Arrogant Student Slapped An Old Woman Unaware Who She Was Until This Happened…

Jenny had learned the meaning of hardship long before she understood the meaning of happiness. At 18 years old, her back was already slightly bent from years of carrying heavy water pots and baskets of firewood. Her palms were rough like an old woman’s, though her face was still soft and youthful. If anyone looked closely into her eyes, they would see a quiet sadness hidden behind patience.

She was an orphan.

Her parents had died when she was very young, taken by a strange sickness that swept through the village like a bad wind. From that day on, Jenny’s life became a borrowed one. She was taken into her aunt’s house, not out of love, but out of obligation. The villagers praised her aunt for helping an orphan.

But inside that house, Jenny knew she was not family.

She was labor.

Her aunt’s house stood at the edge of the village, a clay building with a zinc roof that rattled loudly when the wind blew. The compound was always dusty, and weeds grew freely around the walls. Every morning before the sun rose, Jenny was already awake.

She slept on a thin mat in the corner of the kitchen, close enough to the firewood that smoke sometimes burned her eyes at night. When the first rooster crowed, she rose quietly, careful not to wake Fiona, her cousin, who slept comfortably on a soft bed inside the main room.

Jenny’s first duty was to fetch water.

The river was far, and the path to it was narrow and winding. She balanced the empty clay pot on her head and walked barefoot, feeling the cold morning earth under her feet. Sometimes she would stop by the riverbank and look at her reflection in the water—her face tired, her hair tied in a loose knot, her school uniform already worn thin from years of washing.

By the time she returned home, the sun would be rising. That was when her aunt’s voice would cut through the morning air like a whip.

“Jenny, have you brought the water? What are you waiting for? Cook the food!”

“Yes, Auntie,” Jenny would answer softly.

She would light the fire, fan it with a piece of cardboard, and begin to cook. She prepared porridge or yam or cassava meal, depending on what was available.

Fiona never came near the kitchen.

She stayed inside, stretching lazily on her bed.

“Jenny!” Fiona would shout from inside. “Bring my uniform!”

Jenny would wash, iron, and fold Fiona’s uniform while Fiona sat and braided her hair slowly, humming songs. Sometimes Jenny watched her cousin and wondered what it felt like to live without fear of shouting, without fear of hunger, without fear of being sent away.

After cooking, Jenny swept the compound, washed plates, and scrubbed the floor with water and sand. Only when everything was done was she allowed to prepare herself for school.

Often she was late.

Fiona, however, was never late. Her aunt made sure of that.

At school, the difference between them was even clearer.

Fiona walked proudly with her friends, laughing loudly and swinging her arms freely. Jenny followed behind, carrying Fiona’s bag along with her own.

“Why does she follow you like that?” some girls once asked Fiona.

“She is my cousin,” Fiona replied proudly, “and my house girl.”

They laughed.

Jenny heard them. She pretended she did not.

In class, Jenny tried her best to listen. She loved learning. Books gave her a small escape from her life. When she read stories of brave girls and kind queens, she imagined herself as one of them, just for a moment.

But often, hunger distracted her.

Some days she went to school without eating. Her stomach would twist and groan while the teacher spoke. She would rest her head on her hand and pray the bell would ring soon.

After school, Fiona went to play.

Jenny went home to work.

She fetched firewood from the bush, washed clothes by the stream, and cooked the evening meal. Sometimes, when her aunt was in a bad mood, she was beaten with a broom or shouted at until tears filled her eyes.

“You eat my food and live in my house,” her aunt would say. “If you don’t work, who will?”

Jenny never answered. She had learned that silence was safer.

At night, when everyone slept, Jenny lay on her mat and stared at the roof through small holes in the zinc sheet. She could see stars blinking faintly. She often whispered to them, “Mother, Father, are you watching me?”

No one answered.

Sometimes she cried quietly, pressing her face into her mat so no one would hear. But even in her tears, she never allowed bitterness to grow in her heart. Her parents had taught her kindness when they were alive, and she held on to that lesson as if it were her last treasure.

“Be good to people,” her mother’s voice echoed in her memory. “Kindness will always find its way back to you.”

One afternoon, as Jenny washed clothes near the stream, two village women stood nearby and spoke in hushed tones.

