Tales by MJ

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This night.
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Tittle: They Loved Each Other In Secret.
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In a dusty African town where gossip travels faster than the wind, Zainab waited every night for Kunle under the mango tree.
Kunle had nothing but calloused hands and stubborn dreams.
Zainab had a heart too soft for the world she was born into.
When her family said, “Love does not cook soup,” they meant it.
Bride price became a battlefield.
Poverty became Kunle’s crime.

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The day she was married to another man, Kunle stood outside the village square, listening to drums that felt like nails in his chest.
Zainab smiled for the crowd… and cried into her pillow that night.
Years passed.
Kunle became everything they said he would never be.
Zainab became everything they said she should be.
They met again at a funeral.
No hugs. No tears.
Just two hearts screaming in silence.
She whispered, “If I had waited…”
He replied, “If only love was enough.”

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Tittle: 🌿 Letters I Never Sent

In a small village surrounded by tall palm trees, there lived a girl named Amara. She was 12 years old, with curious eyes and a heart full of dreams.

Her father worked far away in the city. He used to visit once every few months, bringing her roasted groundnuts and colourful hair ribbons. But one year, he didn’t come back. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.

Amara missed him so much that she began writing letters.

The first letter said:
"Papa, I helped Mama plant yams today. I wish you were here to see me use the hoe just like you taught me."

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The second letter said:
"Papa, Mama cooked your favourite egusi soup today. I didn’t eat much… it didn’t taste the same without you at the table."

And so the letters continued — one for every month. She folded each paper neatly and put them inside a wooden box under her bed. She never sent them, because she didn’t know where to post them.

One evening, as the sun painted the sky orange, Amara’s uncle came to visit. He sat her down and told her, with eyes heavy like rain clouds, that her father had died in the city.

Amara didn’t cry at first. She just went to her room, opened the box, and hugged all the letters she had written. The tears came later, falling on the papers, making the ink run like tiny rivers.

The next morning, she took the letters to the big mango tree behind their hut — the one where she and Papa used to sit and tell stories. She buried them under the tree roots, whispering:
"Now you can read them in heaven, Papa."

And every year after that, on the day she learned he was gone, Amara would sit under the mango tree and tell him a new story — not on paper, but with her heart.

Because sometimes, the letters we never send still find their way home.