Chapter 49

“Son, come in. This is Joy, my baby I told you about,” Grandma said with a smile in her voice as she stirred the steaming pot of yam porridge.

I froze—again.

But this time, the voice that answered wasn’t cold, wasn’t sharp, wasn’t full of poison and threat.

It was soft.

“Evening, Mama.”

I turned slowly, breath caught in my throat, still expecting the worst. But standing in the doorway wasn’t a monster from my past. It was a man—young, maybe in his mid-twenties—with sun-browned skin and arms that looked like they knew how to work. He wore a faded grey T-shirt, jeans dusted with dry leaves, and shoes that had seen more soil than tile. His hair was a little messy, and he had the kind of tired eyes that suggested he didn’t know how to rest properly—but there was no darkness in them. No danger.

“Joy,” Grandma said as she handed me the ladle, “meet Eli. Short for Elijah. He helps clear the garden for me when my back won’t listen to my mouth.”

“This… this is her?” he asked, his voice low and uncertain.

Grandma nodded without turning around. “Yes. That’s Joy. My little warrior.”

He stared for a second too long, and then—softly—he said, “You didn’t tell me she was this…”

He trailed off.

And Grandma—still stirring—finished the sentence for him.

“Beautiful?”

His eyes flicked to mine and dropped just as fast, like he regretted being caught thinking it.

He nodded once. “Yeah… that.”

My chest squeezed tight. Not from affection. Not from shyness. From confusion.

I didn’t know what to do with that word.

Eli gave me a small nod, shy but kind. “Nice to finally meet you.”

I said nothing. Just returned a tight nod, unsure if my mouth even remembered how to speak around strangers.

We sat down to eat. I stayed quiet, as usual. But Grandma, bless her unbothered soul, never let silence feel heavy.

“You know,” she began as she ladled generous helpings of yam porridge into our plates, “the first time I met Elijah, he was trying to carry a sack of cassava twice his weight.”

Eli groaned with a playful roll of his eyes. “You’re never letting me live that down.”

“Why should I?” Grandma grinned. “He was about seventeen, scrawny and determined. I saw him nearly fall flat on his face outside that bushy trail by Mr. Ogundele’s farm. The sack rolled off his back and nearly broke his neck.”

“I was helping my aunt,” Eli muttered, embarrassed but smiling into his food.

“Helping his aunt, yes,” Grandma echoed with dramatic flair. “So I called out to him and said, ‘Boy, you need to pick fights your size.’ And you know what he said to me?”

She leaned in like she was about to deliver a punchline.

“He looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Even if it crushes me, I’d rather carry the weight myself.’”

I glanced up at him then. Just briefly.

He didn’t say anything. Just scratched the back of his neck with a small smile, like he was remembering who he used to be.

“From that day,” Grandma said, “I knew he had a good heart. Strong, but not proud. So when my weeds started threatening to eat my house, I asked him to help. And he never stopped coming back.”

“Someone’s got to stop the grass from swallowing you,” Eli said.

Grandma chuckled. “Exactly.”

The room felt lighter somehow. Warmer.

I took a slow bite, the soft yam melting on my tongue, rich with palm oil and spice. For the first time in a long time, food didn’t taste like dust. It tasted like a memory I hadn’t lived yet.

And for a moment, just a fragile moment, I forgot to be afraid.

After dinner, Grandma collected the plates like it was just another quiet evening in her home, humming a hymn under her breath as she scraped the pot clean. I stood, but only to step back, retreating into the shadowed hallway like I needed distance to breathe again.

I could still hear Eli’s voice, low and kind, talking to Grandma about planting season. Something about cassava spacing and the rain. I barely listened. I just stood by the wooden doorframe, one hand braced against the wall like it could hold me up.

Then I heard her say it.

“Elijah, show Joy the garden before it gets too dark. It might do her good.”

I froze.

No.

I didn’t want to go outside.

I didn’t want to be alone. Not with someone I didn’t know. Not with a man.

But before I could protest, Eli’s voice answered gently, “Only if she wants to.”

Silence stretched. And I hated it.

Grandma turned toward me, wiping her hands on her wrapper. “It’s not far, Joy. You’ll be with Eli. Just a few minutes of air.”

She didn’t say more. She didn’t need to.

I nodded once—barely—and followed him out the back door, dragging my fear with me like a heavy coat.

The air outside was thick with the scent of damp earth and lemongrass. The garden stretched behind the house, modest but thriving, full of leafy vegetables, tall stalks of maize, and bushy ugu vines tangled like lovers clinging to wooden frames.

He walked ahead, not looking back, giving me space. I appreciated that. Still, I stayed three steps behind him, hands clenched in the folds of Grandma’s old blouse.

“I usually weed on Wednesdays,” he said, speaking into the air, not directly to me. “But I came early today. She told me you were here.”

I didn’t reply.

He stopped near the mango tree and leaned against its trunk, arms folded. His eyes scanned the garden like he was checking on something he planted with his own blood.

“She said you’ve been through something,” he added softly.

I stiffened.

He glanced at me, then looked away again, respectful. Careful.

“I don’t need to know what it is,” he continued, “and I won’t ask. I just want you to know that… you’re safe here.”

Safe.

I almost laughed, but my throat was dry. Safe was a word men like Adrik used before they locked doors. Before they taught you how to obey.

I turned away, looking at the garden but seeing none of it.

“I don’t trust easy,” I said finally, my voice hollow.

He nodded. “That’s okay.”

A silence fell between us again. But this one didn’t feel sharp. It just... was. Like a still lake after a storm.

“You can go back in if you want,” he added after a while. “I’ll stay out here. The soil’s been calling.”

I turned and walked back to the house without saying another word.

But that night, when I lay down, the image that kept haunting me wasn’t Adrik.

It was Elijah—leaning under the mango tree, hands in the dirt, not asking for anything but the silence between us.

I didn’t sleep much.

I never really do.

The night crept by in fragments—shadows from the curtain shifting across the floor, the ceiling creaking like it remembered something painful. I lay curled under Grandma’s faded quilt, staring at nothing, counting the spaces between my thoughts like they were cracks in the wall.

But when morning finally came, soft and silver and heavy with dew, something was different.

At first, I didn’t notice it. I’d barely dragged myself out of bed, still unsure if I wanted to exist in daylight. My body was tired in that strange, bone-deep way that had nothing to do with sleep.

Then I saw it.

On the small wooden table beside the window, nestled awkwardly beside Grandma’s old Bible and a bundle of herbs, was a folded cloth. A handkerchief, maybe. No—linen, carefully creased. Tied around it was a green leaf, fresh and still dewy, like it had just been picked from the garden.

I frowned.

I didn’t touch it at first. I just stared at it.

Curiosity wrestled with suspicion in my chest.

Finally, I reached for it. The cloth gave under my fingers, soft and worn. Inside was a small loaf of bread—still warm—and a note. Just one torn piece of paper, with writing that looked like it had been penciled carefully, like the person wasn’t sure they had the right to speak.

Didn’t want to disturb your sleep. Made this this morning—Grandma says you like soft bread. If you don’t, you can throw it at me next time I’m weeding. – E

I stared at it for too long.

Not because of the bread.

Not because of the joke.

But because it wasn’t asking anything of me.

There were no flowers. No attempts at charm. No demands for smiles or conversation. Just bread. And a dumb note.