The Broken Clock

THE BROKEN CLOCK In the very heart of the bustling town of Oke-Aro, where life moved at a fast and noisy pace, there existed a small shop that seemed to belong to a different world entirely. The streets outside were always filled with the sounds of commerce: traders shouting their prices, cars honking their horns, motorcycles weaving through crowds, and the general hum of people going about their daily business. But once you stepped through the wooden door of that little shop, all the noise seemed to fade away, replaced by a gentle, rhythmic sound. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Hundreds of clocks, all ticking together, created a melody that felt like the heartbeat of the place. The sign above the door was old and painted in faded black letters on a white background, but everyone in town knew it by heart: BABA DELE – WATCHES & CLOCKS REPAIRS. Baba Dele had been in this business for over forty years. His hands, though wrinkled and marked by age, were steady and precise. He sat in his favorite armchair, which had been molded by years of use to fit his body perfectly. On his nose rested a pair of thick, round glasses, through which his eyes sparkled with intelligence and kindness. In his hands, he held a tiny screwdriver, working on the delicate gears of a wristwatch. To Baba Dele, time was not an enemy to be raced against, but a friend to be respected. He understood that every clock was more than just metal and glass; it was a keeper of moments. It measured the seconds of a child’s laughter, the minutes of a meeting, and the hours of work and rest. He took great pride in his ability to fix anything. If a spring was loose, he knew exactly how much tension to give it. If a gear was broken, he could replace it with skill. He was a master of bringing machines back to life. However, amidst all the working clocks that filled the shelves from floor to ceiling, there was one object that stood out like a king among servants. It was placed right in the center, on the main shelf where everyone could see it the moment they walked in. It was a large, antique clock made of polished brass and gold. It had intricate carvings of flowers and vines winding around its frame, and its glass face was clear and shining. It was easily the most beautiful object in the room. But there was something strange about it. It was silent. While every other clock was busy ticking, this one stood perfectly still. Its hands were frozen, pointing firmly at exactly 3:15. It had not moved in twenty years. Every single customer who entered the shop would inevitably notice it. Their eyes would be drawn to its golden beauty, and then they would realize it was not working. "Baba Dele," they would say, pointing at it with wonder. "This clock is so magnificent. Why is it quiet? You are the best repairman in the whole state. Surely you can fix this one too?" Baba Dele would always stop whatever he was doing. He would lift his head, look at the clock with a gaze that was full of so much emotion—love, sadness, nostalgia—and he would give a soft, gentle smile. "Some things," he would whisper, his voice carrying the weight of years, "are too precious to be touched. Some moments are meant to stay exactly where they are. They are not broken, they are just... resting." Nobody ever understood what he meant. They thought he was being poetic or mysterious. They thought perhaps the clock was too difficult to fix, or maybe it held some spiritual value they didn't understand. But Baba Dele knew the truth deep in his soul. That clock had stopped on the day his world had changed forever. It had stopped on the day his beloved wife, Iya Dele, had passed away. Iya Dele had been the light of his life. She was the one who had encouraged him to open this shop. She was the one who kept him company, who brought him water and food while he worked, who laughed at his jokes and shared his dreams. That particular clock had been her favorite. She would wind it every morning, and she would look at it often, saying, "Time is good to us, Baba. We must enjoy every second." On the day she left, the clock had simply stopped. It was as if the machine itself had felt the pain of loss and decided to pause along with Baba Dele's heart. For twenty years, he had kept it that way. In his mind, if he fixed it and let the hands start moving again, it would mean that time was moving forward without her. It would mean he was forgetting her. It would mean that the moment she left was now far in the past. So, he chose to leave it frozen. He chose to keep that moment alive, trapped in time, so he could feel close to her still. It was his way of holding on. He loved her so much that he refused to let time take her memory away. One bright Tuesday afternoon, the little bell above the door rang loudly, breaking the quiet rhythm of the shop. In walked a young boy, full of energy and curiosity. He was Tunde, the ten-year-old grandson of Baba Dele’s oldest friend, Pa James. Tunde looked around with wide eyes, amazed by the sea of clocks everywhere. "Good afternoon, Baba Dele!