EPISODE 11
556 Words
The morning sun was up… but joy was still hiding.
Amara had just finished sweeping the compound when she walked past Madam Stella’s window, heading toward the kitchen.
That’s when she heard it.
Voices.
She paused.
Madam Stella’s window was slightly open. She could hear everything.
“Madam, good morning,” the driver said politely. “Please, ma, you promised me the remaining half of my salary today… I need to buy drugs for my sick mother and also travel.”
There was a silence. Then, Madam Stella’s sharp voice stabbed through the air like a knife.
“I said I don’t have it now! Must you collect the money today? Do I look like a bank to you?”
“Please, ma…” the driver said again, his voice low, almost begging. “She’s very ill… and I also need money for transport—”
Madam Stella hissed loudly. “That’s your problem, not mine. You want to go and become village chief, abi? Leave my front joor!”
SLAM!
The door shut hard.
Amara stood frozen.
She had heard it all.
Her little heart sank.
The man she trusted… the only one who gave her bread and small kindness…
I was not going to travel again.
Madam Stella had disappointed him.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“So that means he can't reach my sick mother again… and not even know if she is still alive.”
She quickly wiped her tears before anyone could see.
She returned to the kitchen, picked up the broom, and started sweeping again — but this time, with a heart that felt like it was breaking into pieces.
Minutes later, she heard the driver’s footsteps behind her. She didn’t look up. She didn’t want him to see her crying.
But he tiptoed to her side, Aunty Rose was around and bent low.
In a whisper only she could hear, he said:
“I know what you heard. And yes… she disappointed me. But I won’t disappoint you.”
Amara looked up, eyes wide with surprise.
“I still have some money. It’s not enough… but I’ll try. I will go. I’ll find your mother. Even if I have to walk.”
He placed something in her palm — a tiny, folded paper.
“Tell me her name again,” he said softly. “And the name of your village?”
Amara opened her mouth slowly, her voice shaking.
“My mother’s name is Nneka… and our village is Umueze Ani…”
The driver nodded and took the paper back, pulling out a pen from his shirt pocket.
“I’ll write it myself,” he said. “I forgot… You never went to school.”
Amara lowered her head in shame, but he quickly added, “It’s not your fault. You’re a bright girl.”
He scribbled down the details carefully, then folded the paper again and slid it into his pocket.
Before leaving, he bent low and whispered gently:
“Don’t cry again, Amara. Somebody still cares.”
He turned and walked away.
This time… he didn’t look back.
But Amara stood there, her chest rising and falling with shaky breaths.
Tears dropped from her chin, but they were different.
They were not from pain…
They were from something she had not felt in a long time.
Hope.
- Writer
