The weight of tomorrow

The harmattan wind had no mercy that morning. It blew through the red-earth paths of Umuaku, coating every roof with dust and whispering through the bamboo fences that lined the compound of the Umeh family. The air smelt of smoke, soil, and unspoken hunger.

Adaobi squatted by the clay hearth, fanning the weak fire beneath a blackened pot. The soup inside hissed like it too was tired of struggling. Her mother, Angela, came in with her tray of unsold pumpkin leaves balanced on her head, the leaves wilting in protest.

“ Ahia agaghi aga, Ada,” she sighed, lowering the tray. “Market today was like a graveyard. Even flies no come buy something.”

Adaobi forced a smile, though her chest felt tight. “Tomorrow will be better, Mama. Echi di ime — tomorrow is pregnant.”

Angela chuckled softly at the proverb, brushing sweat from her face with the back of her hand. “May the child it carries not be stillborn.”

Their laughter was small, but it filled the little mud house with a fragile warmth.

At twenty-one, Adaobi had learned to live on hope and faith. Her dreams of becoming a nurse had long been folded like an old letter and tucked away in the corner of her heart. When her father lost his job and her mother’s hawking could no longer feed the family, Adaobi left school so her three younger siblings could continue. Every day since then, she rose before dawn to help her mother in the garden, then followed her to the market with a basin of vegetables balanced neatly on her head.

That evening, as the sun melted into orange behind the palm trees, Adaobi sat outside on a wooden bench, her gaze wandering. Life was too still, too narrow. “We can’t continue like this,” she whispered to herself.

She remembered Obinna, an old schoolmate who had once told her he worked in a small factory in town. Perhaps... there might be a way out.

---

The next day, Adaobi walked the long dusty road to the factory. Her legs ached, but her heart was steady. She met Obinna near the gate, wiping grease from his hands. His face lit up when he saw her.

“Ada! Long time o. What wind blew you here?”

“Obinna, I’m looking for work,” she said, lowering her eyes slightly. “Anything. I can read and write. I can type. I just need a chance.”

Obinna’s smile faded into thought. “Hmm. The manager has been searching for a secretary. If you can manage it, I’ll talk to him.”

“I can,” she said quickly, her voice trembling between fear and hope. “Please, Obinna. Help me.”

Two weeks later, Adaobi began her new job. For the first time, she felt the rhythm of a different life — the hum of machines, the smell of ink and paper, the chatter of workers. She wore borrowed blouses and carried a secondhand handbag, but when she looked in the mirror, she saw not the hawker’s daughter, but a woman with a dream returning to life.

At home, things were not as bright. Her father, Mr. Umeh, a retired police officer, had turned bitter and idle. He spent his days fanning himself on the corridor, muttering about how the world had wronged him. That evening, when Angela returned home, he pounced on her with rage “Why is there no food in this house?!” he thundered, striking her across the face. “Mba! Papa, stop!” Adaobi shouted, rushing forward to shield her mother,her father’s eyes burned, but he turned away, muttering curses under his breath.

Angela crumpled to the floor, weeping softly.Adaobi held her “Mama, why do you let him treat you like this? You feed him, clothe him, and still he beats you.”Angela looked at her daughter with tired eyes “My daughter, sometimes peace wears the face of silence. The lion roars loudest when his stomach is empty.”Adaobi said nothing. She only hugged her mother tighter, vowing quietly that she would change their story one day.

The weeks rolled into months. Adaobi worked diligently, and soon the factory owner, Emeka, noticed her. He was a young man in his thirties, educated, soft-spoken, and always smelling faintly of citrus and engine oil.He would stop by her desk sometimes, asking questions about her village, her family, her dreams. At first, Adaobi answered cautiously, but one afternoon, under the hot breath of the sun, her guard melted “I wanted to be a nurse,” she confessed, staring at her hands “But dreams don’t grow well on empty stomachs“ Emeka’s expression softened. “Hmm... dreams never die, Ada. Sometimes they only sleep.”

That night, Emeka couldn’t shake off her story. He reached out to his friend Odinnaka, who ran an NGO that sponsored young Africans to study abroad. When Odinnaka heard about Adaobi, he said, “Bring her details. Something about her spirit speaks of purpose.”

Two mornings later, Emeka arrived early at the factory, eager to tell Adaobi the good news — that fate had opened a door she had long stopped knocking on. But Adaobi didn’t come to work.

By noon, worry knotted in his chest. He asked the manager where she lived and drove to her village. The closer he got, the more uneasy he felt. Then, as he turned into the compound, he saw a crowd gathered — women wailing, children clinging to wrappers, men standing in silence.

