The late afternoon sun dipped low over Lagos, casting long amber streaks across the bustling streets. The air was thick with the mingling scents of fried yams, exhaust fumes, and the faint sweetness of frangipani blossoms that clung stubbornly to the cracks in the concrete. The city was alive — loud, chaotic, relentless — but to Iyi, it held new meaning, a canvas for healing as much as survival.
At his modest soap stall in the heart of the market, Iyi arranged his wares carefully, every bar of soap an emblem of his journey: from hunger and lies to truth and quiet hope. The soaps were simple but crafted with herbs and natural ingredients taught by Agba Oye, carrying whispers of ancient wisdom and blessings.
As he wiped his hands on his worn cloth, a woman approached. Her steps were slow, deliberate, each movement betraying a deep, constant ache. She was tall, with worn hands and eyes that flickered with both resilience and pain.
Iyi noticed immediately — her posture was strained, her back curved slightly forward as if carrying a heavy, invisible burden.
"Good afternoon," Iyi greeted her gently.
She nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. "Good afternoon. I have heard of your soaps. My back troubles me more each day; the pain makes even simple tasks unbearable."
Iyi gestured toward his soaps. "These are made to heal, not just the skin but the soul. Would you like to try some?"
She hesitated for a moment, then reached out to touch one of the bars, the surface smooth and faintly fragrant of lemongrass and sandalwood.
"I hope it will help," she murmured, eyes fixed on the soap as if willing it to work miracles.
"Tell me about the pain," Iyi said softly, sensing more than just physical suffering.
She sighed, the sound heavy with years of silent endurance. "I was a trader once, traveling between towns, carrying goods and hope. But after an accident—falling from a cart—I was left with this constant ache. Doctors offered little help, only painkillers that numbed but did not heal."
Iyi listened closely, the story stirring memories of his own wounds, the scars unseen but deeply felt.
"Pain like that is more than physical," he said carefully. "It carries weight in the spirit, too."
She looked at him, surprise flickering in her eyes. "How do you know?"
"Because I have carried many burdens," Iyi replied. "Some you can see; others live beneath the skin, hidden but just as real."
He picked up a small bowl filled with a milky herbal mixture from his stall. "This is a balm from the river herbs, combined with the touch of the earth's healing. It won't cure overnight, but it can ease both body and spirit."
The woman's hands trembled slightly as she accepted the bowl. "Thank you. I haven't felt hope in a long time."
Iyi smiled gently. "Healing often begins where hope still lingers."
They sat together on a worn wooden bench by the stall, the busy market noise swirling around them like a distant storm.
Iyi carefully applied the balm to her back, feeling the tension in her muscles even through the cloth of her wrapper. As he worked, he spoke quietly of the spirit lessons he had learned—the balance between giving and receiving, the power of surrender, and the strength found in vulnerability.
The woman closed her eyes, letting the balm and words seep into her like a soothing river.
"I want to believe in healing," she whispered. "But sometimes it feels like the pain will never leave."
Iyi nodded, understanding deeply. "Healing is not a straight path. Sometimes it is a spiral—returning to old wounds, but with new eyes, new strength."
She opened her eyes, meeting his with a glimmer of trust. "Will you teach me? Not just about the soap, but about this… path?"
Iyi's heart stirred with a quiet joy. "Yes. Healing is a journey we walk together."
As the sun slipped below the horizon, casting a soft glow over the market, Iyi felt a renewed sense of purpose. This woman, like so many in Lagos, carried pain hidden beneath the surface, but here — at this humble stall — healing began not just with soap but with compassion, connection, and the courage to face what ached within.
The city sang around them, a melody of resilience and hope, and Iyi knew his own journey was far from over. But now, each step forward was guided not by hunger alone, but by the growing light of healing — for himself, and for those who crossed his path.