The alarm hadn't even rung before her eyes parted reluctantly. She lay still for a moment, swallowed by the weight of another day thick with expectations — some spoken, many silent. Her body ached from last night's late-hour research on a new oil formulation she hoped would boost sales, and the early rise demanded again today.
Early mornings and late nights… Lord, this is all worth it, she breathed inwardly, a small prayer rising from a heart learning to trust God beyond what her eyes could see.
Confusion had sat heavily on her chest all week. She had smiled through it, worked through it, prayed through it. Still, the uncertainty lingered — about the timing, about the resources, about the next right move.
But she reminded herself she had a backing bigger than fear. And that reassurance — fragile yet unwavering — carried her feet to the floor.
She turned toward the smaller bed beside hers. There lay Itara-Oluwa, Memeidah, and Aquilla — bundled into one another like a single heartbeat. Three young, street-born children she had adopted during her youth service days as a volunteer with a nonprofit organization. Every one considered her too young for such decision. She exhales slowly, the peaceful breathing of her little pearls filled the room with a kind of hope only innocence could offer.
A soft smile warmed her face.
Every inconvenience…
every sacrifice…
every mocking laugh from those who didn't understand…
would one day become a reward no one could take from her.
She walked into the kitchen and quietly opened the worn cupboard. The faded wood creaked, revealing what remained of the cooking oils and grains — barely enough to stretch through the new week if she was careful.
Lord, fill this week with Your favor. I need to restock our food, her heart whispered without sound.
Just a month ago, Memedoh had finally begun official production of her natural skin oils — after mentally draining hustles, negotiations, and sleepless nights to secure the needed equipment. The turnout wasn't grand yet, but it wasn't insignificant either. Some neighbors had purchased. A few teachers had recommended her products. Three parents from the school placed small orders last weekend.
But the real storm clouding her mind lingered…
The unfinished development project at Diamond Path Foundation School.
Her school.
Her heart's territory.
She had drawn up plans long ago — a new learning block, supportive learning materials and equipment, better sanitation units, a stronger foundation for the children society had already counted out. A mission she held so dearly that she would rather starve than abandon it.
And as though that wasn't weighty enough, another truth tugged at her conscience — family. In her society, adulthood wasn't independence; it was expanded responsibility. Her growing siblings needed school fees and better opportunities. Her parents were aging and deserved a softer life. If she prospered — they must rise too.
Still, she pressed forward.
It was a start — slow, steady, and quietly promising.
One step placed faithfully in front of the other.
---
Memedoh moved through the small hallway with a familiar sense of purpose, observing each of the six classrooms under her care.
Diamond Path Academy stood in a slowly developing suburb — the only place she could afford to plant her dream. After years of careful saving, she bought a small plot and rented the adjoining one, trusting that soon her school would grow strong enough to claim it completely.
The building was modest — simple, but deliberately arranged. Though only six classrooms stood where nine were needed, each one was bright and welcoming. To make up for what she yet lacked in luxury, she invested in orderliness and nature — hiring horticulturists to frame the compound and classroom fronts with lively flowers and shrubs. Clean paths, cheerful paint, and thoughtfully tended greenery gave the children a sense of pride that the surrounding community rarely offered.
A tiny reception, her compact office, a small bookstore, three toilets, and a washing corner completed the compound — an organized simplicity built with integrity and vision.
---
"Alright, precious gems!" Memedoh's voice rang clear over the devotion ground, calm yet commanding. "Today's another beautiful day. Wear your readiness to learn, because if you don't set your mind to get something right today, your teacher will not be able to help you, no matter how hard they try. Please, do not fight. Always report any dispute to your teacher. Anyone who fights will be penalized, and your parents will be informed."
She smiled lightly, watching their faces as she continued with a gentle firmness. "Be of good conduct, stay focused, and be ever ready to learn."
When devotion ended, the pupils burst into their marching songs, shuffling happily into their classrooms. Almost immediately, the compound hummed to life — children rustling through their school bags for yesterday's assignments, teachers calling attendance, others rearranging shelves in search of books for the day's lessons.