“That girl is too gentle for that house,” one said.

“Yes,” the other replied. “Her aunt treats her like a slave.”

Jenny lowered her head. She did not want pity.

She only wanted peace.

When she returned home that evening, Fiona sat on a stool, eating roasted corn.

“Why are you slow?” Fiona snapped. “Mother said you should cook rice today.”

Jenny nodded and went straight to the kitchen.

Her aunt entered and looked around the compound.

“Why is the ground still dirty?” she shouted. “Jenny, are you blind?”

“I will sweep again, Auntie,” Jenny replied.

As she swept, her heart felt heavy—not because of the broom, but because she felt unseen. She was in the house, yet she did not belong. She was fed, yet she was always hungry for love, for kindness, for a soft word.

That night, as she prepared Fiona’s bag for school, Fiona spoke carelessly.

“Tomorrow, don’t walk too slowly,” she said. “You make me look poor.”

Jenny swallowed hard. “I will try,” she said.

Before sleeping, Jenny stepped outside and looked at the sky again. A cool breeze touched her face.

“I don’t need riches,” she whispered. “I just want to be treated like a human being.”

She did not know that her life was about to change.

She did not know that a simple act of kindness would soon lift her from the dust and place her in the path of destiny.

For now, she was only Jenny—the orphan girl, the servant in her own family’s house, the shadow behind Fiona’s bright figure.

But in her quiet heart lived a strength no one had noticed yet.

And that strength was waiting for its moment to shine.

The morning sun had not yet climbed high into the sky when Jenny and Fiona left their house for school. Jenny walked behind as usual, her cousin’s school bag resting on her shoulder along with her own. The strap cut slightly into her skin, but she did not complain. Her eyes stayed on the dusty path ahead, and her lips moved silently as she counted her steps, trying to ignore the ache in her legs from the chores she had finished before dawn.

Fiona walked in front, swinging her arms freely. Her uniform was neat and freshly ironed. Her hair was braided with red ribbons, and her shoes were polished until they shone. She did not look back even once.

“Jenny, hurry up,” Fiona snapped. “You walk like an old woman.”

“Yes, Fiona,” Jenny answered quietly.

They passed mud houses and small farms where women bent over cassava fields. Chickens scattered as they walked by, and goats bleated from behind wooden fences. The smell of smoke from morning fires filled the air, mixed with the scent of damp earth from the night’s dew.

At the edge of the village, the road narrowed and curved toward the forest path. There, an old woman stood by the roadside, trembling under the weight of a large bundle of firewood tied with rope. Her back was bent like a bow, and her wrapper was faded and torn at the edges. Sweat ran down her face, and her breathing was heavy, as if each step took all her strength.

She tried to lift the firewood higher onto her head, but it slipped and nearly fell. She cried out softly.

“My daughters,” she called weakly, “please help me.”

Fiona stopped walking and turned sharply.

“Help you?” she scoffed. “Are you mad? Do you think we are your servants?”

The old woman’s eyes filled with tears.

“I only need help to my house,” she pleaded. “It is not far.”

Fiona stepped closer, her face twisted in anger.

“Get out of our way!” she shouted.

Before Jenny could stop her, Fiona raised her hand and slapped the old woman across the face. The sound echoed through the quiet morning. The old woman fell to the ground, dropping her firewood. Dust rose around her, and her wrapper slipped from her shoulder.

Jenny gasped.

“Fiona, why would you do that?” she cried.

Fiona hissed and adjusted her bag.

“You are always too soft,” she said. “If you want to waste time, do it alone.”

She turned and walked away, leaving the old woman on the dusty road.

Jenny rushed to the old woman’s side and knelt down.

“Grandmother, are you hurt?” she asked gently, helping her sit up.

The old woman touched her cheek and winced.

“No one has ever slapped me before,” she said weakly.

“I am sorry,” Jenny whispered. “Please forgive her.”

Jenny gathered the scattered firewood and tied it together again. She bent down and lifted it onto her own head. The bundle was heavy, and her neck strained under the weight, but she stood up straight.

“Show me the way to your house,” she said.

The old woman’s eyes widened.

