Seeds of Kindness

 Written by Chilaka Divine Chimdumaga

Cover Design by Beauty Benedict

Edited by Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu

Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu, Editor of Seeds Of Kindness

Beauty Benedicty, Cover Designer of Seeds Of Kindness

Chilaka Divine Chimdumaga, Author of Seeds of Kindness

Chapter One

The Making of a Just King

The land of Umuaku stretched far and wide, with tall palm trees swaying in the wind and birds singing in the morning light. In the grand palace at the heart of the kingdom, Queen Esther sat on her golden throne. Her eyes were sharp, her back straight, and her voice strong. She had ruled wisely since the king, her husband, passed away.

Her four children, Michael, Favour, Gift, and Divine, stood before her. Michael, the eldest, had broad shoulders and a quiet, thoughtful gaze. Favour’s bright smile could light up any room, Gift moved with a gentle grace, and Divine’s curious eyes missed nothing.

But a problem loomed over the palace. Michael was the rightful heir to the throne, yet the elders shook their heads.      

‘He is not ready,’ Elder Oscar said, folding his arms.

‘Why?’ Queen Esther asked, her voice firm.

‘He has no wife. No son to carry on the name,’ Onowu replied.

Silence filled the room. Michael stood tall, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

‘We will meet again next Friday,’ the elders said, rising to leave.     The queen watched them go, her face calm, but inside, her mind was restless, filled with swirling thoughts.

***

The next morning, Queen Esther called her children to the palace garden. The sweet scent of blooming flowers filled the air. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves as they gathered around her.

‘My children,’ she said, her voice soft but firm, ‘a leader is not just strong. A leader must be kind, honest, and fair. Never forget that.’

Michael nodded. ‘We won’t forget, Mother.’

His siblings smiled, their eyes filled with determination.

That afternoon, as they walked through the village, they saw a group of elders struggling with heavy baskets of yams, sacks of grains, and bundles of firewood. One elder groaned, his back bent under the weight.       

Michael rushed forward. ‘Let me help you, Elder,’ he said, lifting a basket of yams onto his shoulder.

Favour and Gift each balanced a sack of grain on one shoulder and a basket of yams on their heads, while Divine picked up a bundle of firewood.

The elders sighed in relief. ‘Ah, may the gods bless you,’ one said, wiping his forehead.

Word of their kindness spread quickly. By nightfall, the village buzzed with whispers.

‘Michael is not just a prince,’ an old woman said. ‘He has the heart of a king.’

***

The week of the council meeting arrived. The elders gathered in the grand hall, their voices low but firm as they debated. Some stroked their grey beards, shaking their heads, while others nodded in agreement. After much discussion, Onowu finally stood.

‘Michael shall be our king,’ he declared.

Murmurs filled the air. Some elders hesitated, glancing at one another, but one by one, they all gave a slow nod.

‘We all agree,’ Elder Oscar said at last.

The queen’s lips curved into a small smile. She turned to her son, who stood tall beside her.

‘The coronation shall take place in seven days,’ she announced.

***

The day of the coronation arrived, and the village square overflowed with people. Drummers beat their drums, their hands moving fast, sending deep rhythms into the air. Dancers twirled, their feet kicking up dust as their anklets jingled. Women carried woven baskets of fruits and kola nuts, their wrappers tied tightly around their waists.       

Michael stood at the centre, dressed in a royal golden robe, his head high but his hands steady. Just as the chief priest stepped forward to place the crown on his head, a sharp voice cut through the celebration.

‘My queen.’        

The drumming stopped. The crowd turned, eyes searching for the speaker. A woman, dressed in a faded blue wrapper, pushed her way through. Her face was lined with age and worry, but her steps were firm.

It was Mrs. Ekeoma, the widow.

Michael exchanged a glance with his mother before stepping forward.

‘What troubles you, good woman?’ he asked.

The woman took a deep breath, her eyes darting to the elders before locking onto Michael.

‘My king, I must speak the truth before this crown rests on your head.’   

A murmur spread through the crowd. The elders shifted uncomfortably.

Michael’s expression remained calm, his gaze steady. ‘Speak freely.’

