Jackson frowned. “To do what?”
“To be useful for once.”
At the village market, everything was loud—people shouting, goats running, children crying. Pure chaos.
Jackson looked around. “This place has no control.”
Ngozi laughed. “This is where money is made.”
She placed tomatoes in front of them, then shouted at the top of her lungs, “Come and buy sweet tomatoes like my future!”
Jackson jumped. “Why are you shouting like that?”
Ngozi rolled her eyes. “How do you want people to hear me? Telepathy?”
She nudged him. “Start shouting.”
Jackson blinked. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Jackson cleared his throat awkwardly. “Buy tomatoes.”
Ngozi stared at him. “That one is an announcement, not marketing.”
She demonstrated again. “Come and buy fresh tomatoes! If you pass, your food will suffer!”
Jackson whispered, “This is intimidation.”
Ngozi grinned. “Exactly.”
Not far away, some village girls stood watching. One of them, Chioma, laughed loudly.
“Look at Ngozi.”
Another added, “She finally found her level. Poor farmer boyfriend.”
They giggled.
Ngozi heard them and slowly turned, hands on her waist, expression dangerous.
“Chioma.”
Chioma smirked. “Yes?”
Ngozi stepped forward. “At least my own man is hardworking. Yours only eats and sleeps like a generator without fuel.”
The market exploded with laughter.
Jackson bent down, trying to hide his face. “This girl will get me into trouble.”
A man approached their stand. He smiled at Ngozi. “Beautiful girl. How much for all your tomatoes?”
Ngozi smiled politely. “Depends. Are you buying tomatoes or looking for a wife?”
The man laughed. “Both.”
Jackson’s smile faded slightly. He folded his arms.
The man continued, “I can take care of you better than this farmer.”
He glanced at Jackson mockingly.
The expression on Ngozi’s face changed instantly.
She stepped closer to the man. “Listen carefully,” she said slowly. “This farmer you are seeing…”
She grabbed Jackson’s arm.
“…is my problem.”
The man blinked. “Your problem?”
“Yes,” Ngozi snapped. “And I don’t share my problems.”
The man quickly left.
Jackson looked at her. “I’m your problem?”
Ngozi shrugged. “Yes. A very confusing one.”
Jackson laughed. “I’ll take that.”
After the market, they sat under a tree—tired, sweaty, but happy.
Ngozi wiped her face. “Today was stressful.”
Jackson nodded. “But fun.”
She looked at him. “You’re smiling too much for a poor farmer.”
Jackson smirked. “Maybe I’m enjoying poverty.”
Ngozi gasped dramatically. “Don’t say that. Poverty is not enjoyment. It is a condition.”
They both laughed.
Then silence fell—soft, comfortable.
Ngozi looked at him quietly. “You know, you’re different.”
Jackson turned. “How?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I like it.”
Jackson felt something shift inside him.
Something warm. Something real.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky gold, Jackson walked back to his small house. But this time he wasn’t thinking about pain. He wasn’t thinking about betrayal.
He was thinking about a loud, dramatic girl who sold tomatoes like a warrior, insulted people with confidence, and somehow made him laugh again.
Jackson smiled to himself, then said quietly, “Maybe coming here was not a mistake.”
Morning in the quiet village felt softer now—not because the sun had changed, but because Jackson had.
For the first time in years, he woke up smiling.
