I cried tears of gold for him

In the pulse of Lagos, where the sun blazed and the streets thrummed with danfo horns and market calls, I lived in a small flat in Yaba. My name is Adaeze, a jeweler with a modest stall in Balogun Market, shaping gold and silver for those who could pay. My life was tied to the city’s rhythm—loud, relentless, alive—until Chukwudi came along. He wasn’t like the men who swaggered through the market, all noise and flash. Chukwudi was quiet, his eyes deep with unspoken stories, like the Lagos lagoon at dusk. He first came to my stall one humid afternoon, asking for a gold ring for his sick mother in their Enugu village. His shirt was patched but clean, his voice steady. “Gold’s costly,” I said, polishing a bracelet. “Silver shines just as bright.” He gave a small smile. “She loves gold. It’s her sun, her hope. I’ll find a way.” His words stuck with me, like the scent of suya in the air. I crafted the ring, a simple band with a tiny sun etched into it, and when he returned, his gratitude outshone the naira he paid. That was the start. Chukwudi began stopping by often, not always to buy but to talk. He taught at a rundown school in Makoko, where the walls sagged and the kids studied under leaky roofs. He spoke of his pupils—children dreaming of being doctors, pilots, engineers, against all odds—with a fire that warmed my heart. He believed in them, and I started believing in him. Our love grew softly, like moonlight on the lagoon. He’d bring me roasted corn, I’d slip him a copper bead or a brass charm. At night, we’d sit by the water, its surface catching the city’s glow, and he’d share stories of his mother’s stubborn spirit. I told him my dream: a real shop, not just a stall, where I could craft jewelry that told Nigeria’s stories. But Lagos breaks dreams as easily as it builds them. Chukwudi’s school lost its funding, and he took on extra jobs—taxi driving, cleaning—to keep it going. I watched him wear thin, his smile fading under the weight. Still, he’d visit my stall, and we’d talk until the market shut, pretending the world wasn’t so heavy. One evening, under a mango-colored sky, he came to me, his face carved with worry. His mother’s illness had worsened, hospital bills stacking up like market wares. He needed money, more than his jobs could cover. I had savings, a small pile of naira for my dream shop, but it wasn’t enough. That night, alone in my flat, I wept for him, for his mother, for the kids at his school. I cried tears of gold—not literal gold, but the kind that comes from a heart breaking for someone you love. I sold my best gold pieces, the ones I’d poured my hopes into, to pay for his mother’s treatment. I told him I’d found a buyer, not that I’d traded my future for his.<img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/Screenshot_20250914-075715.jpg"/>He didn’t question it, just held me close. “You’re my blessing, Adaeze,” he said. I smiled, though my chest ached. I kept working, kept selling, each sale a piece of my dream gone. It drained me, my hands less steady, my energy fading. But I couldn’t stop, not when I saw hope in his eyes. Months later, he came to me, his face bright again. His mother was better, and a donor had saved the school. He spoke of marriage, of a life together. I nodded, my heart full but my body worn. I’d given so much—my savings, my strength—that I felt hollow. The last time we met, I gave him a gold pendant, a tiny sun like his mother’s ring. “For you,” I said. “To keep shining.” He kissed me, and I held back tears until he left. That night, I sat by the lagoon, the city’s noise a faint hum. I’d given him everything—my love, my dreams—and it was worth it. But it left me empty. They found me at dawn, still by the water, my hands empty but my heart full. Chukwudi never knew what I’d given up, but he wore the pendant always, and the school thrived. In Yaba, they say the lagoon sparkles like gold at sunrise. Maybe it’s just light on water. Or maybe it’s me, still loving him, still giving, in Lagos’s endless hum.

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