And he was looking directly at her.
Her name was Bolanle.
And Toby had never forgotten.
Twenty years earlier, long before anyone in Ayetoro spoke Toby’s name with respect, he lived a quiet life shaped by sweat, sawdust, and stubborn determination.
Ayetoro, tucked deep in southwestern Nigeria, was not the kind of place where dreams traveled far. Most men farmed or repaired bicycles by the roadside. Women sold cassava flour, tomatoes, smoked fish, and peppers beneath wide mango trees in the market square.
Toby was known simply as the carpenter by the dusty road.
His workshop was a crooked wooden shed beside a small cement-block house. The roof leaked in the rainy season. The door creaked every time it opened. But inside that humble space, Toby made beautiful things. Chairs with smooth curved arms. Tables polished until they reflected sunlight. Cradles strong enough to hold generations of sleeping babies.
People often said Toby’s hands were blessed.
Unfortunately, blessings did not always pay school fees.
Every evening, when the sun dipped behind the palm trees and the village goats began wandering home, Toby returned from work with sawdust on his clothes. And every evening, the same five voices ran toward him.
Little Titi, the youngest, always reached him first.
Behind her came cheerful Folake, then quiet Abiola, who noticed everything. Kemi followed with a restless spirit and a temper too big for her small frame. And finally came Yetunde, the eldest, who at only eleven already carried herself like a second mother.
They surrounded Toby like a storm of laughter, and for a few moments each day, poverty lost its weight.
Leave a Comment