The storm

The Last Ordinary Day

The sun was slowly sinking behind the tall trees, painting the small village with shades of orange and gold. The evening breeze moved gently through the fields, carrying the sound of children laughing and the distant voices of women returning from the market.

At the edge of the village stood a small brown-bricked house with a rusty zinc roof. It was not the biggest house, nor the most beautiful, but it was a place where love lived.

Inside that house was Belama.

Belama was sixteen years old, a slender young girl with a quiet beauty that made people turn their heads without realizing it. She had deep brown skin that glowed warmly under sunlight, soft oval-shaped facial features, and large dark eyes that always seemed to carry a mixture of kindness and hidden thoughts.

Her thick black hair was usually packed into a simple braided style, though a few strands often escaped and rested around her face. She had a small nose, gentle lips, and a faint scar near her left eyebrow from when she fell from a mango tree as a child.

But the most noticeable thing about Belama was not her beauty.

It was her eyes.

They looked like the eyes of someone who felt everything deeply.

When she smiled, her whole face changed. Her cheeks lifted, her eyes became brighter, and for a moment, the worries she carried disappeared. But when she was quiet, there was a sadness hidden behind her expression, like a song nobody else could hear.

That evening, Belama sat outside the house on a wooden bench, sorting vegetables while humming softly.

Her younger brother, Tobi, ran toward her with dirty feet and a wide smile.

“Belama! Belama! Look what I found!”

He held up a small yellow flower he had picked from the roadside.

Belama laughed softly.

“You ran all the way here just to show me a flower?”

“Yes,” he said proudly. “Because it is the prettiest flower I have ever seen.”

She looked at the flower, then at him.

“Then keep it safe. One day you will give it to someone special.”

Tobi frowned.

“No. I will give it to you.”

Belama smiled and shook her head.

“You are too sweet for your own good.”

From inside the house, their mother called out.

“Belama, help me bring the water pot.”

“Coming, Mama!” she replied.

She stood up, revealing her simple faded blue dress and worn sandals. Her clothes were neat, even though they were old. Belama always took pride in looking presentable because her mother had taught her that dignity was not measured by wealth.

As she entered the house, her mother, Amara, looked at her with a tired but loving smile.

“You work too hard, my daughter.”

Belama placed the water pot down.

“I’m only helping, Mama.”

Amara touched her cheek gently.

“You are sixteen. You should be worrying about books and friends, not carrying the weight of this family.”

Belama smiled.

“Mama, we are family. If one person carries something heavy, the others help.”

Her mother stared at her for a moment, her eyes becoming emotional.

“You have your father’s heart.”

At the mention of her father, Belama smiled.

Her father, Kelechi, was a hardworking farmer. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, dark skin, and a calm face that always carried patience. He was the kind of person who greeted everyone, even those who ignored him.

Just then, the sound of his old motorcycle approaching filled the compound.

“Papa is back!” Tobi shouted.

The little boy rushed outside.

Belama followed slowly, smiling as she watched her father enter the compound carrying a small bag of food.

Kelechi removed his helmet and laughed.

“My children, why are you looking at me like I came back from another country?”

Tobi grabbed his hand.

“Did you bring something for me?”

His father smiled.

“Of course. But you must share with your sister.”

Tobi immediately looked disappointed.

Belama laughed.

“Don’t worry. I won’t take your treasure.”

Their father looked at Belama and smiled proudly.

“My first daughter. Always looking after everyone.”

She lowered her eyes shyly.

“Papa, you make me sound like an old woman.”

Everyone laughed.

For that moment, everything was perfect.

A mother. A father. Three children. A small home filled with love.

None of them knew that it was their last peaceful evening together.

Later that night, as rain clouds gathered above the village, Belama sat beside her bedroom window watching lightning flash across the dark sky.

Her father entered the room.

“Still awake?”

She turned around.

“Yes, Papa.”

He sat beside her.

“You know something, Belama? You are going to do great things someday.”

She smiled.

“You always say that.”

“Because it is true.”

She looked at him.

“Promise me you will always be here to see it.”

Her father became quiet for a moment.

Then he smiled and placed a hand on her head.

“I promise, my daughter.”

Belama smiled.

She believed him.

She believed tomorrow would come like every other day.

She believed her family would always be there.

She did not know that life was already preparing a storm.

And before the next sunrise, everything she knew would begin to fall apart.