THE VISITOR FROM THE PAST
492 Words
Episode 7: The Visitor from the Past
The morning sun pierced through the slits in the window, casting light across the small room Zayyanu now called home. The air carried the smell of fresh dough—his boys had started baking early. Business was growing, and so was his sense of responsibility.
He sat at his small table, scribbling expenses for the week. Then came a knock.
“Come in,” he said without looking up.
The door creaked open, and a familiar voice froze his hand mid-air.
“Zayyanu?”
He looked up.
Standing in the doorway, dressed in a soft pink hijab and glasses, was Maryam — his university sweetheart. The one he hadn’t seen in nearly three years. The one whose silence had once shattered him.
For a moment, both of them stood still. Words danced on their lips but refused to form.
“Maryam?” he finally whispered, standing slowly.
She nodded. Her eyes scanned the room — the plain mattress, the bread crates, the calendar pinned to the wall. Her gaze softened. “I heard about you… from Musa. I had to come see for myself.”
Zayyanu chuckled dryly. “To see how far I’ve fallen?”
“No,” she said gently. “To see how far you’ve stood.”
That silenced him.
She stepped inside, closed the door, and sat across from him.
“I didn’t abandon you,” she started. “I just didn’t know how to stand beside you when everything collapsed. I was confused… scared.”
Zayyanu leaned back. “I looked for you. After NYSC. I was broken. I needed someone who knew me before life hit me like this.”
Maryam lowered her head. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
There was silence again, but this one felt lighter.
“I heard you own a bread business now?”
He smiled, not out of pride but peace. “Yes. ZeeBread Delivery. We distribute across Surulere and Ajegunle. Not what I studied, but it feeds me. And others.”
She nodded with a glimmer of admiration. “Zayyanu… you didn’t fall. You evolved.”
---
Later that evening, she offered to help with some branding for his business — said she had started learning digital marketing. They walked through the busy street to a nearby printer.
As they passed the old kiosk where he once sold under the rain, he paused.
“I used to hide behind that stall when I had only one tray to carry,” he said.
Maryam turned to him. “And now you own the whole route.”
Zayyanu laughed. “Not yet. But I will.”
---
That night, back in his room, he looked at the ceiling for hours. Her presence had stirred memories… and hope.
He wrote in his journal:
> “Growth is not measured by how much you earn. But by how much you endure and still dream.”
- Writer