“Gini mere?” he asked a woman by the gate.

“Umeh anwu ola,” she wept. “He died this morning. Slumped in the bathroom.”

Emeka’s heart sank. Inside, Adaobi sat by the wall, eyes red and swollen, her hands clasped in disbelief. Emeka approached gently, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Ada,” he whispered. “There was something I came to tell you, but not today. Not today.”

She nodded faintly, tears falling onto her lap like rain.

Two weeks later, they buried Mr. Umeh behind the family compound. The villagers said little — some blamed drink, others destiny. Adaobi stood by the grave, the red soil staining her wrapper. Her heart was a storm of sorrow and strange relief.

After the mourning period, she returned to work, her face paler but her spirit steady. Emeka called her into his office “Ada, the reason I came to your house that day was to tell you that a door has opened. My friend’s NGO is ready to sponsor your education abroad — full scholarship. Nursing, if you still want it.”

Adaobi froze. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he smiled. “You deserve to dream again.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to shout — but she only whispered, “Chineke! God truly works in mysterious ways.”

That evening, Adaobi told her mother everything.“Mama, I have always dreamed of being a nurse. I paused my schooling so my siblings could go. But now, there is an opportunity. Let me take it. If I go, it will change our lives. I will send money, Mama. We won’t suffer again.” Angela’s eyes glistened. She sat quietly for a moment, then sighed deeply. “My daughter, if the road calls your name, answer it. But remember — no matter where your feet go, your shadow remains here.”“I will never forget, Mama.” Angela nodded slowly, her voice trembling. “May the ancestors guard your steps. And may your dreams not betray you.”

The days that followed were a blur of preparation. The NGO processed her documents swiftly. The village buzzed with pride — “Adaobi, the girl from Umuaku, is going abroad!” they said. Even the old palm wine tapper by the stream blessed her each morning.

The night before her departure, the sky broke open with rain. Adaobi lay awake, listening to the thunder roll like drums of destiny. Her siblings were asleep, and her mother sat by the hearth, staring at the flames.

“Mama,” Ada whispered. “Are you afraid?”

Angela smiled faintly. “Afraid? Maybe a little. But joy and fear often drink from the same cup.”

She looked at her daughter, her eyes reflecting both pride and longing. “When I was your age, I dreamed of leaving this village too. But God had other plans. Maybe He was waiting for you.”

They sat in silence, the fire crackling between them, the rain whispering secrets only mothers and daughters understand.

---

The following morning, the whole village gathered to see Adaobi off. Chickens clucked, children sang, and the old women ululated. She hugged her siblings tightly, then knelt before her mother.

Angela placed her hands on Adaobi’s head. “Go well, my daughter. Chase your dreams. But remember — akwa azu anaghi akwa anya mmiri n’efu — the tears of a fish never fall in vain.”

Adaobi stood, tears blurring her vision. She turned one last time to look at her mother standing by the dusty road, her wrapper flapping in the morning breeze.

As the bus pulled away, she whispered through the window, “Mama, I will make you proud.”

Angela smiled through her tears. “Go, Adaobi. The sky is wide enough for all our dreams.”

---

Years later, in a small apartment in London, Adaobi often sat by her window watching planes carve white lines across the blue. She wore her nurse’s uniform proudly, but each time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother’s face and heard her voice: “Remember, your shadow remains here.”

One evening, she received a call — her mother had fallen ill. She rushed back home, heart pounding with both fear and gratitude. When she reached Umuaku, the air was just as red, the smell of smoke and dust still the same. Her siblings had grown, her mother weaker, but her smile — that unshakable smile — remained.

As Adaobi knelt by her mother’s bed, Angela took her hand. “My daughter,” she whispered, “you have seen the world. Tell me, is the sky bluer there?”

Adaobi’s voice trembled. “No, Mama. It’s the same sky. Only the dreams are different.”

Angela smiled faintly, her eyes fluttering shut. “Then I can rest. You carried our tomorrow well.”

And just like that, the evening breeze carried away her final breath. ---

That night, Adaobi stood outside, looking up at the same stars she had gazed at as a child. The wind rustled through the plantain leaves, and somewhere, a night bird cried.

She whispered into the dark, “Mama, I made it. But it was never just my dream — it was ours.”

The moon hung above her like a silver witness, quiet and eternal.

In that moment, Adaobi understood what fate truly was — not the path we choose, but the one God lights when we think the road has ended.

---

“Dreams don’t die in Africa — they only wait for the right rain to rise again.”