Mrs. Ekeoma’s voice wavered, but she pressed on. ‘Many years ago, my husband, Obinna Ekeoma, owned a piece of land… our only source of livelihood. But after his death, Elder Oscar took it from me, claiming it as his own.’

Gasps erupted from the crowd. The elders exchanged cautious glances.

‘I pleaded, I fought, but I was only a widow. Who would listen to me?’ Her voice cracked. ‘Your father was a just king, but before he could right this wrong, he passed away. I have waited in silence, but I can wait no more.’

Michael’s jaw tightened. He turned to the elders. ‘Is this true?’

Elder Oscar took a step forward, his voice sharp. ‘This woman speaks in riddles! That land belonged to my ancestors.’

Queen Esther’s gaze was like steel. ‘Then let the truth decide.’      Michael lifted a hand, his voice firm. ‘An investigation will be conducted immediately. If injustice was done, it will be undone.’

Mrs. Ekeoma’s shoulders trembled with relief. ‘That is all I ask, my king.’

Michael nodded, his gaze sweeping across the gathered people. ‘Today, I accept this crown, but know this… my rule will be built on justice, not oppression.’

As the coronation resumed, the people cheered not just for their new king but for the promise of a kingdom where truth would finally prevail.

***

One week after the coronation, the village elders, led by the chief priest, gathered at the palace to review the case. The air was heavy with tension as evidence was presented.

Old village records revealed that the land did, in fact, belong to Mrs. Ekeoma’s late husband. Witnesses, once afraid to speak, came forward, confirming that Elder Oscar had forged documents to claim it as his own.

When confronted, Elder Oscar tried to protest, but the evidence was undeniable.

Michael rose from his throne, his voice unwavering. ‘You stole from a widow, from a family struggling to survive. You took what was not yours because you thought no one would challenge you.’

Elder Oscar fell to his knees. ‘My king, I only…’

Michael silenced him with a raised hand. ‘Justice must be served. You will return the land immediately. As for your crime, you will no longer sit among the elders, nor hold any title in this kingdom.’

Gasps filled the room. Losing his title and influence was worse than exile for a man like Oscar.

Michael turned to Mrs. Ekeoma. ‘The land is yours once more. May your children grow strong upon it.’

Tears streamed down the widow’s face as she knelt in gratitude. ‘Thank you, my king.’

Michael helped her rise. ‘No thanks are needed. Only justice.’

The crowd erupted in cheers. From that day on, Michael’s reign became known for fairness and truth, ensuring that no voice, no matter how small, would go unheard again.

***

One afternoon, King Michael strolled through the village with his guards. The sun hung high, casting golden light on the dusty ground. Goats bleated as they wandered near wooden stalls where traders called out their prices.

Michael spotted Mrs. Ekeoma standing by a fruit stand, her shoulders slightly hunched. He walked up to her.

‘How are you, Ma?’ he asked, his tone warm.

She straightened, wiping her hands on her wrapper. ‘I am fine, my king,’ she said, though her eyes told a different story.

Michael studied her face. ‘I have heard that you are troubled,’ he said gently.

Mrs. Ekeoma sighed. ‘Yes, Your Majesty. My neighbour, Mrs. Ijeoma, has made my life difficult.’

Michael turned to his guard. ‘Bring Mrs. Ijeoma to me.’

Minutes later, Mrs. Ijeoma arrived. Her hands fidgeted, her eyes darting to the ground.    

‘Why have you been troubling your neighbour?’ Michael’s voice was firm, but not unkind.

Mrs. Ijeoma swallowed hard before speaking. ‘She accused me of stealing a neighbour’s money…’ She hesitated, then sighed. ‘And I did. Instead of admitting it, I quarrelled with her.’

Michael nodded. ‘Then you know what you must do.’

Mrs. Ijeoma turned to Mrs. Ekeoma, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘I am sorry.’

Mrs. Ekeoma studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod. ‘I forgive you.’

The tension in the air faded. The crowd that had gathered let out relieved murmurs, and an elder nearby smiled.

‘Our king is wise,’ he said.

