THE REBIRTH
970 Words
EPISODE 5
The sun was already high when Emmanuel’s father’s rough voice woke him.
“Boy, get up. The land doesn’t wait.”
Emmanuel groaned. His body felt like it had been beaten. His arms ached from carrying that heavy basket yesterday, his back sore as if someone had pressed stones on it. Slowly, he sat up.
The room was still dark, though thin fingers of sunlight pushed through the cracks in the wooden wall. The blanket on his legs smelled of smoke and dust. He rubbed his eyes, wishing it all away. Maybe I’ll wake up in my real bed this time…
But when he opened his eyes properly, the same tiny room looked back at him. The cracked stool in the corner, the rough earthen floor, the clay pot sitting against the wall. Nothing had changed.
He let out a heavy sigh. “So it’s real… I’m really stuck here.”
Outside, a goat bleated loudly. Chickens clucked as if laughing at him.
His mother’s soft voice floated from outside. “Emmanuel, come wash your face. Your father is waiting in the field already.”
Reluctantly, he dragged himself off the hard bed. The cool earth under his bare feet made him shiver. His shirt from yesterday was hanging on the wall, wrinkled and smelling of sweat. He picked it up with two fingers like it was a dead rat.
“This is torture,” he muttered as he slipped it on.
---
Outside, the morning was alive. The sky was a clear blue, the kind of sky that city boys like Emmanuel rarely noticed. Smoke curled from neighboring huts. Women pounded yam in wooden mortars. Children chased each other, their laughter echoing through the village.
His mother stood by a clay basin, pouring water from a calabash. She smiled at him gently. “Wash quickly, Emmanuel. You must go with your father to the farm.”
He bent over the basin. The water was cold, biting his skin as he splashed it on his face. He looked into the ripples. The boy staring back was not the Emmanuel he knew — no polished haircut, no golden wristwatch, no smooth skin. Instead, this boy’s hair was rough, his eyes tired, his face already darkened by sun and dust.
He touched his cheek slowly, as though feeling someone else’s skin.
How can this be me?
---
By the time he reached the farm, the sun was rising higher. His father’s hoe dug into the soil with heavy thuds. Each strike seemed to shake the earth.
“Come here, Emmanuel,” his father called without looking up. “Bring the basket.”
Emmanuel grumbled, lifting the basket filled with yam seedlings. The weight pulled on his arms immediately, making his muscles scream. He staggered forward.
“This thing is too heavy!” he cried.
His father finally looked up, his face lined with sweat and patience. “You are young. Your back is strong. Carry it.”
“I’m not a laborer!” Emmanuel snapped. “I’m not meant for this.”
His father’s eyes narrowed. “Then tell me, what are you meant for?”
Emmanuel opened his mouth, but no answer came. What am I meant for… now?
The silence was broken by laughter. Emmanuel’s head jerked up.
At the edge of the road, a group of students in crisp uniforms walked past, chatting noisily. And among them — her.
The rich girl.
Her white blouse almost shone under the sun. Her shoes were spotless. She walked with her books hugged to her chest, her chin slightly raised like a queen surveying her people.
The other students were laughing at some joke, but when her eyes fell on Emmanuel, she slowed.
Emmanuel froze, basket still in his hands. His shirt clung to his sweaty body, his feet were caked with dust. Shame gripped him.
She tilted her head, eyes scanning him up and down. Then, with a smirk that curled her lips, she said loudly, “Look! Our farmer boy is already at work.”
The students burst into laughter. Emmanuel’s ears burned. His grip on the basket tightened until his knuckles ached.
She wasn’t done. She stepped closer to the roadside, her voice sweet but sharp. “You used to boast so much, Emmanuel. But now? Look at you. Maybe you should stay in the soil where you belong.”
The laughter doubled. Emmanuel’s chest heaved with anger. His throat felt dry. He wanted to shout back, to tell her who he really was, but the words stuck.
Instead, he spat out bitterly, “Better a farmer than a spoiled princess who can’t live without her daddy’s money.”
The laughter shifted. Some of the students covered their mouths, shocked. The girl’s eyes widened, then narrowed.
“You’ll regret that,” she whispered.
And with a flick of her braid, she walked off, her friends surrounding her like guards.
---
The basket slipped from Emmanuel’s arms. The seedlings scattered on the ground. His father rushed over.
“Careful, boy!” he barked. “Do you know how precious these are? Without them, we will starve.”
But Emmanuel hardly heard him. His heart was still racing, his mind replaying the moment her eyes locked on his.
Mockery. Anger. But also… something else. Something he couldn’t name.
That night, lying on his rough bed, Emmanuel couldn’t sleep. The goats bleated outside, crickets sang in the grass, but all he heard was her voice, teasing and sharp. All he saw was her smirk, her proud face leaning toward him.
He pressed his hand to his chest. His heart was still beating too fast.
“Why her?” he whispered. “Of all people… why her?”
But no answer came. Only the slow creak of the night around him.
- Writer
