The evening sun cast long golden rays over the quiet town of Etinan, a place surrounded by palm trees and fertile farmlands. The air was soft and warm, carrying the smell of roasted corn and fresh earth after rain. Life in Etinan moved at a gentle rhythm, guided by the call of roosters at dawn and the soft singing of women at dusk.
In the heart of this peaceful land lived a young woman named Ada. She was a woman of rare beauty — not just of face, but of spirit. Her eyes held calmness, her words carried kindness, and her smile could melt away even the deepest sorrow.
People in Etinan often said, "If goodness were a person, it would be Ada." She was respectful, hard-working, and humble. She never spoke harshly to anyone, no matter how much she was wronged. Her parents, old but proud, often thanked God for blessing them with such a daughter.
As Ada grew older, suitors began to visit her father's house — some rich, some handsome, some powerful. Yet her heart found no peace until she met John, a tall, strong, and honest man whose life was as simple as hers.
John was a farmer — hardworking, soft-spoken, and deeply respectful. He had a way of looking at Ada that made her feel seen, cherished, and understood. When he finally came to her family to seek her hand, her parents didn't hesitate. They saw in him the same sincerity that Ada had always shown.
Their wedding was simple but filled with joy. Friends danced, drums beat through the night, and Ada's laughter rang across the village like a bell of happiness.
They built their home on a small piece of land near the stream, where the sound of running water filled the air with peace. Together, they worked the fields, planting yam and cassava, sharing jokes, and dreaming of the children they would one day have.
But that dream soon turned into a silent ache.
Months turned into years, and no child came. At first, Ada comforted herself with faith. She told herself that God's time was perfect. But as the eighth year came and went, her faith began to shake.
At night, she would sit by the window, staring at the moon with tears in her eyes.
> "Oh Lord," she whispered, "what sin have I committed that You should close my womb? What have I done to deserve this emptiness?"
John would hear her crying and come to sit beside her. He would hold her hands and speak softly.
> "Ada, my love, don't cry. God's plans are hidden from us, but they are never wrong. Even if we never have a child, I will love you until my last breath."
But the world was not kind. Neighbours began to whisper cruelly.
> "Maybe she's barren," one woman said.
"A woman without a child is a tree without fruit," another mocked.
Ada heard their words like sharp knives cutting into her soul. She would smile in public, but in secret she would cry until her eyes were swollen. Still, John's love never changed.
Then, in the ninth year of their marriage, God remembered Ada.
She woke one morning feeling dizzy and weak. At first, she thought it was the heat, but when the days passed and her body began to change, she went to the midwife. The old woman smiled knowingly.
> "Ada," she said softly, "you are with child."
Those words felt like music. Ada fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face.
> "Thank You, Lord! After all these years, You have not forgotten me!"
That evening, she ran home to tell John. He lifted her in his arms and spun her around, shouting with joy.
> "You see, Ada? I told you! God never fails!"
Their home was filled with laughter once again. Every day, John talked to the growing baby in Ada's womb.
> "My child," he would say, placing his ear on her belly, "I am your father. You will be strong, and you will make us proud."
But just when happiness returned, tragedy struck.
One afternoon, John came home from the farm looking pale and weak. He said nothing, only lay on the bed, sweating and shivering. Ada rushed to his side.
> "My love, what's wrong?" she asked, panic rising in her voice.
He managed a faint smile.
> "It's nothing serious… maybe just the sun."
But as the days went by, his condition worsened. His strength faded, and even his voice grew weak. Ada prayed day and night, refusing to leave his side.
On a stormy night in July, John held her hand tightly and said,
> "Ada, if I don't survive this, promise me something."
> "Don't speak like that," she said, her tears falling freely.
> "Promise me you'll raise our child with love… and faith. Tell him I wanted to see his face."
Ada broke down completely.
> "Don't talk like that! You will live to carry our baby in your arms!"
But John only smiled weakly. That night, while thunder rumbled outside, he took his last breath in her arms.
Ada screamed, shaking him, begging him to wake up. Her voice echoed through the rain.
> "John! Please don't leave me! You can't leave me now!"
Her cries pierced the night, and even the neighbours who came to console her wept at the sight.
A month later, Ada gave birth to a healthy baby boy. She named him Uduakabasi — God's Will.
When she looked into his eyes, she saw John's smile. She raised him with all the strength she had left. Though life was hard, she never complained. She sold vegetables, washed clothes, and went hungry just so her son would never lack.
Every night, she would sing to him softly,
> "Sleep, my son, sleep.
Your father watches from the sky above.
Sleep, my little one, for tomorrow is a gift from God."
Uduakabasi grew into a cheerful, intelligent boy who filled Ada's heart with pride. He would help her fetch water, sweep the yard, and always say, "Mama, when I grow up, I'll build you a big house."
Ada would smile through her tears.
> "Amen, my son. You shall rise and be great."
But fate had one last storm waiting.
When Uduakabasi turned nine years old, Ada fell seriously ill. Her body grew weak, and her laughter disappeared. Doctors said it was fever, but Ada knew it was more. She was simply too tired — too worn from years of struggle and heartbreak.
On her final night, she called her son close, her voice barely a whisper.
> "Uduakabasi," she said, "never stop believing in God. Life will test you, people will hurt you, but don't let your heart turn bitter. Remember — you are God's will."
> "Mama, please don't go," the boy cried, clutching her hands. "You promised you would never leave me."
But Ada only smiled faintly, brushing his tears away.
> "I will always be with you," she whispered.
And then she closed her eyes.
Uduakabasi shook her gently, then harder.
> "Mama, wake up! Mama, please wake up!"
But she was gone.
The tiny house that once echoed with laughter now held only silence and sorrow. The neighbours came to bury her, and as they lowered her into the ground, Uduakabasi's cries broke every heart present.
From that day, the boy who once had everything — love, warmth, and a home — had nothing left but the memory of a mother's love and the promise that someday, he would rise again.