22/08/2026
Mama Ngozi's Evening Pot
Every evening, just before the sun disappeared behind the palm trees, Mama Ngozi would bring out her old black cooking pot.
She lived in a small compound at the end of the village, where the walls were already faded from years of rain and harmattan.
But there was something special about her home.
Children always found their way there.
Some came because they were hungry. Others came simply because Mama Ngozi always had a story to tell.
One evening, she was cooking a small pot of beans when seven children gathered around her.
“Mama, is it ready?”
She laughed.
“Una no dey tire?”
The children laughed too.
Mama Ngozi looked into the pot.
There wasn't enough food for everyone.
She quietly added a little more water, some palm oil and seasoning.
Then she smiled.
“Food tastes better when people eat together.”
That evening, every child received a small bowl.
Nobody complained that their portion was small.
They sat under the mango tree, eating and laughing while Mama Ngozi watched them.
Years passed.
Those children grew up and left the village.
Some became teachers. Some became traders. One became a doctor.
But whenever they returned home, they always visited Mama Ngozi.
One day, one of them brought her a brand-new cooking pot.
“Mama, you used your old pot to feed us when you had almost nothing.”
He smiled.
“Now let us use this one to remind you that we never forgot.”
Mama Ngozi wiped her tears.
Sometimes, people don't remember the size of the meal you gave them.
They remember how loved they felt while eating it.
