As they walked, Ngozi kept talking non-stop about her parents, her dreams, and her enemies in the village.
“There is one girl, Chioma,” she said angrily. “She thinks she’s fine. Meanwhile, her head is shaped like a mango.”
Jackson nearly tripped from laughing.
They reached a small road, and Ngozi turned to him. “Thank you for saving me.”
Jackson smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”
She squinted again. “But next time, don’t catch me like that.”
Jackson folded his arms. “So, I should watch you fall?”
Ngozi thought. “Okay, you can catch me. But warn me first.”
“How do I warn you when you’re already falling?”
She waved her hand. “Figure it out. You’re a man.”
Jackson shook his head, smiling. “This girl…”
“Goodbye for now,” she said, adjusting her basket. “I’m going to the market.”
Jackson nodded. “All right.”
She started walking away, then suddenly turned back.
“Oh, Farmer Jackson?”
“Yes?”
“If you see me falling again, try to catch the tomatoes first.”
Jackson laughed loudly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As she walked away, Jackson stood there watching her, still smiling, still amused. But there was something else too—something new, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Peace mixed with curiosity.
He looked at his hands—the same hands that signed billion-naira deals had just held a dramatic village girl who talked too much.
Jackson exhaled slowly, and for the first time since that night, he didn’t think about Alice.
Instead, he whispered to himself, “This village just got interesting.”
The village morning came with noise—not alarm clocks, but roosters screaming like they were fighting over an inheritance.
“Cocoroco!”
Jackson sat up on his small wooden bed, eyes half closed. “Who offended this chicken?” he groaned.
Another rooster responded louder.
Jackson covered his ears. “In Lagos, money can buy silence. Here, even chickens have authority.”
He stepped outside, stretching his body. He looked at his grandfather’s farmland.
Dry. Untouched. Lonely.
Just like his heart.
A few days later, he picked up the cutlass again. “All right,” he muttered. “Let me try this farmer life properly.”
He raised the cutlass confidently.
Swing.
The cutlass barely touched the grass.
Jackson stared at it. “Is this how farmers do it, or am I negotiating with the weeds?”
Just then, a familiar loud voice echoed through the air.
“Farmer Jackson!”
Jackson turned.
Ngozi was coming toward him, bouncing like she owned the morning. Basket on her head. Energy on a hundred. Trouble at full volume.
She stopped in front of him and folded her arms.
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “What?”
She walked around him like an inspector. “Let me see. Cutlass in hand. Confused face. Yes. Yes.”
“What?”
“You are suffering already.”
Jackson laughed. “I just started.”
Ngozi shook her head dramatically. “My brother, farming is not motivational speech. It is hard work.”
She snatched the cutlass from him. “Move.”
Ngozi raised the cutlass like a warrior. “Watch and learn.”
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
Grass started falling.
Jackson nodded, impressed. “Okay, that’s actually good.”
Ngozi smirked. “Of course. I am a professional.”
She handed him the cutlass. “Now you.”
Jackson adjusted his stance. “Easy.”
He swung.
The cutlass slipped from his hand and flew.
Both of them screamed.
“Ahhh!”
They ducked.
The cutlass landed far away.
Silence.
Ngozi slowly stood up. “Are you trying to kill the farm or yourself?”
Jackson scratched his head. “It slipped.”
Ngozi placed her hands on her waist. “If you continue like this, your ancestors will resign from protecting you.”
Jackson burst out laughing.
Later that day, Ngozi dragged Jackson along. “Come. You’re following me to the market.”
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.”
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