Don’t let what happened to you steal your peace. They thanked the doctor and left. Outside the hospital, Ngozi sat on a bench, her body shaking from the truth she had just heard.
All these years, she whispered. I begged God. I cried every night.
I hated myself. And I wasn’t the one. A marker sat beside her and held her hand.
Chaik will pay for what he did to you. I swear, Ngozi, one day he will look at you and wish he never let you go. Ngozi looked up at the sky.
Maybe this is the beginning of my healing. The next few weeks were different. Ngozi started helping Amaka with her tailoring business.
She wasn’t smiling fully yet, but she was no longer lost. She began waking up early again, eating small meals, and even laughing sometimes. One evening, she told Amaka, I want to start something.
Maybe a small food business. I’ve always loved cooking. Amaka smiled wide…
Yes, that’s the spirit. I’ll help you. Let’s make it happen.
They used Amaka’s small veranda to start a food stand. Every morning, Ngozi would cook rice, beans, moi moi, and soup. By 7am, workers from nearby offices were lining up to buy.
People began to know her again, not as the woman Chaik divorced, but as the woman who made the best jollof in the area. One afternoon, a customer smiled at her and said, Madam, you look different. There’s a glow on your face.
Ngozi smiled softly. Maybe I’m finally free. But even with the small happiness, there were nights when the pain returned.
One night, as she was folding aprons, she turned to Amaka. Do you think he ever loved me? Amaka looked at her and said slowly, I think he loved himself more. That’s the only thing I’m sure of.
Ngozi nodded. I just wish I didn’t waste so many years. You didn’t waste them, Amaka said.
You grew. You became stronger. And one day, God will give you more than you lost.
Ngozi didn’t reply, but deep inside, something was changing. A small fire had started. A quiet strength.
One Sunday afternoon, Amaka came home from church with news. Ngozi, guess what? Ngozi looked up from her pot of soup. What happened? I saw Chaik’s cousin today.
He told me Chaik is preparing to marry someone new. A flashy girl from Lagos. Ngozi’s heart paused for a moment.
Oh, she said quietly. He’s even inviting some of your old friends to the wedding, Amaka added. He wants people to come and see what a real wife looks like.
Ngozi looked away. He hasn’t changed at all. Amaka came closer.
You know he might even send you an invite, just to mock you. Ngozi didn’t say anything. She stirred her soup slowly.
Then she whispered, let him do whatever he wants. I know who I am now. But that night, as she lay on her bed, her hand rested on her belly.
She stared at the ceiling for a long time, remembering what the doctor said. You’re healthy. She placed her other hand over her chest.
God, if you ever saw my tears, please show the world that I was never the problem. And she closed her eyes, not with pain, but with a small smile of peace. Ngozi stood in front of her food stand one morning, wiping the edge of a table with a cloth.
The street was already buzzing with life. Children were rushing to school, keik drivers were honking, and women were calling out prices from their stalls. She was wearing a simple gown with a scarf tied around her head.
The smell of her jollof rice filled the air, and a small line was already forming. She smiled weakly at each customer, dishing rice and stew into takeaway plates. But inside her heart, there was a quiet war.
One part of her was moving on, but another part still remembered the pain, still remembered keik’s voice, still remembered how she was called barren, useless, and thrown out like trash. Madam, two plates please. A man’s voice broke her thoughts.
She turned. The man standing there was tall, with kind eyes and a calm face. He wore a white shirt tucked into neat brown trousers, and he carried a small black laptop bag.
He smiled gently, pointing to the rice pot. Your jollof smells too good to pass, he said. Ngozi forced a small smile.
Thank you, spicy or normal? Spicy, the man replied. Very spicy. I like my food to fight back.
That made Ngozi chuckle a little. She packed the two plates and handed them over. How much, he asked.
Two thousand, she replied. He handed her a clean note, took the food, and looked at her for a second. You don’t talk much, he said.
Ngozi shrugged. I just like to focus on the food. That’s fair, he smiled.
My name is Emeka, by the way. I work at the firm down the road. I’ll be coming back often.
Your rice has already won my heart. Ngozi gave a polite nod. Thank you, sir.