---
In her small office, everything was neatly arranged — files stacked in color-coded trays, fresh flowers on the table, and framed words of wisdom lining the soft cream wall: "Integrity is better than income." "Teach the child, shape the nation."
Memedoh settled into her seat, whispering a short prayer for peace and fulfillment. She was just about to review the teachers' logbook when her phone rang.
Knowing who it was, she sighed softly. "Lord, help me."
She picked it up.
"Hello, good morning Mr. Chima."
"Madam, good morning o. How far na? It's going two weeks now since I finished your work," Chima said, his tone laced with mild worry.
"Yes, I know. Just calm down. I have you in mind. I will see you this week. Do I not settle you as I say?" Memedoh replied, her voice calm but steady.
"Ha, madam, you know now. You've not taken this long before, and the desks and chairs don dey occupy space for my store," he complained.
She chuckled faintly. "So na the space be your issue, eh Chima? Because when I give you work, I don't waste time to pay and pick my items. You're now used to it, abi?" She paused, her tone playful but firm. "I will vex for you o."
"No vex, madam, abeg. Just try, please. This week, I go appreciate."
She ended the call and exhaled deeply, leaning back in her chair. Debt weighed on her like a quiet heaviness she didn't want to acknowledge. She hated owing — it made her feel cornered. But with the new school term pressing and responsibilities mounting, she had to stretch her patience and hope others stretched theirs too.
"He'll expect all his money," she murmured to herself. "But I can't pay everything now. He should understand. After all, the times he delayed my work, I didn't strangle him."
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in, dear," she called.
Miss Ariel, the receptionist teacher, stepped in, holding her phone and a jotter. "Good morning, ma."
"Good morning, Ariel."
"I just received a call from Mrs. Ann from the bookstore. She's requesting her balance for the supplies she sent early this term."
Memedoh's brow furrowed. "Ah-ah! I made payment last week for that transaction."
"Yes, ma, she acknowledged that," Ariel explained gently. "But she said there's still a previous deficit for the teachers' copies you bought last term."
"Oh! Alright. Send my apologies for omitting that debt. Tell her I've put it in plan; she should give me till next week."
"Roger that, ma," Ariel smiled lightly and stepped out.
When the door closed, Memedoh exhaled again, pressing her palms against her forehead. "Oh God, I need a miracle right now," she whispered. "So much to handle. Your grace has helped me consistently. Now will be no different."
Her tone softened as she looked out the window toward "I can do this," she said to herself, letting out a soft sigh "As long as You keep helping me."
---
Then she rose and stepped out to the classrooms — reviewing lesson plans, checking pupils' exercises to ensure they aligned with the curriculum, and offering her teachers quick coordination tips. She signed off receipts for parents buying textbooks and paused occasionally to inspect supplies or ensure every class stayed tidy and disciplined.
From the nursery section, as Memedoh walked past one class into another, her eyes caught a brief, gentle scene — Itara standing by the teacher's desk, homework book in hand, waiting her turn for review with the others. The little girl leaned slightly on the table, eyes darting between her own writing and her classmate's. Her letters were still unsure, but there was a new confidence in the way she held her pencil — a child who had never touched one until Memedoh took her in, now eager to master every curve and stroke.
In the next class, Memeidah stood beside his seatmate, watching as the boy and his friend whispered and chuckled about something only they understood. The teacher's voice broke in — "Okay, now count."
Then he straightened a little.
Memedoh smiled faintly as she continued down the corridor.
By late morning she had completed every task on her schedule. A soft sigh of accomplishment escaped her lips. Confident that the lead teacher could oversee the rest of the day, she handed over responsibility and stepped out, reassured that her school would run smoothly in her absence.
Next stop: her store.
The store was where Memedoh produced and sold her organic oils and soaps — her long-planned business finally taking visible form. She had only recently secured the place.
