Emerald walked away from the fresh mound of earth, but the weight of it followed her.
The village felt smaller now. Quieter. Hollowed out. Every familiar sound-the rustle of leaves, the distant laughter of children, the crow of roosters-was swallowed by the echo of her mother's absence. Her chest ached as if someone had stuffed it with stone. Her legs moved, but she barely felt them. Her hands shook violently, as though trying to throw off the grief that had claimed her whole body.
She had imagined grief before, of course. In the movies, in the books, in the stories elders told around the fire. But none of it had prepared her for this: the raw, unrelenting reality that the person who had been her heart, her anchor, her home, was gone forever. Emerald sank to the ground, hands digging into the dirt of the path. The soil smelled of earth and life, yet all she could feel was death. Her mother's laughter, her gentle scoldings, her quiet prayers-they were all gone. And Emerald had waited too long to come home, she felt the sting of failure.
Money she had chased for years-the Lagos hustle, the dreams, the endless grind-- meant nothing now. She had told herself, I must make her proud. I must come back with something to show. She had delayed, postponed, calculated. And when she returned, the only thing she carried was regret heavier than her travel bag. Tears ran freely, carving wet paths down her dirt-streaked cheeks. She screamed, low at first, strangled, broken, and then louder, until her voice cracked and her throat burned.
"Why?!" she cried to the sky, to the wind, to the empty space where her mother should have been. "Why did I wait? Why wasn't I there?!" No answer came. Only the wind carried the sound of her grief across the village. Aminat's face appeared in her mind, the one person who had remained with her in Lagos, sharing small joys, small struggles. She wanted Aminat's presence now, but Aminat was miles away, struggling in her own life, unable to reach her. Emerald realized how truly alone she was. Alone. She wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. At life. At Lagos. At herself. Every choice she had made-every delayed visit, every opportunity turned down because it wasn't right or legal-felt meaningless now. She had nothing to show for her struggle except emptiness, and a body she could no longer embrace.
Her mother's last words haunted her. "I am… always with you… in your heart… in your courage… in your dreams…" She tried to cling to them. But the pain was too sharp, the absence too real. Her mother was gone, and there was nothing left but memories, heavy and suffocating. Hours passed. Emerald didn't move. She didn't eat. She didn't speak. The villagers gave her space, watched quietly from afar, knowing grief is a storm no one can stop. Night fell. The sky was empty and dark, scattered with stars that seemed indifferent to human sorrow. Emerald finally lay down on the ground, arms wrapped around herself, rocking lightly as if she could somehow hold her mother close again.
And in that silence, that crushing, suffocating silence, Emerald made a vow she did not speak aloud: She would live. She would chase her dreams-not for money, not for pride, not for show-but in a way that honored the woman who had raised her. She would not waste her courage, her heart, her life. She would make her mother proud-by returning as someone who had fought, survived, and remembered what truly mattered. But for now… for now, all she could do was weep.
Weep for the years lost. Weep for the laughter that would never return. Weep for the emptiness of ambition without presence.
And weep for herself, the daughter who came home too late.