Chapter 17: A Single Spark

After my mother married, apart from a difficult mother-in-law, my father didn’t give her much trouble.

She learned to move quietly, to choose her battles. She slowly gained some freedom.

She saved, planned, and made careful friends. She used her dowry to open this school, on paper calling it a charity foundation.

It was clever—nobody could accuse her if the paperwork looked good. In the city, many titled families ran charity foundations, sharing food during festivals to show off their kindness.

Their wives would parade baskets of rice, pose for the town crier. So my mother’s small foundation outside the city didn’t attract attention.

It was easy to blend in with the noise of bigger houses. She took in homeless beggar children and poor kids who couldn’t afford school.

She never turned anyone away, no matter how dirty or wild they looked. No matter if they were boys or girls, clever or dull, anyone could study here.

She believed every child deserved a chance, no matter their birth. She even found some old masters nobody wanted to hire, paying them a little money each month.

She gave them respect, a roof, and a way to teach again. Everyone’s food was free, and those who wanted to stay had only a shared bed.

It wasn’t much, but to those children, it was more than they had ever dreamed. But for those beggar children who usually only had a roof for shelter, this was already paradise.

I watched them run and laugh in the compound, barefoot and free. When the students grew up, they could leave to hustle for themselves.

Some went to the city, some started small businesses. Those who did well could stay and teach.

She made sure everyone who learned, taught another. Some were placed in our house as gardeners, odd-job men, or bookkeepers. When I counted, I realized most of the real power in the house was in my mother’s hands.

She ran the show quietly, but thoroughly. No wonder—my mother really knew how to organize people.

People said she had the wisdom of a king and the patience of a mother hen. Some graduates were even sent out of the city to open branch schools.

Word spread, and her influence grew. There must have been several thousand students over the years.

A single spark fit start bushfire—na so change dey begin.

Like dry grass in harmattan, her small fire spread. My mother said what she wanted to do was be that spark, to ignite the flames.

I could see now how her quiet work was laying the path for a brighter tomorrow, even if she never got to walk it herself.