Mr. Okama had just completed a beautiful plaza and was preparing to hand it over to his lawyer to list the spaces for rent. Fortunately, Memedoh managed to meet him directly under a very favorable circumstance. He seemed to take a liking to her and offered her one of the prime ground-floor units at a price quite lower than what others would pay later.
The space was neat, fitted with mirrored shelves, and its L-shaped layout was perfect — allowing her to separate the production area from the sampling space. The plaza itself sat in a rapidly urbanizing area, one that naturally attracted customers hungry for lifestyle and beauty.
Agnes and Amara were already in the area and decided to drop in. They were exactly the kind of friends who appreciated fashion and beauty — the very type of customers Memedoh wished to have.
"The place is nice and its big," Amara said, admiration clear in her tone.
"For real," Agnes added, confirming emphatically.
"But Memedoh, you neva tell us the bank you robbed to get this place," Agnes continued dramatically, striking poses as she cat-walked around, admiring her reflection on the mirrored shelves, flipping her hair and adjusting her bodycon gown. "The place is muah!" she said, giving an air kiss.
"So… is this everything you're selling?" Amara asked, curiosity creeping into her voice as she scanned the shelves.
"No, not yet. I haven't moved in completely," Memedoh replied, her mind momentarily drifting to the list of tasks needed to be done before the place would fully come alive.
Agnes kept scanning the shelves. "So… you mean you now do business like this? Fine plaza, stylish shelves… Memedoh, you get luxury taste o! Who would have thought?" She chuckled, but there was a thin layer of disbelief beneath her tone.
Memedoh smiled. For the first time, something about her genuinely marveled these friends of hers. So achievement truly commands a different kind of respect, she thought. When it comes to business investment… even I sometimes don't believe what I can afford.
"Hmm. No be small thing," Amara said, pacing toward the corner where freshly labeled oils sat. She picked one up. "So tell us… which one is this?"
Memedoh stepped closer, that one? Her voice switching into her element—calm, assured, passionate.
"That is my Sunshine Glow Oil. Cold-pressed lemon for uniform skin glow, turmeric extract for fading stubborn marks, and niacinamide for barrier repair. Zero chemicals that harm the skin. It nourishes deeply, restores elasticity, and with consistent use…"
She smiled with quiet certainty, "you won't need filters again."
Agnes blinked. "Na so, Omo talk."(a yoruba term that means child of words)
She folded her arms. "So if person rub this your oil, she go turn Cleopatra overnight?"
Memedoh held her chuckle. "I said consistent use, not magic. But my products deliver what they promise." she smiled.
Amara nodded but still looked unsure. "So you're trying to say this oil is competing with my brand - - No now… you can't compare this your product yet to the ones we're already using. Do you know how much we spend on skin oil?"
Agnes snapped her fingers like she just remembered something big.
"We wey dey buy La Roche-Posay, babe. International standard!"
She lifted another bottle from the shelf. "Your own just dey start.
She twirled the bottle of Memedoh's lemon oil in her hand and dropped into the rotating customer chair near the counter — the one Memedoh designed to match the mirror shelves.
"Baby girl, no vex oh," Agnes continued, amusement dancing in her eyes. "But your own just dey come up. Even the price wey you dey call sef fit make person doubt all this your grammar."
Amara laughed lightly, crossing her legs. "It's true sha. No offense, but we're too used to brands that have already made name."
Memedoh leaned against the counter — not offended, not shaken.
Just determined.
"That's fine," she said with composed warmth. "Every established brand started from somewhere. But what I produce?" She tapped gently on the bottle Agnes held. "It's natural, safe, and crafted with actual skin health in mind. And the results will speak — just give them time."
Agnes and Amara exchanged a look — playful, yet grudgingly impressed that she didn't shrink.
After putting one and two things in place. She came back and took her position in the counter leaned a little closer to the counter, her voice soft but persuasive. "Don't judge a book by its cover, na. Give it a chance—judge it by its content."
"Mn," Agnes hummed, her lips curving into a sarcastic nod.