“You will help me?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

The walk was slow. The old woman leaned on a stick, and Jenny walked beside her, steadying the firewood with one hand. They left the main road and followed a narrow path into the bush. Birds chirped loudly in the trees, and insects buzzed around them. The air grew cooler as tall trees blocked the sun.

Soon, a small hut appeared between the trees. It was built of mud and covered with dry palm leaves. Smoke did not rise from it. The yard was overgrown with weeds.

“This is my home,” the old woman said softly.

Jenny placed the firewood down and looked around. The compound was dirty. Cobwebs clung to the walls. Dishes lay unwashed outside, and a cracked clay pot stood empty near the door.

“You live alone?” Jenny asked.

The old woman nodded.

“My children died long ago. My legs are weak now. Even fetching water is hard.”

Without waiting to be asked, Jenny rolled up her sleeves.

“Let me help you,” she said.

She swept the compound with a broom made from palm fronds. She washed the dirty plates by the small stream behind the hut. She fetched water and filled the cracked pot. She even stacked the firewood neatly beside the wall. Inside the hut, she found only a small mat and a broken stool. The air smelled of damp earth.

“Do you have food?” Jenny asked.

The old woman shook her head.

“I was going to sell this firewood to buy garri.”

Jenny thought of her own hunger, but she ignored it. She lit a small fire outside and cooked a simple meal with the little cassava and palm oil she found in the hut. When it was ready, she placed the food in front of the old woman.

“Eat, Grandmother.”

The old woman ate slowly, tears falling into the food.

“You are kind,” she said. “May your kindness never leave you.”

When the sun rose higher, Jenny knew she must go or she would miss school completely. She helped the old woman lie down and covered her with a wrapper.

“I will come again,” Jenny promised.

As she turned to leave, the old woman called her back.

“Wait.”

She entered the hut and came out holding a small white lamb. Its wool was clean and bright, and its eyes were calm.

“Take this lamb,” the old woman said. “It will help you whenever you need help.”

Jenny shook her head.

“I cannot take your only animal.”

“It is not ordinary,” the old woman replied. “It will answer your wishes.”

Jenny felt a strange warmth in her chest. She knelt and thanked the old woman.

“I will take good care of it.”

She carried the lamb in her arms and hurried home, her heart racing with confusion and fear.

When she reached the house, her aunt was waiting.

“Where have you been?” she shouted. “Why is the food not ready?”

Jenny tried to explain.

“I helped an old woman.”

“An old woman?” her aunt roared. “So you help strangers and neglect this house?”

She pointed to the kitchen.

“You will not eat tonight.”

That night, hunger twisted Jenny’s stomach. She lay on her mat, holding the lamb close, listening to her aunt and Fiona laugh as they ate inside. Tears slid down her cheeks.

“I only wanted to help,” she whispered.

She looked at the lamb and whispered again, “I wish I had food.”

And suddenly, the room filled with the smell of jollof rice.

A steaming plate appeared before her.

Jenny covered her mouth in shock.

The lamb blinked calmly.

Her life had changed forever.

Jenny sat upright on her thin mat, staring at the plate of steaming jollof rice in front of her as though it might disappear if she blinked. The smell alone made her dizzy—rich tomatoes, warm spices, and the smoky scent of cooked meat. Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her of how hungry she was.

For a moment, she thought she was dreaming.

She rubbed her eyes and touched the plate.

It was real.

The rice was hot.

Her gaze moved slowly to the small white lamb beside her. The lamb stood quietly, chewing nothing, its eyes gentle and shining in the dim light of the kitchen hut.

“Did… did you do this?” Jenny whispered.

The lamb made a soft sound and blinked.

Jenny’s hands trembled as she lifted the spoon and tasted the rice. It was perfect—better than any meal she had ever eaten. Tears filled her eyes as she ate, not just because of hunger, but because something inside her heart suddenly felt safe.

That night, she slept with the lamb close to her chest, afraid it would vanish like a dream.

The next morning, Jenny woke before the rooster crowed, as usual. Her aunt’s voice soon followed.

“Jenny, wake up! Go and fetch water!”

Jenny rose quickly, her body still heavy from yesterday’s long walk and the shock of what she had seen. She tied her wrapper, lifted her empty pot, and stepped outside with the lamb following quietly behind her.

