Dr. Uche offered her a kind smile. “You were never the problem. And when you do find the right partner, I have every belief that you will have your own children. Do not let what that man did to you steal your peace of mind.” They thanked the doctor and walked out of the hospital. Outside, Ngozi sank onto a wooden bench, her entire body trembling from the weight of the truth she had just received.
“All these years,” she whispered to her friend, her voice thick with emotion. “I begged God. I cried myself to sleep every single night. I hated my own body. And all along… I wasn’t the one.”
Amaka sat beside her and held her hand tightly. “Chaik will pay for what he did to you. I swear it, Ngozi. One day, he will look at you and wish with all his heart that he had never let you go.”
Ngozi lifted her face to the sky, feeling the warm sun on her skin. “Maybe,” she said softly, “this is the true beginning of my healing.”
The next few weeks saw a subtle but definite shift in Ngozi. She began to help Amaka with her small tailoring business. She wasn’t her old, joyful self yet, but she was no longer completely lost in her grief. She started waking up early again, managing to eat small meals, and even laughing at Amaka’s jokes from time to time. One evening, as they sat together, she said, “Amaka, I want to start something for myself. Maybe a small food business. I have always loved to cook.”
Amaka’s face broke into a wide, encouraging smile. “Yes! That is the spirit! I will help you in any way I can. Let’s make it happen.” They decided to use Amaka’s small veranda as a starting point for a food stand. Every morning, Ngozi would wake before dawn to cook large pots of rice, beans, moi moi, and rich, aromatic soups. By 7 a.m., office workers from the nearby businesses would be lining up to buy from her. Slowly, people began to know her again, not as the woman Chaik had cast aside, but as the woman who made the most delicious jollof rice in the entire area.
One afternoon, a regular customer smiled at her and said, “Madam, you look different lately. There’s a new glow on your face.”
Ngozi offered a soft, genuine smile in return. “Maybe,” she said quietly, “it’s because I am finally free.”
But even with this newfound sliver of happiness, the pain of the past would sometimes return in the quiet of the night. One evening, as she was folding aprons, she turned to Amaka with a troubled expression. “Amaka, do you think he ever truly loved me? Even a little?”
Amaka looked at her for a long moment before answering carefully, “I think he loved himself more than he could ever love anyone else. That is the only thing I am sure of.”
Ngozi nodded slowly, absorbing her friend’s words. “I just wish I hadn’t wasted so many years of my life believing his lies.”
“You did not waste them,” Amaka countered firmly. “You grew. You endured. You became so much stronger. And one day, I am certain God will give you back double for all the trouble you have faced.” Ngozi didn’t reply, but deep within her soul, something fundamental was changing. A small, steady fire of self-worth had been lit. A quiet, unshakeable strength was taking root.
One Sunday afternoon, Amaka returned from church buzzing with news. “Ngozi, you will not believe what I heard today!”
Ngozi looked up from the large pot of soup she was stirring. “What is it?”
“I saw Chaik’s cousin today. He told me that Chaik is preparing to marry someone new. Some flashy young woman from Lagos.”
Ngozi’s heart seemed to pause for a single, painful beat. “Oh,” was all she could manage to say, her voice quiet.
“And he’s even inviting some of your old mutual friends to the wedding,” Amaka added, her tone laced with indignation. “He wants everyone to come and see what he calls a ‘real wife.'”
Ngozi turned her face away, focusing on the simmering soup. “It seems he hasn’t changed at all.”
Amaka moved closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, he might even be bold enough to send you an invitation, just to mock you, to rub his new life in your face.”
Ngozi was silent for a long moment. She stirred the soup slowly, thoughtfully. Then she whispered, more to herself than to Amaka, “Let him do whatever he feels he must. I know who I am now.” But that night, as she lay in bed, one hand instinctively rested on her flat belly. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, remembering Dr. Uche’s affirming words: “You are healthy.” She placed her other hand over her heart. “God,” she prayed silently, “if you ever saw my tears, please show the world that I was never the problem.” Then she closed her eyes, not with the familiar ache of pain, but with a small, serene smile of peace on her lips.
Ngozi was standing in front of her food stand one busy morning, wiping down the edge of the serving table with a damp cloth. The street was already alive with its usual chaotic energy—children rushing to school, keke drivers honking incessantly, and market women loudly advertising their goods. She was dressed in a simple, comfortable gown with a colorful scarf tied neatly around her head. The rich, spicy scent of her jollof rice filled the air around her stand, and a small queue of customers had already formed. She offered a weak but polite smile to each person, efficiently dishing out rice and stew into takeaway plates. But internally, a quiet war still raged within her heart. One part of her was steadily moving forward, building a new life, while another part remained haunted by the ghost of her past—the memory of Chaik’s cruel voice, the sting of being called barren and useless, the humiliation of being thrown out like yesterday’s trash.
“Madam, two plates, please.” A man’s voice, calm and deep, broke through her thoughts.
She turned. The man standing before her was tall, with kind, intelligent eyes and a face that radiated a sense of calm. He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into neat brown trousers, and he carried a simple black laptop bag. He smiled gently, pointing towards the large pot of rice. “Your jollof smells incredible. Far too good to just walk past,” he said.
Ngozi managed a small, polite smile in return. “Thank you. Spicy or normal?”
“Spicy, please,” the man replied, his eyes twinkling. “Make it very spicy. I like my food to fight back a little.” His playful remark surprised a genuine chuckle from Ngozi. She packed two plates and handed them over to him.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked.
“Two thousand naira,” she replied.
He handed her a clean, crisp note, took the food, and looked at her for a moment longer. “You don’t talk very much, do you?” he observed, his tone not critical, but curiously gentle.
Ngozi shrugged slightly. “I suppose I just prefer to let the food speak for itself.”
“That’s fair,” he said, his smile widening. “My name is Emeka, by the way. I work at the legal firm just down the road. I have a feeling I’ll be coming back here often. Your rice has already won my heart.” Ngozi gave a polite nod. “Thank you, sir.” As he walked away, she didn’t pay the interaction much mind. He was just another customer, after all.
But Emeka did come back. He returned the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Sometimes he ordered two plates, sometimes just one. But with each visit, he would share a small joke or a brief, interesting story from his day. He never overstayed his welcome, never pressured her into a long conversation. Yet, Ngozi began to notice that his visits always, without fail, brought a genuine smile to her face.
One quieter afternoon, when the lunch rush had subsided, he lingered a little longer at the stand. “Madam Ngozi,” he said, having read her name from the small sign she had put up. “Do you ever take a break? You’ve been standing here serving since early morning.”
Ngozi wiped her hands on her well-worn apron. “I rest when I get home in the evening. It’s not so bad.”
Emeka frowned slightly, a look of concern crossing his features. “You shouldn’t have to work this hard all by yourself. Do you have any help at all?”…
I like that