"You'll never know until you know," Memedoh added, the words slipping out with a bruised sort of confidence. It stung that they didn't believe her—not in her product, not in her potential.
Amara, sensing the shift, adjusted her tone. "Don't vex, jare. We'll plan to patronize you, but not now—maybe when I want to buy for someone."
Memedoh smiled faintly, masking the dull ache of disappointment. "No wahala," she said, turning back to arrange the bottles on the shelf.
After chatting a little longer about other things, they finally drifted out—leaving behind a faint trace of perfume and laughter.
Moments later, two neatly dressed men stepped in—civil, polished, and curious. They examined her display, asking precise questions about ingredients, preservation, and shelf life. She answered each one carefully, though she could feel a nervous heat rising beneath her calm exterior. The encounter exposed the gaps in her technical articulation; it reminded her how much she still needed to learn.
After a few minutes of conversation, one of them smiled. "We'll take this—your six-in-one soap pack."
"Thank you," she replied, grateful for the small victory.
That was all she sold that day. But as she watched them leave, her mind stayed behind—turning, analyzing, learning. The questions they asked had opened a quiet urgency within her. If she was going to stand before anyone—friends or strangers—and speak about her products with unshakable conviction, she needed to know more, refine more, be more.
By evening, she already knew where to go next.
The city's Science Library—where ideas stretched their roots, and resilience found light.
------
The Science Library was nothing short of majestic — towering shelves, glass-panelled walkways, and study lamps glowing like quiet guardians of knowledge. It was a place where builders of opportunity and initiators of strategy found new sparks.
For Memedoh, coming here felt like rediscovering oxygen. Her first day, she wanted to read every science book on food she could lay her hands on. It all came naturally to her — she was, after all, a graduate of Food Science and Engineering. The decision to make the library a regular part of her routine wasn't easy, though. She had no one to leave the children with, and her eldest, Itara, was only five — far too young to watch the others alone.
Then she remembered Mama IB, the kind elderly woman who ran a small provision store on their street — the same woman whose shop she had helped renovate months earlier. When Memedoh explained her need, Mama IB gladly agreed to care for the children after school. Grateful, Memedoh arranged with one of her teachers to drop them off there whenever she had to visit the library, promising Mama IB that they won't disturb..
With that settled, she threw herself fully into study — researching, reading, and taking notes until the lamps dimmed. Each visit felt like another seed planted for the future she envisioned.
And it was there — between the quiet hum of pages turning and the soft rhythm of purpose — that she met someone new.
Someone whose path would soon cross hers in ways she couldn't yet imagine.
His name was Jude.
A business lawyer with a growing portfolio — primarily a business consulting and contract brokerage firm he built from the ground up — he believed in results that could be seen. His networks were intentional. His ambitions, structured. His reputation, clean.
Men like Jude were architects of possibility — the kind who understood that success was not only earned, but displayed. He thought in strategy, spoke in opportunity, and walked with the kind of confidence that made others adjust their posture.
People often said Jude didn't chase opportunities…
He positioned himself where they came to find him.
It was rare for him to be intrigued by anyone outside his circle. But this quiet young woman with research papers for company had caught his attention without trying.
And in Jude's world — that was new.
The first time he noticed her, she was buried in research articles, eyebrows slightly furrowed, lips moving silently as she read. She looked like she was a student— dedicated, unseen, different. He noticed the seriousness first. Then the calm.
Focused, he thought.
Very focused.
He brushed the impression aside and returned to his usual errands — book rentals and sourcing reading materials for his business development projects.
He wasn't trying to observe her — she simply had a presence that didn't demand attention, but earned it.
But weeks later, he noticed something…
She was always there.
Late evenings.
Quiet corners.
Stacks of journals around her like shields.
One particular evening, he and a colleague were on their way out when a voice caught his attention — hers. She stood with two elderly professors who had paused near the research counter to pick research publication, confidently analyzing the link between food insecurity, diseases, and market vulnerabilities in the society —Their conversation sparked by a news broadcast playing on a nearby screen.
