The Village and Its Ways
The village was small, like a forgotten dot on a wrinkled map—
hidden near the slow, singing river that whispered to the trees.
It was not a place of gold, nor of grinding sorrow.
It simply was—
a place of worn feet, weathered hearts, and quiet survival.
The homes stood like old women—some proud, some bent.
Made of mud bricks and memories,
roofed with rusted iron or brittle palm fronds,
they bore the stories of those who slept within.
Water was a prayer, not a promise.
One borehole stood in the village center like a tired soldier,
and a handful of wells offered water with a bitter taste of earth.
During the rains, the wells wept brown tears,
and the women—mothers, daughters, widows—
walked to the river,
jugs on heads, silence in their steps, danger in the distance.
But each morning,
the village breathed again.
Women wrapped in faded wrappers
moved like dancers across the paths,
baskets swaying on their heads,
their hands strong, their eyes fixed.
They left before the sun stretched its arms,
and returned with backs aching and hearts firm.
Children rushed toward the school—
a broken building with cracked skin and a giant mango tree
that offered shade without complaint.
No walls. No gates.
Just a bell—a scrap of iron tied with rope,
singing three times a day:
Once, to gather the little ones like chicks at dawn.
Again, to release them for a brief bite of garri, of hope.
And finally, to send them home, barefoot and free.
They came with slates,
chalk-stained fingers gripping their lessons.
Some carried chairs from home like treasure.
Others sat on the dusty floor,
legs crossed, eyes lit with questions.
When evening fell,
the village grew soft.
Fires crackled in front of homes like old lullabies.
Fathers spoke in low tones,
their voices blending with the chirps of crickets.
Children chased one another through narrow lanes,
dust flying, joy rising.
But not all was joy.
Every village has its shadows—
words not said aloud,
names that pass from lips like curses.
Some were loved.
Some were merely endured.
And then there was me—
the mad woman's daughter.
No door truly opened for me.
No voice truly called me in.
I was part of the village,
yet apart from
it.
Like a shadow that walks in daylight—
seen,
but never truly welcomed.