ISABELLA WITH THE POT OF LOVE IN MALAWI_

The morning sun rose lazily over Lilongwe, spilling its golden warmth across the red-earth streets. The air was full of the usual noise — market women calling out prices, bus conductors shouting destinations, and the scent of roasted maize drifting from the roadside. Yet, amid the chaos, one figure stood out — Isabella Mhone. She was only twenty-three, but her face carried the silent wisdom of someone who had already seen too much of life. Her skin glowed like honey under sunlight, and her eyes were deep pools of brown that seemed to speak without words. But those same eyes had become her curse. Wherever she went, they followed her — men, with desire; women, with envy; and society, with judgment. That morning, Isabella carried a basket of handmade bracelets, hoping to sell enough to buy food for her aunt and herself. Her long dress was faded at the edges, her slippers dusty from the long walk. Yet, no matter how simple her clothes, her beauty seemed to shine through — effortless, almost defiant. “Good morning, sister!” she greeted a woman arranging vegetables. The woman glanced up, frowned, and turned away. “I don’t buy from people like you.” Isabella’s smile faltered. “People like me?” The woman didn’t answer — only muttered something under her breath and continued working. Isabella moved on quietly, whispering a soft prayer. “Lord, just help me sell a few today.” At another stall, a group of men sitting by a bicycle repair shop began to whistle. “Eh, Isabella! You should be selling that smile, not bracelets,” one of them laughed. Another added, “You know no one wants to marry you. You’re too beautiful for your own good!” Their laughter stabbed through her heart like knives, but she kept walking — head high, though her eyes burned with tears. She had heard it all before. Ever since she was a child, people had spoken about her beauty as though it were a sin. Her mother had died when Isabella was seven. Her father had left when she was ten. Since then, she had lived with her mother’s sister, Aunt Loveness, in a small house near Area 25. Aunt Loveness always told her, “Your beauty will cause you pain, but one day, it will open the right door.” Isabella never believed her — not until that day. By noon, her basket was still full. The sun was merciless, and hunger gnawed at her stomach. She sat under a jacaranda tree near the edge of the market, staring at the bracelets she had worked so hard to make. Tears welled up and slipped down her cheeks. “Why, God?” she whispered. “Why make me this way? Why make me someone everyone stares at but no one truly sees?” A small voice interrupted her thoughts. “Child, why do you cry in the middle of daylight?” She looked up. Standing before her was an old woman, her back slightly bent, her clothes simple but clean. Her face was full of wrinkles, yet her eyes were strangely bright — almost glowing. Isabella quickly wiped her tears and tried to smile. “I’m fine, granny,” she said softly. The old woman looked at her bracelets and then at her face. “You’re not fine. Your spirit is heavy.” Isabella lowered her eyes. “People don’t like me. They think I’m proud… or cursed.” The woman chuckled — a deep, knowing laugh. “The world fears what it does not understand. You are not cursed, my child. You carry something rare.” Isabella frowned slightly. “What do I carry?” The old woman leaned closer, her voice trembling with mystery. “A pot of love.” Isabella blinked, confused. “A pot of love?” “Yes. When the time comes, that pot will break open, and the same people who reject you now will come to drink from it. Do not curse your beauty. It is not meant for pleasure — it is meant for purpose.” Before Isabella could say another word, the woman turned and began walking away — slowly, steadily — disappearing into the crowd as if she had melted into the sunlight. Isabella stood, heart pounding. “A pot of love…?” she whispered to herself, still dazed. Just then, thunder rumbled in the far distance — though the sky was still bright. The market women looked up in surprise. “A storm? In dry season?” But Isabella wasn’t thinking about the weather. Something inside her stirred — a strange warmth in her chest, a whisper in her heart that told her something big was coming. She gathered her bracelets and began the long walk home. Evening – The Silence of the House Their small house was quiet when she arrived. Aunt Loveness was sitting outside, peeling cassava, her old radio humming a gospel tune. When she saw Isabella’s tired face and untouched basket, her smile faded. “You didn’t sell again?” Isabella shook her head and sat beside her. “They don’t buy, Auntie. They just talk. Some mock me, some stare. One woman said she won’t buy from people like me.” Aunt Loveness sighed deeply and placed a hand on her niece’s shoulder. “You are not like them, Isabella. They don’t understand your light. Some lights are too bright — they make others uncomfortable.” Isabella looked down. “If my light only brings rejection, then I wish it would go out.” Her aunt smiled sadly. “No, my daughter. That light will guide someone one day — someone who will see beyond your face.” That night, Isabella lay on her mat staring at the cracked ceiling. Her mind replayed the old woman’s words: “You carry a pot of love…” Sleep came slowly, but when it did, she dreamed. In her dream, she stood by a river — clear and sparkling — holding a clay pot that glowed with golden light. As she stared at it, a man’s voice echoed softly across the water: “When the pot breaks, love will find you.” She woke up sweating, her heart racing. The moonlight slipped through the window, bathing her face in silver glow. Somewhere across the city, at that very moment, a young pastor named Emmanuel Chirwa knelt in prayer — seeing a vision of the same glowing pot. The threads of destiny had begun to weave.