"…food insecurity isn't merely a symptom of poverty," she argued.
"It's a cycle — disease weakens communities, and the market system exploits that weakness. If public health fails, the food sector bleeds."
One professor countered, "But the market responds to supply and demand. The health sector cannot carry that burden alone."
"Yes sir, but supply and demand are manipulated when sickness becomes profitable. Heal the people — and exploitation loses leverage." She asserted.
A moment of silence followed. The professors exchanged glance — that rare kind reserved for unexpected brilliance. When they replied again, their tone had shifted from authority to curiosity.
Who is this girl? Jude wondered.
Her clothing was modest, practical — nothing that begged attention.
Her face, youthful enough to pass for a student.
She blended easily into the background.
But her intellect…
That stood out like light through glass.
He paused, listening longer than he intended, and for the first time in a while, something genuine stirred his interest.
____________________
Few days later, Memedoh at the library, she had her shoulders pinned with fatigue — school responsibilities in the morning, business management in the afternoon. By evening, she stopped at the library's small snack stand for bottled water.
Her phone rang.
She answered quickly, voice lowered, distracted.
In that moment, she walked away — leaving her receipt, face towel, and pen on the counter.
"Madam! Excuse me — you forgot—!" the attendant called
Jude had just stepped into the library again with his colleague and friend —Fredrick and decided to grab something to eat too. Walking with his usual unhurried stride, eyes briefly on his phone, he looked up instinctively as he entered the snack store — just in time to notice the attendant calling after the young woman who seemed not to hear. He didn't rush forward — just a brief pause, then that subtle sense of order that guided him in everything else.
"Don't worry, I'll get it to her," he said, his tone calm, collected — as if doing what was right required no deliberation.
He followed her toward the car park, not hurriedly, but with that quiet deliberateness that marked his every move.
"Hello — hello, dear," he called gently.
She turned, still with the phone pressed to her ear.
He held out her things. "You forgot these."
"Oh, my God… what is wrong with me today?" she muttered, trying to balance the phone, a file, and the bottle of water.
Jude smiled and walked beside her to a nearby car where she could set everything down. Up close, he realized she wasn't as young as he'd thought from afar — she was a full-grown adult, confident and composed.
"Thanks a lot, dear. I appreciate," she said in her polished, professional accent — quick, courteous, already turning to leave.
"Don't mention," he replied, still smiling — which, for him, was rare. Words hovered between them, unspoken, before she walked away, leaving him oddly aware of the silence that followed.
Jude — who never struggled to start a conversation — suddenly found himself… hesitant.
And that alone told him there was something different here.
--------
In the library that evening, Memedoh had come for something different — books beyond food science. She wanted to sharpen her business insight; to understand markets, customer psychology, and the architecture of enterprise. Knowledge, she believed, became truly potent when disciplines met.
The library coordinator directed her toward a section tucked between economics and strategy. The shelves were tall, the light mellow, and the smell of old paper strangely grounding.
She stood on a step ladder, scanning rows of titles without preference, searching as though waiting for a book to call her name.
Jude walked in quietly, his gait deliberate, his mind half on his phone. He wasn't browsing — he knew exactly what he wanted. His eyes swept over a single shelf, and in one precise motion, he pulled out the book.
She noticed.
How can someone be that exact among these many books? She thought, momentarily pausing.
Jude, aware of her glance, decided to speak. From the small ladder beside hers, he said in his calm, well-measured tone,
"Have you read The Lean Startup by Eric Ries?"
She turned slightly. "Me?" she asked, her tone crisp, eyes still scanning.
He chuckled softly. "Is there anyone else around here?"
She smiled faintly and began to descend the ladder, book still in hand.
"Oh… what's the book about?"
He stepped closer, still maintaining a respectful distance.
"It's about turning ideas into structured success — about testing vision with discipline. You seem like someone who'd appreciate that."
"Oh, thanks," she said, brushing the dust from her palms. "I'm not really acquainted with business titles yet. I've been searching for something helpful but can't seem to choose."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "And hanging on that ladder isn't exhausting for you?"