At the riverbank, she looked around to be sure no one was watching. Her heart beat fast.

“I need to know if it is true,” she whispered. “I wish for bread.”

Instantly, a loaf of warm bread appeared in her hands.

Jenny gasped and nearly dropped it into the river.

“It is real,” she murmured. “It is truly real.”

Her mind raced. She could wish for clothes. She could wish for a better house. She could wish to leave her aunt’s home forever.

But as she looked at her reflection in the water, another thought came to her.

What about the people who are suffering like me?

She remembered the old woman in the forest hut. She remembered widows begging for food. She remembered children crying in the night from hunger.

Jenny’s heart tightened.

“I will not use this only for myself,” she whispered. “I will use it to help.”

Her first act of kindness happened that same day.

On her way back from school, she saw Mama Sola, a widow with three small children, sitting in front of her hut with her face in her hands.

“What is wrong, Mama?” Jenny asked.

“I have no food for my children,” the woman sobbed. “They have not eaten since yesterday.”

Jenny looked around. No one was watching.

“I wish for food,” she whispered.

A large pot of rice and stew appeared beside them.

Mama Sola screamed and fell to her knees.

“It is God! God has remembered me!”

Jenny begged her not to tell anyone how it came.

“Say it came from village well-wishers,” Jenny said.

From that day, Jenny began to move quietly through the village, helping where she could. She gave food to the blind man who begged by the road. She gave money to the schoolboy who had no books. She healed small wounds and sickness with her wishes.

People began to talk.

“There is a kind spirit in this village.”

“Somebody is helping the poor secretly.”

“Maybe an angel walks among us.”

Jenny heard these whispers and smiled quietly. But her kindness did not go unnoticed at home.

Her aunt noticed that Jenny no longer complained of hunger. She noticed that Jenny sometimes came home later than usual. She noticed that people greeted Jenny warmly on the road.

“Where do you get money from?” her aunt demanded one evening.

“I help people,” Jenny replied simply.

“With what money?” her aunt snapped. “You must be stealing from me.”

Jenny shook her head. “I am not.”

But her aunt did not believe her.

Fiona noticed too. One afternoon, Fiona followed Jenny secretly and saw her give food to a sick old man. That night, Fiona confronted her.

“Tell me your secret,” she demanded. “Where do you get those things?”

“I can’t,” Jenny said softly.

Fiona’s eyes narrowed.

“You think you are better than me now?”

Jenny said nothing.

The aunt’s anger grew each day.

One morning, she searched Jenny’s bag. She found nothing. Another day, she checked under Jenny’s mat. Nothing.

Finally, her suspicion turned into something darker.

“This girl has brought witchcraft into my house,” she muttered.

The village no longer spoke only of harvests and market days. It now whispered about Jenny.

“She is always helping people.”

“Food appears when she comes.”

“My child’s fever stopped after she touched him.”

Jenny did not want praise.

She wanted peace.

Each act of kindness she performed felt like a small way of healing her own pain. But her quiet goodness became fuel for envy inside her own house.

Her aunt watched her with narrowed eyes. Each time someone greeted Jenny warmly on the road, the aunt felt something twist inside her chest. When a widow blessed Jenny publicly in the market square, her aunt’s face burned with shame and anger.

“Look at her,” she muttered to Fiona. “People praise her as if she is better than us.”

Fiona too had begun to notice the change. Once, Jenny used to beg for leftover food. Now she ate quietly at night and looked less afraid. Once villagers pitied her, now they respected her.

One evening, Fiona burst into the kitchen hut.

“Where did you get the money to give Mama Sola?” she demanded.

Jenny stirred the soup calmly.

“I just helped her.”

“Helped her with what? Empty hands?”

Jenny did not answer.

Fiona kicked the door in anger.

“You think you can hide things from me?”

Jenny lowered her eyes.

“I don’t want trouble.”

But trouble had already begun.

Her aunt’s suspicion became poison. She started counting her money every morning.

“Yesterday, I had 200 naira more than this,” she would say loudly. “Somebody is stealing from me.”

She searched Jenny’s pockets and bags.

“Open your wrapper.”

