Life has a way of humbling even the strongest hearts, and sometimes the people we least expect to see broken are the ones life hits the hardest.
There was this woman who used to visit my cosmetics shop back in Omoku. From the very first day, I could tell she sold something somewhere around town because she always stopped by on her way home to buy a few cosmetics.
But what stood out the most about her wasn’t what she bought — it was the way she came.
She never came alone.
She always came with her husband.
They were the type of couple you instantly admired without meaning to. They would ask for discounts together, speak with one voice, laugh over everything, and their love was so visible you could feel it in the air. Whenever they walked into my shop, I would literally drop everything and just watch them. Their joy was contagious.
They were struggling financially — that much was clear. Most times they could only afford a small soap or a simple familiar cream. But even in that lack, they carried a happiness that many wealthy people never experience. They were content, full of life, and deeply in love.
One day, I went to UBA for some errands. Colour me surprised when I saw her near the NDDC Park selling bananas. I walked over to greet her, and she was so excited to see me at her own place of hustle.
I was just about to ask about her ever-smiling husband when he walked in. Still the same cheerful man. Still full of life.
That day, he asked me what skincare products I would recommend to make his wife glow like me. Before I could answer, she laughed and said, “Honey, that one go cost well well o!”
But he replied, “Don’t worry. You will be like your fellow women. I will buy it for you. Let what I’m expecting just come.”
We all laughed, I bought some bananas, and I left.
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Over two years passed after I moved from Omoku. I hadn’t seen her since.
Yesterday, at an evening market here in Port Harcourt, I saw a woman who looked strangely familiar. Old… tired… worn out by life. She sat quietly with small pieces of onions in front of her.
I walked past at first. Then something in me turned back. I looked again.
It was her.
The same woman whose smile once lit up my shop in Omoku.
But now, she looked nothing like the vibrant woman I used to know.
She stood up and hugged me tightly — a hug that felt warm, yet deeply troubling.
Then she whispered:
“My husband is dead.”
My heart sank.
I wanted to ask a million questions — how? when? what happened? — but the words refused to form.
Somewhere inside, all I could think was:
Whoever has the manual to Life should just read us Page 70.
Because sometimes, life doesn’t make sense. And the people who deserve softness are the ones life hits the hardest.
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