She narrowed her eyes. “People with one name are either rich or hiding something.”
Jackson smiled. “Which one do I look like?”
She looked him up and down—simple clothes, dusty slippers—and scoffed. “Definitely hiding something. Because rich people don’t wear this kind of suffering outfit.”
Jackson laughed. “Fair enough.”
“I’m Ngozi,” she said proudly. “Graduate, professional tomato carrier, future rich man’s wife.”
Jackson chuckled. “Ambitious.”
She pointed at him. “And you? You look like a farmer.”
Then she nodded slowly. “Yes. A farmer.”
They began walking together, Ngozi balancing the basket again like the queen of tomatoes.
“So, Farmer Jackson,” she said, “how many goats do you have?”
“None.”
“Chai. Poverty is worrying you.”
Jackson laughed. “I just got here.”
“Oh. New poverty. Welcome.”
As they walked, Ngozi kept talking non-stop about her parents, her dreams, and her enemies in the village.
“There is one girl, Chioma,” she said angrily. “She thinks she’s fine. Meanwhile, her head is shaped like a mango.”
Jackson nearly tripped from laughing.
They reached a small road, and Ngozi turned to him. “Thank you for saving me.”
Jackson smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”
She squinted again. “But next time, don’t catch me like that.”
Jackson folded his arms. “So, I should watch you fall?”
Ngozi thought. “Okay, you can catch me. But warn me first.”
“How do I warn you when you’re already falling?”
She waved her hand. “Figure it out. You’re a man.”
Jackson shook his head, smiling. “This girl…”
“Goodbye for now,” she said, adjusting her basket. “I’m going to the market.”
Jackson nodded. “All right.”
She started walking away, then suddenly turned back.
“Oh, Farmer Jackson?”
“Yes?”
“If you see me falling again, try to catch the tomatoes first.”
Jackson laughed loudly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As she walked away, Jackson stood there watching her, still smiling, still amused. But there was something else too—something new, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Peace mixed with curiosity.
He looked at his hands—the same hands that signed billion-naira deals had just held a dramatic village girl who talked too much.
Jackson exhaled slowly, and for the first time since that night, he didn’t think about Alice.
Instead, he whispered to himself, “This village just got interesting.”
The village morning came with noise—not alarm clocks, but roosters screaming like they were fighting over an inheritance.
“Cocoroco!”
Jackson sat up on his small wooden bed, eyes half closed. “Who offended this chicken?” he groaned.
Another rooster responded louder.
Jackson covered his ears. “In Lagos, money can buy silence. Here, even chickens have authority.”