Jenny obeyed silently.

Each time she found nothing, her anger grew.

One afternoon, the aunt went to the market and heard women praising Jenny again.

“That girl is a blessing,” one woman said. “She helped my sick child.”

The aunt clenched her fists.

“So now she is a saint,” she muttered.

That night, she called Fiona into her room.

“We must know her secret,” she said.

“How?” Fiona asked.

The aunt thought for a long time.

“There is a man who can make tongues loose,” she said. “The native doctor.”

They went early the next morning, walking deep into the bush where the air smelled of rot and smoke. The hut of the native doctor stood alone, covered in animal skins and charms. Inside, bones hung from the roof. Herbs burned in a clay pot. The man’s eyes were yellow like a cat’s.

“My daughter hides something,” the aunt said. “I want to know what.”

The native doctor smiled slowly and took out a small talisman wrapped in red cloth.

“Put this in her food,” he said. “She will tell you everything.”

Fiona’s heartbeat quickened.

“Will it harm her?”

“No,” he replied. “It will only loosen her tongue.”

They thanked him and returned home.

That night, the aunt cooked soup and secretly dropped the talisman inside.

“Jenny, come and eat,” she called.

Jenny ate, unaware.

Soon her head felt light. Her tongue felt strange.

“Jenny?” Fiona asked sweetly. “Why do people thank you?”

Jenny laughed softly.

“Because I help them.”

“With what?”

“With the lamb,” she said.

Fiona’s eyes widened.

“The lamb?”

“It grants wishes.”

The aunt gasped.

“So that is your secret.”

Jenny suddenly realized what she had said. She covered her mouth.

“I didn’t want to say,” she whispered.

But it was too late.

That night, Fiona could not sleep. The thought of magic burned in her head.

“I will take it,” she whispered to herself.

Before dawn, Fiona crept into the kitchen hut and took the lamb.

Jenny woke and found only empty space.

Her heart broke.

She searched everywhere.

It was gone.

Her aunt smiled secretly.

Without the lamb, Jenny could no longer help with magic. Yet she continued helping with her hands. She fetched water for the sick. She cooked for the hungry. She cleaned huts for old men.

The villagers noticed.

“She has no magic now,” one said, “but she still has kindness.”

Her aunt and Fiona mocked her.

“Where is your power now?” Fiona laughed.

Jenny said nothing.

Fiona did not look back when she left the village. She clutched the small white lamb tightly to her chest as she walked along the dusty road leading away from her mother’s house. Her heart pounded, not from fear, but from excitement. For the first time in her life, she felt powerful.

“So it is a lamb that grants wishes,” she whispered to herself. “And Jenny kept it like a useless secret.”

The early morning sun had barely risen, but Fiona’s steps were quick. She imagined tall houses, bright clothes, and people who would admire her beauty. She had always believed she deserved more than village life.

When she reached the main road, she climbed into a crowded bus heading to the city. The engine roared like a wild animal, and dust filled the air. Fiona hugged the lamb under her wrapper so no one would see it.

As the bus moved, she whispered softly, “I wish for money.”

At first, nothing happened.

Her heart skipped.

Then inside her small bag, something heavy dropped.

She opened it slowly and gasped.

Bundles of clean new notes filled the bag.

Fiona’s eyes shone.

“It works,” she whispered. “It truly works.”

She began to laugh quietly, pressing her lips together so people would not hear her.

For the rest of the journey, she could think of nothing else.

When the bus entered the city, Fiona’s mouth fell open. Tall buildings reached toward the sky. Bright signboards flashed different colors. Cars moved like ants in every direction, and music poured from shops and buses. The smell of fried meat, perfume, and smoke mixed in the air.

“This is where I belong,” she said proudly.

She entered a hotel and paid without fear. The receptionist stared at her village clothes, but took the money gladly.

In her room, Fiona spread the money on the bed and laughed.

“I am rich,” she said.

She bathed with warm water and soap that smelled like flowers. Then she went to the market. She bought dresses of silk and lace. She bought shoes with shiny heels. She bought bags and gold-colored jewelry. She braided her hair in a city style and painted her lips red.

When she looked into the mirror, she saw a stranger.

“No one will call me poor again,” she said.