***

The next morning, the sun had barely risen when Mrs. Ijeoma stepped outside with her children, adjusting their school bags. Just as they were about to leave, they saw Mrs. Ekeoma’s daughters, Helen, Precious, and Ruth, heading in the same direction.

The children grinned at one another. Despite their mothers’ past quarrel, they had never let it come between them. They walked together, chatting and giggling, their small feet kicking up dust as they hurried to school.  

***

Not far from the village square, a wealthy man named Samuel sat under a large mango tree. His silver beard rested on his chest as he watched the marketplace with kind eyes. Though old, his heart was full of generosity.

In a neighbouring town called Umuoba, a young woman named Mirabel tended to a small stall, arranging yams with careful hands. She was as beautiful as the morning sun, but her true strength lay in her sharp mind.

Her father, David, was a man known for his kindness. One afternoon, as he passed through the busy marketplace, his eyes landed on a young girl struggling with a heavy basket of foodstuffs. It was Mrs. Ekeoma’s eldest daughter.

David stepped forward. ‘Let me help you, child,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. He handed her some money. ‘Give this to your mother.’     The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Thank you, sir!’ she said, her voice bright with gratitude.

When she returned home and gave her mother the money, Mrs. Ekeoma gasped.

‘Who gave you this?’ she asked.

‘The kind man from Umuoba,’ her daughter said.

Mrs. Ekeoma held the money to her chest, her eyes glistening. ‘May the heavens bless him,’ she whispered.

That small act of kindness sparked a bond between the two families. Though Mirabel was older, she grew fond of Mrs. Ekeoma’s daughters and often looked out for them like a big sister. She would sometimes help them at the market, offer advice, and encourage them in their studies.

 

Chapter Two

Harvest of Justice

Years passed, and Mrs. Ekeoma’s children grew into responsible teenagers. Helen, Precious, and Ruth were now in Senior Secondary School (SSS), the last part of their secondary education before university. In Nigeria, secondary school has two main stages: Junior Secondary School (JSS) and Senior Secondary School (SSS).

Helen was in SS3, the final year, getting ready for her West African Senior School Certificate Examination (WASSCE). Precious was in SS2, one step away from her final year, and Ruth had just started SS1, the first year of senior school.

Even though they were in different classes, they still walked to school together every morning, holding their books and chatting about lessons, teachers, and their weekend plans.

One morning, as Ruth entered her SS1 classroom, she suddenly stopped. She couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw Mirabel standing at the front of the classroom.        

‘Aunt Mirabel!’ she gasped, her eyes wide.

Mirabel stood with chalk in hand, a warm smile spreading across her face.

‘Yes, my darling, but here, I am your teacher,’ she said gently. ‘Now, take your seat and open your book.’

Meanwhile, Helen and Precious were in their separate classrooms, unaware of the surprise awaiting them. Earlier that day, during the morning assembly, they had overheard whispers about a new teacher, primarily assigned to the junior classes, but they never imagined it would be someone so familiar.

When the break bell rang, they hurried to Ruth’s class and peered inside.

‘It’s Aunt Mirabel,’ Helen murmured.

‘I can’t believe Aunt Mirabel is teaching here!’ Precious whispered excitedly.

For the Ekeoma sisters, school became more than just lessons. It became a place of guidance. Though Mirabel only taught Ruth’s class, she was always around, offering advice and encouragement whenever they crossed paths. Mirabel didn’t just teach from textbooks; she taught them about honesty, kindness, and doing what was right.

One afternoon, during break, Precious hurried into Ruth’s classroom, rushing past the teacher’s desk with her bag swinging wildly. A loud crash echoed through the room as a stack of papers flew in every direction.

The class fell silent, knowing that someone would have to take responsibility for the mess.

As Precious stood frozen, Mirabel entered the classroom, returning from a brief meeting with the principal. She paused, noticing the scattered papers and the uneasy looks on the students’ faces.

‘What happened here?’ she asked, her gaze sweeping over the class.

Precious swallowed hard, feeling the weight of every stare. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped forward.

