But not everyone in the house shared that peace.
Inside, Bolanle sat near the cooking fire, her face lit by orange flames. She had once been known as one of the most beautiful women in Ayetoro—tall, elegant, proud. When she married Toby, many people had said she could have done better.
At first, Bolanle ignored them. Toby was kind, hardworking, and patient. In those early years, she believed love would be enough.
But love did not silence hungry children at night.
It did not replace torn school uniforms.
And it did not stop other women in the market from whispering.
“Five daughters,” one woman had once murmured loud enough for Bolanle to hear. “Poor husband, poor future.”
Another laughed softly. “If she had married a trader in Lagos, she would be riding in a car by now.”
Those words sank into Bolanle’s heart like thorns.
Night after night, she watched Toby return home exhausted with barely enough money to buy rice. She watched their daughters share one small plate of food. And slowly, something inside her began to harden.
One evening, Toby entered the house with a tired smile.
“Bolanle,” he said gently, placing some money on the table. “I repaired Baba Ojo’s chairs today. He paid me two thousand naira.”
It was not much, but to him it felt like progress.
Bolanle barely looked at it.
“Is this all?”
Toby hesitated. “Yes. But tomorrow I may get another job. The school needs desks repaired.”
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