She laughed, soft but unguarded. "Not really. Why do you think so?"
He smiled. "Maybe because it's been long I saw a lady swing a library ladder so effortlessly just to find a book. These days, it's rare — people, especially ladies, chase lifestyle books, fashion, or relationship guides, not research shelves. You must have a solid purpose."
"Maybe I do," she replied, now smiling genuinely.
"Here," he said, pulling another title from the shelf — Good to Great by Jim Collins. "This one explores how ordinary organizations become exceptional. It's not about theory — it's about leadership, discipline, and clarity."
She took it from him, flipping through the first pages. "Oh, thank you. Oh—this is… oh…" She chuckled at herself, realizing she'd said "oh" three times.
He laughed quietly. "You're welcome." Then, offering his hand, he added, "Jude."
"Memedoh," she replied, her handshake confident yet warm.
"I know you might wonder why I suggested that one," he said, motioning to the book. "I run a business consulting and contract brokerage firm — mostly strategy and corporate development. This book helped me draw the line between being busy and being productive."
"That's interesting," she said, her tone lifting with curiosity. "So you help companies position themselves better in the market?"
"Exactly," he nodded. "I work with small and medium-scale enterprises — aligning their structures for measurable growth. It's the kind of work that teaches you how people think before they buy, and how vision turns into systems."
Memedoh listened attentively. "That's profound. I've been researching the business side of organic products — natural soaps, oils, body care. My focus is on authenticity — what people apply on their skin should be as pure as what they eat. I want to build something sustainable, not just profitable."
He looked at her with growing respect. "You speak like someone who already understands markets — not just business. That's rare."
She smiled softly. "It's just passion mixed with purpose. I believe impact is what gives business its longevity."
"True," Jude said, his tone deepening. "And that mindset — it's what separates those who chase money from those who create value."
For a moment, silence stretched — calm, neither awkward nor forced. Two minds aligned in thought, yet worlds apart in experience.
"Anyway," he said finally, adjusting the book in his hand, "I'd say Good to Great is a good place to start. You'll find your kind of insight there."
"I'll take your word for it," she replied, tucking the book under her arm.
He smiled lightly. "Then I guess I'll be seeing you around this section more often."
"Maybe you will," she said with a knowing smile as she turned to leave, the quiet echo of her heels fading between the shelves.
--------
Frederick had walked past Memedoh, who still wore a faint smile as she stepped out of the hall where she'd just spoken with Jude.
He entered the hall to find Jude — eyes fixed on his phone, the same quiet smile still playing at the corner of his lips. Fred glanced from him to the door, then back at him. It didn't take much to guess what had happened.
He chuckled, raising a thumb toward the doorway behind him. "You spoke to her?" he asked, one brow lifted.
"Yeah?" Jude shrugged, trying to sound indifferent.
"I knew it," Fred said with a knowing grin.
"What?" Jude looked up, feigning confusion. "Please, it's not whatever shit you might be thinking. I just saw a lady I could actually hold an intellectual conversation with — someone grounded, brilliant too."
"Yeah, I know, I know," Fred replied casually. He knew Jude too well. Jude was not one to explain himself — not unless there was something to hide. After hearing her name come up during their last two library visits, Fred was already convinced Jude's interest in Memedoh wasn't just normal.
They had been to the library together twice before, and each time Jude had somehow managed to bring up "that woman with the books." Fred had connected the dots long ago.
"Where were you?" Jude asked, curious.
Fred gave a sly grin. "Oh, just outside—having a little chat with a lady I find… interesting." Fred lied smoothly, just to let Jude know he understood what was going on under his calm front.
"Fred, don't be dumb," Jude said, already seeing through him. "It's not like I like her or something. What's with you? I just saw a lady with a rare aura — different from most ladies I've met. Is it wrong to talk to such a person?"
"I never said otherwise," Fred muttered, chewing on his milky doughnut.
