Chapter 2: A Mother's Burden

The Reality of Hunger

The sun blazed down on the village, its blistering heat burning the ground. Elsie wiped the sweat from her brow as she knelt in the field, her raw and blistered hands uprooting the weeds for hours. The farmer who had hired her to work for the day stood over her, his eye critical.

"Work harder," he snarled, his voice tough and irritable. "I'm not paying you to slack off."

Elsie bit her tongue, fighting to keep working. She could not afford to lose this job, not when her children at home had empty stomachs. She had given them a few yam peels for breakfast, but it was not enough. She could still hear the whine of Ada's voice, small and complaining: "Mama, I'm still hungry."

The recollection urged her to work faster, her hands a blur of frantic urgency. She had to finish this field, had to earn the meager yams the farmer had promised. It was little, but it would nourish her children for yet another day.

And so the hours crawled by, with the sun intensifying its beat, and Elsie's body crying out. Her back bellowed pain, and her hands trembled with exhaustion. But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop.

Finally, as the sun fell beneath the horizon, the farmer nodded in approval. "You've done enough," he grumbled, dumping a small sack of yams on the ground beside her. "Take it and go."

Elsie knelt, her shaking hands wrapping around the sack. It was not as heavy as she had thought, but it was something. She wrapped her arms around it, her chest bursting with a mixture of despair and relief.

The Children's Suffering

When Elsie returned to her father's compound, her children sat in the dust, mud on their faces. Ada was crying, her small body shaking with tears, and Emmanuel tried to comfort her.

"Mama," Emmanuel whispered, his eyes looking up to hers with trembling voice. "Ada's hungry. We waited for you. We couldn't find anything to eat."

Elsie's heart broke as she knelt by their side. "I'm sorry, my loves," she whispered, hugging them. "Mama's here now. I have food."

She prepared the fire quickly, cooked a few pieces of yams and gave each of them a little. They ate it greedily, their eyes wide with relief. Elsie watched them, her chest tightening with guilt. She ought to have been able to provide them with more. She ought to have been able to provide them with a better life.

As the children were eating, Elsie's father, Pa Nwoko, emerged from the house. He stood in the doorway, folding his arms across his chest, his face twisted in a scowl of disapproval.

"Elsie," he said, his voice cold and distant. "You can't go on living like this. You must find some way of supporting your children."

Elsie gazed up at him, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm doing my best, Papa," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'm doing everything I can."

Pa Nwoko sighed, the hardness of his expression easing. "I know you are," he said. "But that is not sufficient. You have to do better."

Elsie agreed, the guilt heavy in her heart. She knew he was right. She had to do something, had to give her children the life they deserved to have.

A Mother's Desperation

That night, as her children slept, Elsie sat by the fire, her mind racing. She needed to make more money, she needed to provide for her children. But how? The villagers would not employ her, would not buy from her. She had nothing to sell, nothing to barter.

Her eyes fell on the small heap of items she had brought with her from the city. There was not much—a few baubles, some clothing, a small mirror. It was not much, but it was all she possessed.

The next day, Elsie packed up her belongings and went to the village market. She would try to sell what she could, even if it meant suffering the disdain of the villagers.

As she passed through the market, the gossip started. "Look at her," a woman spat. "The great Elsie Cole, down to peddling baubles."

Elsie had her head bent, her heart racing in her chest. She reached a stall and spread out her goods, her hands shaking as she hoped for someone to purchase.

But no one came. The villagers passed her by, staring at her in disdain. Some spat on the ground as they walked by.

Elsie's heart squeezed in desperation. She had nothing left to give, no way to provide for her children. She felt the weight of her failures crushing her, choking her.

Emmanuel's Maturity

As the hours dragged on, Elsie grew frustrated. She was preparing to lock up her gear and go back home when a small hand yanked at her skirt.

"Mama," Emmanuel said, his voice soft but insistent. "Let me do it."

Elsie looked down at her boy, her love and pain welling up in her heart. He was so young, and yet he had already suffered so much pain. And yet, he was still trying to help, trying to be strong.

"Emmanuel," she said, trembling. "You don't have to do this."

But Emmanuel shook his head, resolve burning in his eyes. "I want to help, Mama," he stated. "I can sell the yams. I can do it."

Elsie hesitated, but the resolve in Emmanuel's eyes prompted her to nod. She handed him a small bag of yams she also came with, her own hands trembling as she saw him vanish in the distance.

Emmanuel approached a group of women at the market, his small voice firm and audible. "Yams for sale! Fresh yams!"

They regarded him with a softening of their expressions when they saw the little boy standing there, with determination etched into his face. One of them relieved him of the bag from his arms and gave him a few coins.

Emmanuel ran back to Elsie, his face radiant with pride. "Mama, I did it!" he cried, holding out the coins. "We have money!"

Elsie's eyes brimmed over with tears as she clung to him. "You are my brave boy," she whispered, her voice choked with feeling. "You are my strength."

Walking home together, Elsie felt a flicker of hope. She had lost everything, but she still had her children. And as long as she had them, she would not quit. She would find a way to return, to rebegin her life. For them, she would do anything.