08/08/2025
THE STRENGTH OF A WOMAN
Part 1
> “They laughed at her… but she kept standing.
They called her weak… but she kept rising.”
---
Her name was Anita.
She was not tall. Not skinny.
Her skin was the color of deep honey after rain. Her smile could light up a sad room. And her body? Full and soft — the kind that told stories of joy, pain, food, tears, and life.
Anita was 40 years old. A little fat, as some people would say. She had a big back and a big front — and she carried it like a queen.
Men stared. Women whispered.
But Anita never walked with her head down.
She was too busy surviving.
---
She lived in a small room in a noisy street behind the market. Her landlord was always shouting. Her neighbor, Mama Peace, sold fried yam in front of their house and never minded her business. Anita didn’t care.
Every morning at 5am, Anita would wake up, sweep the compound, carry her bucket of water, and prepare for the day. She had two children — Debby (13) and Junior (7). Their father had left five years ago, with a promise and a lie.
He said, “I’m going to hustle in Lagos.”
He never came back.
At first, Anita waited. Then she cried. Then she stopped crying. She looked at her children and said:
> “No man is coming. I will be both mother and father.”
And that’s what she became.
---
Anita sold akara by the roadside, just before the bus stop. She had a small wooden table and a frying pan that had served her for seven years. Her hands were strong from lifting pots. Her eyes had seen too much to be afraid.
“Buy akara, madam! Hot one o!”
“Five for fifty! Sweet like sugar!”
She smiled at every customer, even the rude ones. Some laughed at her weight. Some flirted. Some acted like she didn’t matter.
But Anita knew her value.
One day, a young girl said to her, “Aunty, you’re too fat. You should reduce!”
Anita only smiled. “My fat feeds my children. I wear it with pride.”
---
After work, she would go home tired, her clothes smelling of oil and smoke. Debby would help wash plates. Junior would lie on her lap and tell her about school.
“Mummy, today we learned about lions!”
She would nod and say, “You are my lion. You will not fear anything.”
But at night, when the children slept, Anita would sit by the window and talk to God.
“Lord, I’m tired. But I won’t stop. Just help me wake up again tomorrow.”
Tears would fall, but only God saw them.
---
One afternoon, as she was frying akara, a jeep stopped beside her table. The windows were tinted. She thought it was a politician or one of those men who liked to show off. She ignored it.
But the window came down slowly.
A man looked out — tall, fair, clean-shaven.
He said, “Excuse me. Are you the one making this smell?”
Anita laughed. “Sir, it’s akara. You hungry?”
The man smiled. “Very. I haven’t eaten since morning.”
He came down from the car, removed his suit jacket, and sat on the bench beside her table.
People stared.
Children giggled.
Mama Peace nearly fainted.
Anita, confused but calm, served him hot akara in a small nylon with pepper sauce.
“Your name?” the man asked.
“Anita. And you?”
“Victor.”
He ate the akara like he hadn’t seen food in days. Then he said, “This is the best akara I’ve ever tasted.”
Anita raised an eyebrow. “You just want to toast me.”
Victor laughed. “No. I mean it. This is special.”
He stood, cleaned his hands, and gave her N5,000.
Anita’s eyes widened. “Ah! It’s just fifty naira akara now!”
Victor shook his head. “Add this to your business. You deserve more.”
Then he left.
---
That night, Anita couldn’t sleep. Not because of the money. But because of how he looked at her — not with pity, not with lust — but with respect.
She smiled in the dark.
Maybe life still had surprises.
---
But life wasn’t done testing her.
Two weeks later, Junior fell sick.
Malaria. High fever. Convulsion.
Anita ran from hospital to chemist, holding her child like a broken egg. No money. No help. Just fear in her chest and fire in her legs.
The doctor said, “We need to admit him. Deposit N20,000.”
Anita begged. “Please, I’ll pay. Just start treatment.”
They refused.
She ran outside, sat on the ground, and cried — real, loud, shameful tears.
People passed her. Nobody stopped.
Until a shadow stood over her.
“Anita?”
She looked up. It was Victor.
“Why are you crying?”
She told him everything. No lies. No pride.
Without saying a word, he followed her inside and paid the hospital.
---
Junior got better.
Victor came often after that — sometimes with food, sometimes with toys, sometimes just to sit and talk.
People began to whisper.
“Who is that man?”
“Is he her boyfriend?”
“Maybe she used juju.”
Anita didn’t answer anyone.
She was not sure what to think either.
She was not used to being loved.
---
One day, she asked Victor, “Why do you help me?”
He looked her in the eyes and said:
> “Because I see your strength.
Because you remind me of my mother — a woman who worked, suffered, and never gave up.
Because you are beautiful, Anita. And I don’t mean only your body.
I mean your soul.”
Anita wanted to cry. But she just smiled.
---
That night, after putting Junior and Debby to bed, Anita stood in front of the mirror.
She touched her round stomach.
Her wide hips.
Her full chest.
Then she whispered to herself:
> “I am beautiful. I am strong. I am enough.”
---
The next morning, she woke up, tied her wrapper, and returned to her akara table — head high, heart full, body proud.
Because no matter what came, she knew one thing for sure:
> The strength of a woman is not in her size…
It is in her spirit.
TO BE CONTINUED…