"You know what," Jude said, shaking his head, "I don't give a damn what you think." He sounded irritated — partly at Fred, partly at himself for feeling exposed.
Fred laughed, doughnut still in his mouth. "Can we go now? 'Cause honestly, I don't think you're reading tonight," he teased.
Jude shot him an annoyed look as he stepped out with the books he intended to read. "I don't blame you," he muttered under his breath.
Fred grinned, tilting his head. "You sure say na that book you wan read? I thought we're already fulfilled for the night ," he said with a sheepish smile, following behind Jude.
Jude ignored him, to avoid tarnishing his composure further .
--------
"Oh my… it's almost 8:30," Mama murmured, glancing at the old clock on the wall. It was about time for her to retire for the day, yet worry refused to leave her heart.
The children were quiet — too quiet for their age. Itara-Oluwa, the oldest, could stay for hours without saying a word. Aquilla, the youngest at barely a year and six months, would occasionally let out a tiny whimper, "Where's Mommy?" before slipping back into silence. But Memeidah, the middle child — a boy of about three — was different. Thoughtful, observant, and unusually intuitive for his age, he had a way of reading people's moods. Watching Mama's face, he tugged gently at Itara's arm.
"Mama is not happy," he whispered.
Itara lifted her face, calm and knowing. "Tell her that Mommy will soon come back. She won't waste time," she said softly.
"Mummy will soon come back… she won't waste time," Memeidah repeated in his small, calm voice — gentle and hopeful, like a soft whistle in the night. Mama smiled faintly. "Yes, dear, she definitely will," she said. "I'm just worried for you children. You're still in your uniforms, and you haven't even had dinner."
Something about Memeidah's voice eased her heart. His innocence carried a kind of peace she couldn't explain.
Just then, Nana, a neighbor from down the street, stopped by with her sister to buy a few things.
" If not that this children are so calm and peaceful, Mama, it wouldn't have been easy for you, ," she said with a small laugh. She knew Memedoh but still couldn't understand why such a young woman in her prime would adopt three toddlers.
"Mama, have you seen this kind of thing before?" Nana asked curiously. "Person wey neva marry, adopting children? Abi she can't have hers?"
Turning to her sister, she added, "Sissy, these are the children I told you about — our neighbor's. That lady now?." Sissy raised a brow. " okay! Hmm. I have not such before oh."
Mama sighed gently. "Memedoh doesn't think like everyone else. It may look odd now, but tomorrow these children might become a great joy to her. You never can tell."
Nana frowned slightly. " Which bundle of joy, the ones she will give birth to? will they not bring the Joy? Well, na she sabi sha (Anyway, its her choice)." Sissy folded her arms. "But how will she marry? Which man would want to marry a woman with three children that aren't hers? Maybe she doesn't plan to marry at all."
Mama smiled faintly. "You never know. Everyone has their path."
Nana shrugged. " True sha, lemme mind my business. Good night, Ma."
"Good night, my dear," Mama replied.
As they left, she sat for a while, watching the children — how quietly they leaned on one another, their small bodies drawing comfort from the closeness. She smiled, that kind of smile that believed in mystery. Memedoh had always taught them to stay close to each other.
Moments later, Itara's eyes brightened. "Aquilla," she whispered, "Mommy is coming."
Aquilla's tiny voice rang out, "Mommy! Mommy!" as she toddled toward the entrance. Mama chuckled softly, holding her back. "Wait, my dear, Mommy is coming to you."
Memedoh entered, walking with that genuine worry and purposeful stride — like a soldier, someone used to carrying both dreams and duty.
"Mama, I'm so sorry I came late," she said, breath slightly heavy but voice composed. "Please, no vex for me."
As she bought the dinner items, Mama told her how the children had sensed her return long before she arrived. Memedoh smiled, lifting Aquilla into her arms as the baby clung tightly to her neck.
The room, once quiet with waiting, felt warm again — filled with the soft rhythm of love that didn't need to be explained.
Mama thank you so much, I appreciate. "Oya come let's go" . She called Itara and Memeidah.