That night she went to a club. Loud music filled the room. Lights flashed. People danced and drank. Men noticed her and bought her drinks.

She laughed loudly and forgot the village. Forgot Jenny. Forgot even her own name.

“This is life!” she shouted over the music.

The next morning, Fiona woke up with a headache and a smile. She looked at the lamb sitting quietly in the corner of the room.

“You are truly my luck,” she said.

She took it in her arms.

“I wish for more money.”

Instantly, more bundles of cash appeared.

She clapped her hands.

“I will buy a car today.”

She dressed quickly and went to a car dealership. She walked around touching shiny cars as if they were toys.

“I want that one,” she said, pointing at a red car.

The salesman smiled widely.

“Do you have money?”

Fiona opened her bag and showed him.

His eyes widened.

“You can take it today.”

She felt like a queen.

As she placed her hand on the car door, the air around her suddenly grew cold. The lamb bleated loudly. A strong wind blew through the place. People screamed and ran.

Out of the wind came a tall, glowing figure with burning eyes.

It was a genie.

“You thief!” the genie roared.

Fiona screamed and fell to the ground.

“I did nothing!”

“You stole what does not belong to you,” the genie thundered. “That lamb was given to the kind girl, not to you.”

Before Fiona could speak, the genie raised his hand and flogged her with a whip of fire.

Pain shot through her body.

She screamed and rolled on the ground.

“Return the lamb to its rightful owner,” the genie said, “or I will flog you every day until you die.”

The genie vanished as suddenly as he appeared.

Fiona lay on the ground shaking. People gathered around her, whispering in fear. She struggled to her feet and ran.

She locked herself in her hotel room and cried.

“My back, my body,” she sobbed.

Her fine clothes no longer made her happy. Her jewelry felt heavy. She looked at the lamb.

“You have destroyed me,” she said weakly.

The lamb stared back silently.

She knew what she had to do.

She packed her bag and left the city that same day.

The road back to the village felt longer than the journey to the city. Each step reminded her of the genie’s words.

You stole what does not belong to you.

Her body ached where she had been flogged.

When she reached the village at night, the houses were quiet. Crickets sang in the dark. She walked slowly to her mother’s compound.

Inside, Jenny sat on her mat, staring at the floor.

Fiona stood at the door.

Jenny looked up and gasped.

“Fiona!”

Fiona fell to her knees and pushed the lamb forward.

“Forgive me,” she cried. “The lamb is yours. I was punished.”

Jenny stared at the lamb and then at Fiona’s tear-stained face.

“Why did you do it?” Jenny asked softly.

“I wanted what you had,” Fiona said. “I thought magic would make me great.”

Jenny stood and picked up the lamb.

“I never used it for myself,” she said. “I only used it to help.”

Fiona bowed her head.

“I was wrong.”

Jenny’s heart was heavy. But she remembered the old woman’s face and the words her mother once spoke.

Kindness will find its way back to you.

“I forgive you,” she said.

Fiona cried harder.

From that night, nothing was the same.

The village would soon see the prince, and jealousy would rise again in Fiona’s heart.

The morning sun had barely touched the tops of the palm trees when Jenny lifted her clay pot and walked toward the river. Since Fiona had returned the lamb, Jenny had gone back to her quiet life of service and kindness. She still woke before dawn, still fetched water, still cooked and swept, but her heart felt lighter. The lamb walked behind her, its small hooves making soft sounds on the dusty path.

The river lay beyond a stretch of tall grasses and wildflowers. Jenny loved the place. It was the only spot in the village where she felt free. The water sang softly as it flowed, and birds called from the trees above.

She knelt and dipped her pot into the clear water.

She did not notice the sound of horses until it was too late.

The ground trembled slightly beneath her feet. She turned and saw a group of men approaching from the forest path. They wore fine clothes and carried spears and swords. In their midst rode a young man on a white horse. His robe was embroidered with gold thread, and his sandals were polished.

Jenny’s heart jumped. She quickly stood and bowed her head.

The horse stopped.

“Good morning,” a calm voice said.

Jenny raised her eyes slowly.

The young man’s face was gentle but strong, and his eyes were curious.

“Good morning, sir,” she replied softly.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Jenny.”

