THE OTHER SIDE
665 Words
EPISODE 4
The morning sun crept over the hills, painting the sky with soft orange light. Roosters crowed loudly in the small village, their calls echoing from one farm to another.
Emmanuel stirred in his sleep. The bed beneath him felt hard, nothing like the soft mattress he was used to. His hand touched the blanket — rough and scratchy, not smooth silk. He frowned and opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was low, made of wood with cracks where the light slipped through. The smell of smoke and dried grass filled the room. Emmanuel sat up quickly. His eyes darted around.
“What… what is this place?” he muttered.
The room was tiny. A wooden stool stood in the corner. The floor was bare earth. There were no posters of cars, no air conditioner, no shining lights. Just one old lantern on the table.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. A thin woman in a wrapper stepped in, carrying a clay bowl of water. Her face was lined with years of work, but her eyes were kind.
“You’re awake, my son,” she said softly. “Good. Come, wash your face. Your father is waiting. There is much to do on the farm today.”
Emmanuel blinked at her. Son? He almost laughed. This poor woman calling him her son? Impossible. He shook his head, rubbing his eyes.
“This must be a dream,” he whispered.
But the woman only smiled patiently. “Dream? No, child. You slept like a log. Now hurry. The goats are hungry.”
She placed the bowl on the stool and left the room.
Emmanuel sat frozen. His heart pounded. Slowly, he swung his legs off the bed and stepped onto the cool earth floor. He flinched. His feet were bare. No slippers, no rug, no shiny tiles. Just dirt.
He looked around again, panic rising in his chest. “Where’s my room? Where’s my TV? My phone?”
No answer. Only the distant bleating of goats outside.
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He stepped out of the small hut, squinting as the bright sun hit his eyes. The village stretched before him — rows of mud houses, fields of tall maize, children running barefoot, laughing. Smoke curled up from kitchens where women cooked breakfast.
An old man bent over near the hut, holding a hoe. His back was curved, his wrapper tied tightly at his waist. Sweat already rolled down his forehead even though the day had just begun.
“Ah, Emmanuel!” the man called, his voice rough but cheerful. “Finally awake. Come here, boy. You are growing lazy. We must start work before the sun grows hotter.”
Emmanuel’s mouth fell open. “Work? On a farm?”
“Yes, of course!” The man chuckled. “What else do farmers do?”
Emmanuel stared. Farmer? He looked down at himself and gasped. His clothes were old and faded. His hands were rough, not smooth like before. Dirt was stuck beneath his fingernails.
“No… no, this can’t be real!” he shouted, his voice shaking. “I’m not a farmer’s son! I live in the city, in a mansion. I— I’m rich!”
The old man raised his eyebrows, confused. “Rich? Mansion? Emmanuel, are you sick?” He walked over and touched Emmanuel’s forehead. “Hmm. No fever. But your tongue speaks strangely today. Come, carry the basket. Your mother is cooking yam. We will eat when we return from the field.”
He placed a heavy basket in Emmanuel’s arms. Emmanuel staggered under the weight, his knees almost giving way.
“This is not my life,” Emmanuel whispered, eyes wide with fear. “This is not my life.”
But as the villagers bustled around him, laughing, talking, working, no one seemed to hear his protest. The world had changed, and he was now part of it.
The arrogant prince was gone.
A farmer’s son had been born in his place.
- Writer
