EPISODE 10
638 Words
In a small mud house where the wind whistled through broken windows and the smell of herbs lingered in the air, Mama lay on her raffia mat, her thin arms crossed over her chest, her eyes fixed on the leaking roof above.
It had been two years since her daughter, Amara, left with the woman called Madam Stella.
Two long, silent, painful years.
She had believed the woman that night—the one who came in shiny shoes, speaking softly, promising help.
“I’ll treat her well… I’ll send you money every month… I’ll enroll her in school,” Madam Stella had said.
And Mama—poor, sick, desperate—believed her.
She had no money to send Amara to school herself. No means to feed her properly.
Her only hope was that Madam Stella’s promises were real.
Her plan was simple: if Madam Stella paid monthly, she would use the money to send Amara to school from the village.
But… nothing came.
No money.
No message.
No letter.
No address to trace.
No phone number to call.
Only the howling wind and an empty compound.
And people talked.
They said, “Why would you let your only child go with a stranger?”
They blamed her.
Some laughed. Some shook their heads in pity.
But no one helped.
She blamed herself, too.
Her only crime was wanting a better life for her daughter.
Each day, she dragged her frail body outside, watching the road, praying the postman or a good stranger would bring news.
But all she saw was dust, silence, and more silence.
The silence hurt more than the pain in her chest.
More than the hunger.
More than the sickness that was slowly stealing her breath.
And the dreams didn’t help.
She would see Amara barefoot, sweeping a giant compound.
Her dress was torn.
Her fingers were bleeding in the rain
Her little back bent under the weight of chores no child should do.
Her face was soaked with tears and blood
Mama would wake up screaming, gasping, holding her chest.
“Amara!” Amara… Nwam...m! she cried in the dark.
No one answered.
They said she was going mad.
That she prayed too much.
That she fasted too often.
That she talked to herself at night.
But she didn’t care.
They didn’t understand.
She had only one mission now:
“Bring my daughter back.”
One night, as the rain whispered on the zinc roof and thunder rolled in the distance, Mama lit her oil lamp.
She crawled on her knees, too weak to stand.
Her hands shook as she opened her Bible.
Her voice broke as she prayed:
“God of the helpless…
God of the widow...
God of mothers who have nothing…
If my child is alive, keep her.
Don’t let them kill her dreams.
Don’t let them feed her tears instead of food.
Let someone, anyone… rise and save her.
She’s just a child, Lord. My child. My joy. My sunshine.
I sent her away to learn, not to suffer.
I thought Madam Stella was a good woman…
I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
Her body shook with sobs.
Her wrapper was soaked with sweat and tears.
But she kept praying.
“If I don’t live to see her again, let her live.
Let her remember me.
Let her forgive me.
And please, Lord… bring her home.”
She prayed until the oil lamp flickered and died.
And then, something strange happened.
The wind stopped.
The house became still.
And in the quiet, she felt something—like warm hands wiping her face.
She opened her swollen eyes, but no one was there.
Yet, her heart felt lighter.
Her chest, though still aching, beat with a flicker of hope.
Somewhere out there…
Amara was alive.
And God was still listening.
- Writer
