Chioma smirked. “You will suffer.”
Ngozi smiled proudly. “At least I will suffer with love.”
They rolled their eyes.
But deep down, some of them were jealous.
Because despite everything, Ngozi was happy.
That evening, under their tree, Ngozi admired her leaf ring as though it were a diamond.
Jackson watched her. “You really like it?”
Ngozi nodded seriously. “Yes.”
Then she added, “But if it breaks, I will break your head.”
Jackson laughed. “Noted.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Promise me something.”
Jackson looked down at her. “What?”
“Don’t let me regret this.”
Her voice was softer now. Real. Vulnerable.
Jackson’s expression changed—serious, deep.
He lifted her chin gently. “You will not suffer with me.”
Ngozi raised an eyebrow. “How are you so sure?”
Jackson smiled slightly. “Because I don’t lose.”
Ngozi laughed. “Confidence without money is dangerous.”
Jackson smirked. “Let’s see.”
As the sun disappeared behind the hills, painting the sky deep orange, Ngozi raised her hand again, admiring the leaf ring, smiling as though she owned the world.
Jackson watched her quietly, thinking. Planning.
Because very soon, everything was about to change.
He looked at the ring, then whispered, “Just a little longer.”
Because the day was coming when the whole village would realize Ngozi didn’t marry a poor farmer.
She married a king.
The village woke up that morning with unusual energy—not because of joy, but because of gossip.
Everybody was talking about one thing:
Ngozi was getting married to the poor farmer.
And in a place far away from Lagos, nobody expected anything good from that sentence.
At the village square, Chioma was already laughing loudly. “So, Ngozi will marry Leaf Ring Man today!”
Another girl added, “I heard they will use palm wine as wedding cake.”
They all burst into laughter.
An elderly woman shook her head. “This girl has chosen love over sense.”
Another replied, “No. She has chosen struggle over a future.”
Meanwhile, Ngozi was inside her small room, adjusting her wrapper. She looked at herself in the mirror, then sighed dramatically.
“If I suffer in marriage, I will come back and fight everybody.”
Her mother entered. “My daughter, are you sure about this man?”
Ngozi nodded confidently. “Yes, Mama.”
Her mother frowned. “He has nothing.”
Ngozi smiled. “He has me.”
Her mother paused, then smiled softly. “Then you already won.”
Outside, Jackson stood quietly under the tree, dressed simply, calm, watching everything unfold like a man waiting for a secret to explode.
Ngozi walked up to him. “Farmer Jackson.”
He turned. “Yes, future Mrs. Farmer Jackson.”
She frowned. “Stop adding ‘Farmer’ like it is a title of shame.”
Jackson laughed. “I’m just preparing you.”
Ngozi pointed at him. “If this wedding embarrasses me, I will return your ring.”
Jackson smiled. “You can’t return a leaf.”
Ngozi gasped. “Ah! So you planned it.”
The wedding area was simple—plastic chairs, wooden benches, dusty ground, and villagers already forming circles of judgment.
Chioma whispered loudly, “This is not a wedding. This is rehearsal for poverty.”
Laughter erupted.
Ngozi walked in dramatically. “I am here!”
Someone laughed. “You are early for your suffering!”
She ignored them and sat beside Jackson. She whispered, “If I cry today, I will slap somebody.”
Jackson chuckled. “Please don’t slap my customers.”
The elders began speaking.
“So, where is the dowry?”
Silence.
Everyone leaned forward, waiting to laugh.
One uncle smirked. “This boy will use apology as dowry.”
The crowd laughed loudly.
Jackson calmly replied, “My people are coming.”
Laughter exploded again.
Chioma nearly fell off her chair. “People? Which people? From where? Bush WhatsApp group?”
Ngozi looked at Jackson. “Is this part of your plan?”
He nodded slightly. “Trust me.”