“And what are you doing here alone?”

“I came to fetch water for my family.”

The prince studied her closely. Her dress was simple, but her eyes were clear and kind.

“People in the village speak of a girl who helps the poor,” he said. “They call her the kind girl. Is that you?”

Jenny lowered her eyes.

“I only help when I can.”

The prince smiled.

“Kindness is rare. I am Prince Canda of this land.”

Jenny gasped and fell to her knees.

“Forgive me, Your Highness.”

“Stand,” he said gently. “You have done nothing wrong.”

He dismounted from his horse and walked closer.

“What makes you help others when you yourself have little?” he asked.

Jenny hesitated.

“My mother taught me that pain shared becomes lighter.”

The prince felt something move inside his heart.

He walked beside her to the river and watched her fill her pot.

“I would like to see this village,” he said.

Jenny led them back.

When they entered the village, people bowed and whispered.

“That is the prince.”

“He is with Jenny.”

The prince saw old men resting under trees, women pounding yam, and children playing with stones. He stopped at Mama Sola’s hut.

“That girl saved my children,” Mama Sola said loudly.

He stopped at the blind man’s place.

“She feeds me when I am hungry,” the man said.

With every word, the prince’s admiration grew.

“Your kindness has built a kingdom of hearts,” he said.

Jenny blushed.

At home, her aunt froze when she saw the prince. Fiona’s eyes widened.

“This is Jenny’s house?” the prince asked.

“Yes,” Jenny whispered.

Her aunt bowed low.

“Forgive us, Your Highness.”

The prince looked at Jenny’s small mat and cooking pots.

“You live here?”

“Yes.”

That night, Fiona could not sleep.

He came for her, she thought.

Not me.

Her jealousy returned like fire.

The prince began visiting often. He spoke with Jenny under the mango tree. He asked her about her life. She told him everything—her parents, her suffering, her dreams.

“I want a life where I can help freely,” she said.

The prince nodded.

“And I want a queen with such a heart.”

One evening, he announced his wish to the village.

“I will marry Jenny.”

The people cheered.

Fiona felt sick.

Her mother whispered, “If you had not gone to the city, maybe he would have chosen you.”

Fiona clenched her fists.

“He should not marry her,” she hissed.

That night, Fiona dreamed of crowns and silk dresses.

In the morning, she spoke to her mother.

“We must stop it.”

Her mother hesitated.

“He is a prince.”

So the seed of evil had been planted.

They remembered the native doctor.

Jenny, unaware, sat with the lamb and wished for medicine for a sick child. The village rejoiced.

The prince watched her.

“That is the woman I will marry,” he said.

The night the prince announced that he would marry Jenny, the moon rose bright over the village, but darkness filled Fiona’s heart. From her mat, Fiona could hear laughter outside. Women were already singing wedding songs. Children ran from house to house shouting the news. Drums echoed in the distance like thunder. The whole village was alive with joy.

But Fiona lay still, staring at the roof. Her chest felt tight, as though a rope had been tied around her heart.

Why her?

She thought bitterly.

Why should the orphan become a princess?

All her life, Fiona had believed she was better than Jenny. She was the daughter of the house. She had been given the best food, the best clothes, and the softest bed.

Jenny had been nothing but a servant, a girl who washed plates and fetched water.

And now that same girl was about to sit on a royal throne.

Fiona turned to her side and clenched her fists.

“It should have been me.”

When morning came, she did not greet Jenny. She did not even look at her. She moved around the compound like a shadow, her thoughts heavy with anger.

Her mother noticed.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked as she stirred soup over the fire.

Fiona sat on a low stool and stared at the ground.

“Are you happy that Jenny will marry the prince?” she asked quietly.

Her mother paused.

“Happiness is not what I feel,” she admitted. “It brings honor to this house. But it should have been you.”

Those words were like oil poured on fire.

Fiona stood up suddenly.

“Then why should we allow it?” she said.

Her mother looked at her sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“We can stop it,” Fiona said. “The prince will not marry a mad woman.”

Her mother’s wooden spoon slipped from her hand.

“Fiona, watch your mouth.”

“She took what belonged to me,” Fiona snapped. “First she took people’s praise. Then she took the prince.”