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. Baba Dele looked up and his face broke into a warm smile. "Ah, Tunde! My son, welcome. How are you? How is your grandfather?" "He is fine, Baba. He sent me to give you this message," Tunde said, walking closer. "But wow... your shop is like magic!" Baba Dele chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "It is just time, my boy. Lots and lots of time." Tunde wandered around, looking up at the wall clocks, touching the tables gently, fascinated by the different shapes and sizes. Then, just like everyone else, his eyes landed on the golden clock. He stared at it for a long time. He listened closely. "Baba?" he asked. "Yes, Tunde?" "Why is this one not singing?" The boy pointed. "All the others are making tick-tock sounds. This one is sleeping." Baba Dele sighed. It was the same question everyone asked, but coming from this innocent child, it felt different. It felt heavier. "It is not sleeping, Tunde," Baba Dele said softly. "It is just... remembering." "But you fix everything!" Tunde insisted, turning to look at the old man. "Grandpa says you are a wizard with clocks. You can make anything work again. Please, Baba. Can't you make this one sing too? It looks too beautiful to be quiet." Baba Dele looked at the boy’s eager face. He saw the sincerity there. He patted the empty space on the chair beside him. "Come. Sit down, my son." Tunde climbed up and sat next to him. Baba Dele reached out with careful hands and took the golden clock down from the shelf. It was heavy and warm from the sunlight that hit it through the window. He placed it on his lap. "Tell me, Tunde," Baba Dele started, his voice low and calm. "Do you remember your grandmother? Your father’s mother?" Tunde nodded vigorously. "Yes! I remember her very well. She used to make the best moin-moin in the world. And she would tell me stories about the moon and the stars." "Where is she now?" Baba Dele asked gently. Tunde’s face fell a little. "She went to be with God. A long time ago." "Right," Baba Dele said. "So, she is not here physically. You cannot touch her or hug her now." "No." "But..." Baba Dele leaned closer. "Can you still hear her voice in your head? Can you still remember how her moin-moin tasted? Can you still remember the stories she told?" Tunde’s face lit up again. "Yes! Oh yes, Baba! I can hear her voice clearly. It is like she is right here talking to me." "Exactly!" Baba Dele smiled, tapping the glass of the clock gently. "That is what memory is, Tunde. It is like a voice inside your heart that never stops talking, even if the person is far away." He looked at the frozen hands pointing at 3:15. "This clock belonged to my wife, my love. Her name was Iya Dele. She was the kindest woman who ever lived. On the day she left this world to go to heaven, this clock stopped exactly at that time. 3:15 PM." Tunde listened quietly, his eyes big and understanding. "For many years," Baba Dele continued, "I was very sad. My heart felt heavy like stone. I thought that if I fixed this clock and let the time start moving again, it would mean I was leaving her behind. I thought it meant I was forgetting her. So, I chose to leave it here, stuck in that moment, because I was afraid to move forward without her." "So..." Tunde whispered, "you kept it broken because you loved her?" "Yes," Baba Dele said, a single tear forming in his eye but he wiped it away quickly with a smile. "I loved her so much that I wanted time to stop. But today, my son, you have taught me something." "Me?" Tunde pointed to himself, surprised. "Yes, you. Just now, you told me that you can still remember your grandmother even though she is not here. You told me her voice is still in your head." Baba Dele held the clock up high. "I realized something today. The clock stopped, yes. But my life did not stop. I am still here. I am still breathing. I still laugh, I still eat, and I still love her more than ever. The hands of this clock do not need to move for my love to move. The time on the face does not matter anymore. What matters is the time we spent together, and that is safe inside my heart forever." "So..." Tunde asked, touching the golden frame carefully. "You are not going to fix it?" Baba Dele shook his head. "No. I will not fix it to make it tick like the others. But I will polish it. I will keep it clean. I will look at it every day. Because it is not a broken clock anymore, Tunde. It is a symbol. It tells me that while time passes on the outside, love stays forever on the inside." He placed the clock back on the shelf, but this time, he did not look at it with sadness. He looked at it with peace. A huge weight seemed to lift off his shoulders. He felt free. From that day onwards, everything changed for Baba Dele. He became happier, more lively, and more open with people. Whenever a customer asked about the clock now, he didn't just give them a mysterious answer. He told them the whole story. He told them about Iya Dele. He told them about love and memory. He taught everyone who entered his shop a very important lesson: You do not need to be afraid of time. You do not need to freeze moments to keep them. Because the things and people you truly love become part of you. They live inside you, and nothing—not even time itself—can ever take them away. The clock remained at 3:15, silent and golden. But it was no longer broken. It was whole. It was complete. And in the busy town of Oke-Aro, people learned that while machines can stop, and bodies can leave, true love never, ever stops ticking. It beats in the heart, forever and ever. THE END