EPISODE 12
610 Words
The wind blew cold that morning in the village.
Amara’s mother sat on the small wooden stool beside her hut. Her bones ached. Her eyes were pale and sunken. The illness was growing stronger, but the pain in her heart was worse than anything her body could feel.
Two years.
Two whole years.
Not one message.
Not one coin.
Not even a whisper from her daughter.
She stared at the small cooking pot beside the fire, empty. Just like her stomach. Just like her soul.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her chest. She held her wrapper tighter and coughed, the sound dry and hollow. Still, she turned her face toward the sky and whispered:
“God… if You’re still there… please let me see my daughter again before I die.”
The neighbors hardly visited anymore. Everyone said she brought it on herself, sending her only child to the city with a strange woman.
“She sold her daughter for money,” some said.
“She deserves it,” others whispered.
But they didn’t know.
They didn’t see how that woman came, smelling of expensive perfume, promising heaven and earth. They didn’t hear her lies about school, comfort, and care. They didn’t see the hunger in Mama Ifeoma’s eyes… or feel the tears she cried the night Amara left.
She coughed again. Then slowly crawled to the corner of her hut where Amara’s old wrapper was folded — the one she always slept on as a baby. She picked it up with trembling hands, pressing it to her chest.
“If anything has happened to her…” she whispered, “then let my breath end too.”
And right then… as if the heavens heard…
A knock came at the door.
Weak and startled, she managed to drag herself toward the entrance.
Outside stood a thin, tired-looking man. Dust covered his slippers. Sweat soaked his shirt. But he held something tight in his hand — a folded paper.
“Good afternoon, ma,” he greeted, his voice gentle.
“Please… I’m looking for Mrs Nneka, Mama Amara.”
She froze. Her heart jumped.
“I… I am Mama Amara,” she replied, her voice shaking.
The man looked at her closely, surprised at how sickly and small she looked now.
He stepped forward and opened his hand.
I am the driver who came here two years ago with Madam Stella.
“Your daughter, Amara… She asked me to find you.”
Mama Amara staggered back, clutching her chest.
“Amara?” Nwa…m! she gasped.
“Yes. She’s in the city. She’s alive. But…” He paused, lowering his voice. “…she’s not okay.”
Mama Amara’s knees gave way, and she sank to the ground. But this time, it wasn’t from weakness. It was the flood of relief… the shock… the mix of pain and hope.
“She’s alive?” she cried.
The driver knelt beside her. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small bread roll.
“I know this is not much,” he said, offering it. “But I brought this for you.”
Mama Ifeoma held the bread like it was gold. Tears rolled down her face.
“Thank you… thank you for finding me…”
The driver gave her a small nod.
“Rest. Tomorrow, I will take you to her.
Somehow, we will make it happen.”
As the sun slowly set behind the trees, hope returned to Mama Ifeoma’s heart.
And miles away in the city…
Amara stared at the broken mirror behind Madam Stella’s kitchen door.
She touched her chest and whispered,
“Mama… can you hear me?”
- Writer
