At the break of dawn, the rooster gave his morning call, and I was wakened by the noise. From working in the fields my body was exhausted, however, I still got up. I must admit, face washing is God's washing, I decorated a wrapper around my waist, and went outside.
On the ground near my tools, I had already prepared a basket. Inside were cassava, yams, and a few vegetables from my farm. I covered them with cloth and held it close. My stomach was empty, but my heart knew where this food needed to go.
As I strolled through the village alleys, I made sure I walked silently so as not to be noticed by anyone. Sadly, it was not to be acknowledged in any way. It was completely made for their sake.
When I reached the mud house near the edge of the village, I stopped. The father there had been sick for months. His wife was trying to raise five children alone. I placed the basket at their door, tapped lightly with a stick, and stepped into the shadows.
The door opened. A child’s voice rang out. “Mama! Food! Someone brought food!”
I didn’t look back. I kept walking. My chest felt heavy but warm.
That became my habit. Every few days, I left something for a family in need. Sometimes beans, sometimes maize, sometimes firewood. I never left my name. I never waited for thanks. I just gave and walked away.
The village started to talk. People said it must be a spirit, or the church, or even the gods. No one thought of me. I was just the poor farmer, with worn clothes and broken slippers.
But I never felt poor when I gave.
One evening, my friend Boma came rushing to me, excited. “Obi! You won’t believe it. That family by the stream found food again today. Yams, vegetables, even palm oil!”
I smiled. “That’s good.”
He shook his head. “This is the third time this month. Who has so much to give away like this?”
I was staring at the floor. My ribs inside trembled with the heaviness of the secret.
Time went on. First weeks and then months. The town kept buzzing about the unknown benefactor.
It only took a rainy night for the truth to be uncovered.
Then, one rainy evening, the truth came out.
I went to leave flour at the widow’s house near the mango trees. She had two daughters and barely enough to live on. I set the bag down, turned to leave then her door creaked open.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
I froze. My legs felt heavy. She stepped out with a lantern. Its light fell on me.
“Obi?” she whispered.
I was there, drenched in the rain. She glanced at the flour, then at me.
"It has been you... the whole time?" I was speechless.
"Why?" she inquired again. "Why would someone like you with so little take such a lot of path?"
I gathered my strength and spoke, "Because I am familiar with hunger.
The feeling of looking at an empty plate is something I know. So if I have a little, why should I not share it with others?"
Her eyes filled with tears. She wanted to say something, but I turned and walked into the rain.
By the next day, everyone knew.
Children shouted my name. “Obi is the one! Obi is the giver!”
I stayed inside. I had never wanted this.
That night, there was a knock at my door. The chief stood outside, with elders and families I had helped.
The chief said, “Obi, you gave from sacrifice, not from abundance. You gave quietly, with humility. We are proud of you.”
I lowered my head. “I didn’t want praise. I only wanted to ease their suffering.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Humility is not hidden by silence. Your example has lit a fire in all of us.”
From that day, the village changed. People started giving too. Those who had more gave more. Those with little still shared what they could. The burden I carried alone became lighter.
Children laughed louder. Families ate better. Hunger was still there, but not as sharp.
And me? I still went to my farm every morning. I was still poor in things, but I felt rich in something deeper.
I learned that the greatest gift is not what you give. It’s how you give it. Quietly. Without expecting anything back.
Even now, when I see a child eating or hear a mother singing while cooking, I don’t think of myself as their savior.
I just remember the man in the rain, leaving a basket at a door, walking away with nothing but peace in his heart.
That was enough for me.