CHAPTER FOUR - THE THINGS WE BUILD
1199 Words
The days that followed were quieter, softer.
It was as if the whole village had slowed its breath to watch what would happen between Ima and Edet. They didn’t rush things. They walked together sometimes, shared a meal now and then, talked about their dreams. But there was still space space for healing, space for understanding.
To the villagers, that space looked like uncertainty.
To Ima, it felt like peace.
One bright morning, she found Edet working on a wooden bench outside his father’s old house. The sound of his hammer rang gently through the air.
“You’ve been busy,” she said, smiling as she approached.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Trying to make this place feel like home again. It’s been neglected for too long.”
She ran her fingers along the edge of the new bench. “You’ve done well.”
He looked at her and smiled, that quiet smile she’d grown to recognize the kind that didn’t ask for anything, only offered calm. “Would you help me paint it?”
“Paint?” she laughed. “You trust me with that?”
“Of course,” he said. “You make beauty out of everything you touch.”
She blushed, shaking her head. “You haven’t seen me paint before.”
“Then it’s time I do.”
And so, under the shade of the mango tree, they painted together. The air smelled of fresh wood and wet earth, their laughter mingling with the hum of distant chatter. Now and then, Edet would dip his brush and accidentally flick paint toward her, and she’d retaliate, pretending to scold him.
For the first time since his return, Ima felt light truly light.
By evening, they sat back to admire their work. The bench gleamed a warm shade of brown, polished and strong.
“It’s beautiful,” Ima said softly.
“So are you,” he replied without hesitation.
She looked away quickly, her cheeks warm. “You always know how to say the right thing.”
He smiled. “Not always. But I mean it.”
For a long while, they said nothing more. The silence wasn’t awkward it was the kind of silence that speaks in heartbeats and quiet glances.
Then Ima asked, “Do you ever think about leaving again?”
Edet’s expression grew thoughtful. “Sometimes the city still calls me. Not because I miss it, but because I wonder what more I could do there. But every time I think about going, something pulls me back here.”
“What pulls you?”
He looked at her. “You.”
The honesty in his tone stole her breath for a moment. The words were simple, but they carried weight like roots anchoring a tree.
The following week, they began a small project together. Edet had gathered wood and tools to build a new sewing table for Ima’s shop.
“It’ll be bigger,” he said, “and strong enough for that old machine to stop shaking.”
Ima laughed. “So my table shakes?”
“Like a nervous goat,” he teased.
She threw a piece of cloth at him, and they both burst into laughter.
Working side by side became their new rhythm. While Ima sewed and designed, Edet built and repaired. Their friendship deepened in the small gestures sharing roasted corn, trading stories, brushing shoulders by accident.
And yet, amid all the warmth, there were whispers.
One afternoon, Uduak rushed into Ima’s shop, her face drawn. “You won’t believe what I just heard,” she said breathlessly.
“What is it?”
“Some people are saying Edet is wasting his time here. That he’ll leave again once he gets money.”
Ima sighed, setting down her needle. “People will always talk.”
“But do you believe it?”
She paused. The question hit deeper than she wanted to admit.
“I don’t know,” Ima said honestly. “But I can’t live waiting for him to leave. I’ve done enough waiting in my life.”
Uduak nodded, squeezing her hand. “Then live, my friend. Let them talk.”
That evening, Ima told Edet what she’d heard.
He was silent for a moment, then said, “Maybe they’re not wrong to doubt me. I did leave once.”
She met his gaze steadily. “Yes. But you came back.”
He nodded. “And I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“Then don’t just say it,” she said softly. “Show it.”
His eyes softened. “I will.”
Weeks passed, and life in Obonle bloomed around them.
The mango tree grew heavier with fruit, and the children would come by to pick the ones that fell. Ima’s shop began to attract more customers people from nearby villages who heard of her work.
One day, after a busy morning of sewing, Ima stepped outside and found Edet sitting on the painted bench, holding something behind his back.
“What are you hiding?” she asked, smiling.
He grinned. “Close your eyes.”
She raised a brow. “Why?”
“Just trust me.”
With a playful sigh, she obeyed.
A moment later, she felt something light touch her palm a small, hand-carved wooden pendant shaped like a mango leaf, smooth and beautiful.
“Edet…” she whispered, opening her eyes.
“I made it for you,” he said softly. “So you’ll always have a piece of this tree. A piece of here.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “It’s perfect.”
He reached out, brushing away a tear with his thumb. “You are the strongest person I know, Ima. I want you to remember that, no matter what happens.”
“Why would something happen?” she asked, frowning slightly.
He hesitated, then sighed. “I’ve been offered a partnership in Uyo. It’s a small transport business good money, steady work. But I don’t want to go if it means losing what we’re building here.”
Ima’s chest tightened. The same old fear stirred inside her the fear of being left behind.
She took a deep breath and said, “If it’s truly what you want, then go. But promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll come back when the wind feels like home again.”
He looked at her, his eyes shining with emotion. “I promise.”
That night, Ima sat beneath the mango tree, the pendant resting in her palm. The moonlight filtered through the leaves, painting silver lines across her skin.
She thought about how much had changed how the tree had witnessed her loneliness, her hope, and now, this fragile balance between holding on and letting go.
Maybe love wasn’t about chaining someone to your side, she thought.
Maybe it was about trusting them to find their way back, even when the world pulls them elsewhere.
She closed her eyes and smiled, letting the night breeze carry her silent prayer into the dark:
“Come back, Edet. But even if you don’t… thank you for reminding me how to live again.”
- Writer