‘It was me, Teacher,’ she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

For a moment, Mirabel said nothing. Then, she smiled.

‘Telling the truth takes courage,’ Mirabel said. ‘Come, let’s clean this up together.’

As Precious helped pick up the scattered papers, a sense of relief filled her. She had been afraid of getting into trouble, but admitting her mistake had made her feel lighter. When Mirabel forgave her, she realised that telling the truth was not something to fear; it was something to be proud of.

For the first time, she felt a new kind of pride, not for being the best in class or winning a prize, but for doing the right thing.

***

Five Years Later, the village brimmed with excitement. Mirabel, dressed in a flowing white gown, stood at the altar beside John, the man she loved. Her eyes shone with happiness as they exchanged vows.

But joy, as fleeting as the wind, did not stay.

Just a year into their marriage, the sky wept as if mourning with her. Mirabel sat alone in her small home, her hands trembling as she held John’s wedding ring, the only piece of him she had left. A tragic accident had taken him, leaving her with nothing.

News of her suffering reached Helen, Precious, and Ruth. The sisters wasted no time. That evening, they knocked on Mirabel’s door.

‘Aunt Mirabel, is it true?’ Helen asked, her voice filled with concern.

Mirabel nodded, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

The sisters had come a long way from the little girls they once were. Over the years, they worked hard to build their dreams. Helen established a thriving clothing business, designing beautiful dresses that people adored. Precious opened a bakery, where her cakes became so popular that customers from different towns placed orders. Ruth, the youngest, became a skilled hairdresser and successfully ran a busy salon in the city.

Their businesses had flourished, and with their earnings, they had built a better life not just for themselves but for those they loved.

A month passed, and one morning, Mirabel heard a car horn outside her home. She stepped out, confused, and gasped. A brand-new car stood before her, gleaming in the sunlight.

Helen held out a set of car keys. ‘This is for you, Aunt Mirabel.’     Precious handed her a document. ‘And this is the deed to your new house. We bought them for you as a thank-you for all you’ve done.’

Mirabel covered her mouth, her body shaking with emotion. ‘You did this... for me?’

‘You taught us kindness,’ Ruth said, ‘now, let us do the same for you.’     Tears streamed down Mirabel’s face, but this time, they were not of sorrow; they were of gratitude.

***

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the window, filling the lavish room with a golden glow. Mrs. Ekeoma sat with her children, looking at them with quiet pride.

‘My children,’ she said with a warm smile, ‘what you did for Mirabel shows the power of kindness and gratitude.’

Precious, stirring her tea, looked up. ‘Mother, what about King Michael?’

Mrs. Ekeoma’s face darkened slightly. ‘Time has changed him. Without an heir, the elders removed him from the throne. Now, he lives quietly with his wife.’

That evening, the sisters drove down a narrow dirt road, where houses grew fewer and the land stretched, quiet and empty. At the village’s edge, they stopped before a small, weathered hut. Inside, a middle-aged man sat by a flickering lamp. His faded robe hung loosely around his frame, once broad and strong but now thinned by hardship. His once-strong hands trembled as he reached for his cup of palm wine. Beside him, his wife stirred a pot of soup.

Helen stepped forward. ‘Your Majesty, we have come to take you home... with us.’

Michael lifted his weary eyes. ‘Why would you do this for me?’ he whispered.

‘Because kindness is never forgotten,’ Ruth said simply.

His wife wiped her hands on her wrapper and stepped forward, her eyes glistening with emotion. ‘You are kind, my daughters. He has suffered enough. If this will bring him peace, then we will go with you.’      Michael turned to her, his eyes searching hers. She gave him a small nod, her eyes speaking the words her lips could not—words of love, loyalty, and quiet acceptance. He reached for her hand, holding it tightly.

The sisters smiled warmly. ‘Then let’s go home… together.’

Michael’s lips quivered. Then, with great effort, he stood, his grip on his wife’s hand firm despite his weakness. He turned to the sisters and gave a slow, grateful nod.

‘This... this is the true reward of love,’ he murmured.        

That night, as the stars blinked above, a bond of kindness and gratitude shone brighter than ever.