My daughters, please help me carry my firewood. I’m so tired.”
“Don’t you ever call me your daughter.”
Joy and Tracy were best friends in the village of Aduka. They were both 19 years old, both in secondary school, and everyone knew them as the two girls who were always together. Tracy was bold, sharp-tongued, and proud. Joy was quiet, kind, and always thinking about other people.
That morning, the sun was already bright. The road was red and dusty, and the school bell could ring any minute. They were walking fast, their school bags bouncing on their backs, breathing hard because they were almost late. Tracy kept complaining as they hurried.
“Joy, hurry up. If we enter late again, Madame Rose will disgrace us. I’m not kneeling today,” Tracy said, dragging Joy forward as if time were chasing them.
As they reached the big Iroko tree beside the road, they saw an old woman coming from the opposite direction. She was very weak, bent, and trembling, as if her bones were tired of life. A heavy bundle of firewood was tied on her head with rough rope, and her hands shook as she tried to balance it. Her feet were bare, her wrapper was old and patched, and sweat was already running down her face even though it was still morning.
She stopped in front of them, breathing heavily, and her voice came out thin, as if she were begging with the last of her strength.
Leave a Comment