We Sell Lights Here

The streets had been weeping for days, and Chima was tired of it. She was tired of the ugly rubber slippers she had to wear in place of her shoes. She was tired of the mud getting in between her toes. She was tired of having to curse everyone who left their trash by the side of the road for the rain to do their dirty work. She was especially tired of the rain. Every evening on her way home, a new set of complaints played in her head, like a daily set playlist. Today, it was the rain and all its woes, and it played at the loudest volume.

Chima was a career woman, rapidly pushing towards her late 40’s (in her opinion). She owned cars but hated to drive; so, every evening she ordered an Uber from work and dropped off a few houses from hers. Strange, isn’t it? Why not just get a driver? Why not let it drop her off at her gate? Even I can’t answer that, because she clearly isn’t ready to.

Today, like every other day, she walked the short distance home, steadily grumbling about the rain. She was just about to take the bend towards her house when a bright light caught her eyes. If you haven’t guessed it yet, a complaint about how bright the light was loaded in her lips, ready to shoot on target. The bullet, however, was never shot.

The light that attracted her attention was a signboard for the new shop that sold bulbs and lamps. It read “We Sell Lights Here.” In my opinion, and I’m sure everyone else’s, there was nothing phenomenal about the sign; in fact, it’s rather uncreative. However, for Chima, it meant so much more.

Standing on the road, staring at the sign, she thought to herself, “I could really use some light.” With that, her story became clearer, and I could see what Chima was seeing. Her marriage had become grey and boring, so much so that her husband sorted entertainment from his ever-changing secretaries. She could really use some light to illuminate that. To drive away the shadows that cast on her self-confidence whenever she found another grey hair, another wrinkle, or whenever her husband told her that the dress was far too young for her. She could use some light to guide her children home. Children who were so lost in the world, that a phone call was rarer than a blue moon. She could use some light to remind them that she was once there, and their eyes always shined when she was around, and she was much more than another earthly responsibility.

She could use some light on herself, to ignite past dreams that were still within reach, if only she would stretch. To fire up youthful gusto, that besides the term was not meant for youths alone. Most importantly, she could use some light in her life, to replace the dead ones in her purpose and zeal to live. Light to attract moths of adventure, so the most eventful thing in her life wouldn’t be miserable evening walks back from work. Light to give her courage to say what weighs her heart down, rather than complain about everything else.

Unfortunately, she thought with a frown, as she continued the short journey to her house, “They do not sell those kinds of lights there…”

About the Writer 

Ahams Precious is 19 years old and a student of Covenant University. She loves to write stories and poetry that have in-depth meaning. Her number goal is to tell tales that make you stop and think about the oddest things. She writes fictional stories as well as stories that can be related to human life. 

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