“I live with what life gave me.”
The path opened into a small clearing, and Joy slowed, her eyes widening.
A compound stood before her—old, tired, forgotten. The kind of place people avoided, the kind of place that looked like joy had died there long ago.
The old woman pushed the gate open gently.
“Come inside, my daughter.”
Joy entered, still carrying the wood. The old woman led her to the side of the yard and pointed near an old shed.
“Put it there.”
Joy dropped the firewood and almost fell with it. She held her neck and breathed hard, tears burning behind her eyes from the pain.
Then she looked around and couldn’t keep quiet.
“Mama… this place is dirty. You are too weak to be doing everything alone.”
The old woman didn’t answer. She just watched Joy in silence, breathing slowly, as if she were waiting to see what Joy would do next.
Joy didn’t wait for permission.
“Mama, sit down. Let me help you.”
She picked up a broom resting against the wall and began sweeping. Leaves, dust, dirt—everything that had gathered in corners like forgotten grief. She swept and swept, shaking her head.
“Mama, why are you living like this? This place needs care.”
“People stopped coming here long ago,” the old woman said softly.
Joy felt something ache inside her, but she kept working. After sweeping, she found a pot behind the house. She washed it until it looked like it remembered how to shine. She asked if there was anything to cook.
The old woman pointed to a small bag and a basket. Joy found garri, a few dry peppers, and vegetables that were still good. She lit a fire, cooked something simple, and for the first time in that compound, the smell of food filled the air like a blessing.
The old woman watched the entire time, eyes following Joy’s movements as though she were seeing something she had been searching for all her life.
When the food was ready, Joy served the old woman first.
“Mama, eat.”
The old woman ate slowly, hands trembling, then looked up.
“Thank you, my daughter.”
“You’re welcome, mama,” Joy said, and smiled—tired, but real.
Then reality slapped her again. School.
Joy stood quickly, heart sinking.
“Mama, I have to go now. I’m already very late. They will punish me.”
The old woman nodded, stood, and went inside the house. Joy followed, thinking maybe the old woman wanted to give her advice, or ask her to return one day.
Instead, the old woman came out holding a small white clay pot—clean and bright, like it didn’t belong in that dusty place.
She held it out.
“This is my reward for you.”
Joy’s eyes widened.
“Mama, no. I can’t take it. I only helped you.”
“Take it,” the old woman said firmly, pushing it closer.
Joy accepted it with both hands, confused by how it felt warm against her palms.
Leave a Comment