Her mother sat slowly.

“You are speaking of evil.”

“Did she think of us when she became important?” Fiona asked. “Did she share the prince with me?”

Her mother was silent.

The seed of jealousy had already grown roots in her heart.

By evening, the two of them had made a decision. They left the village before sunrise, walking quietly into the forest. The bush was thick, and dew clung to their wrappers. Birds screamed in the trees, and strange insects buzzed in the air.

Neither of them spoke.

Their destination was the hut of the native doctor, the same man they had visited before.

When they arrived, smoke drifted from his doorway. Bones and animal skins hung from the roof. The smell of burning herbs filled the air.

“You have returned,” he said without surprise.

“We need your help,” Fiona’s mother said.

The native doctor looked at them closely.

“Your hearts are troubled.”

Fiona stepped forward boldly.

“The orphan girl will marry the prince,” she said. “We want to stop it.”

The native doctor’s eyes narrowed.

“You want to destroy another person’s destiny?”

“She does not deserve it,” Fiona replied.

The native doctor stood and walked slowly inside his hut. When he returned, he carried a small black talisman tied with red thread.

“This charm will disturb her mind,” he said. “Put it in her food or drink.”

Fiona reached for it eagerly, but the native doctor raised his hand.

“There is a condition.”

They both froze.

“When you leave this forest, you must not look back. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, if you turn your head, madness will fall upon you instead.”

Fiona nodded quickly.

“We will not look back.”

Her mother hesitated.

“We will obey,” she said softly.

They took the talisman and began the journey home.

The forest felt darker on the way back. The path twisted like a snake, and the wind whispered through the trees. Every sound made Fiona’s heart jump. As they walked, Fiona imagined Jenny on the throne, wearing fine clothes and jewels.

“She thinks she is better than me,” Fiona muttered.

Her mother limped slightly after stepping on a thorn, but she said nothing.

Then suddenly, from the tall grass beside them, a snake shot out and bit Fiona’s mother on the leg.

She screamed in pain.

“My leg! Fiona!”

The pain burned through her body like fire. She fell to the ground, clutching her leg.

Fiona heard the scream and forgot everything the native doctor had said.

She turned around in fear.

“Mother!”

At that very moment, something snapped inside her mind.

The trees began to spin. The sky bent sideways. Her ears rang loudly as if drums were beating inside her head. She dropped the talisman and burst into strange laughter.

“Look at the birds!” she shouted. “They are dancing!”

Her mother crawled toward her, trembling.

“Fiona, do not look back. Do not!”

But Fiona no longer understood her words. She began to sing and tear at her clothes, running in circles like a child who had lost her way.

Her mother lay on the ground, weak from snake venom and terror.

Thus the evil they had planned turned against them.

Back in the village, preparations for the wedding were in full force. Women pounded yam and stirred pots of soup as wide as basins. Men slaughtered goats and cows. Drummers beat rhythms that shook the earth.

Jenny sat under a tree sewing her wedding cloth. Her hands moved gently as her thoughts wandered.

She remembered her parents.

“I hope you can see me,” she whispered. “I will not forget who I was.”

The prince came and stood beside her.

“You look troubled,” he said.

“I only pray for peace,” she replied.

The sun rose slowly over the village like a golden promise.

From early morning, the air was filled with excitement. Women gathered in groups, pounding yam and stirring huge pots of soup. The smell of pepper, onions, and roasted meat floated through the compound like a blessing. Children ran around shouting and laughing, chasing one another between the huts. Drums beat joyfully, and flutes sang alongside them.

It was the day everyone had been waiting for.

Jenny, the orphan girl, was about to become a princess.

Inside a small hut decorated with palm fronds and white cloth, Jenny sat quietly while older women braided her hair. They dressed her in a fine wrapper woven with red and gold threads. Beads were placed around her neck and wrists, and her feet were washed and rubbed with oil.

“You look like the morning star,” one woman said proudly.

Jenny smiled shyly, but her heart was heavy. She thought of her parents.

“If you were alive, you would be here,” she whispered.

The lamb stood beside her, calm and silent. She touched its head gently.

“You brought me here,” she said softly. “I will never forget kindness.”