to shake. She paused to rest, bending slightly under the weight, but the old woman spoke quickly.
“Don’t drop it on the ground, my daughter. Please.”
Joy looked back, surprised.
“Why?”
The old woman’s eyes moved away.
“Dust will enter it.”
Joy didn’t understand. Firewood was firewood. But something in the old woman’s tone made Joy lift the load again without arguing.
The deeper they went, the quieter everything became. No voices. No houses. No goats bleating. Just leaves and shadows.
“Mama,” Joy asked carefully, “do you live here alone?”
The old woman answered slowly, like someone speaking in riddles.
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