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“You made me lose customers with your words, Sira. Words are powerful.”
Sira swallowed.
“I beg you, forgive me.”
He looked at her for a long time. Then after a while, he nodded.
“I forgive you.”
Sira touched her mouth again.
Still nothing.
Her lips were still huge. Her heart broke. She burst into tears.
Baba Jimo looked at her with pity.
“I will try to help you find a solution before the chief questions you tomorrow.”
Sira’s face immediately brightened with a little hope.
She had hurt many people, and the next day the chief would ask whether she had found a way to repair what had happened.
That night, Baba Jimo murmured mysterious words over his herbs. Suddenly, the wind changed, and the spirit led them in the darkness toward something no one could have imagined.
The next morning, the great day finally arrived. The villagers gathered in the square. The chief called a meeting.
“This must stop!” he shouted. “Who did this to Sira? Who did this to her?”
The villagers murmured among themselves. Some blamed Mama Lina. Others blamed Baba Jimo. But no one knew the truth.
Sira stood in the middle of the crowd, her face covered, her heart heavy. Her father stood beside her, holding her hand tightly.
“We will find the truth,” he whispered to her.
Suddenly, a small voice rose from the back of the crowd. Everyone turned.
Baba Jimo, the old herbalist, stepped forward slowly. He held a small tied cloth in his hands, brown and a little dirty.
The villagers began whispering.
“What is that? Why does Baba Jimo have that cloth?”
Baba Jimo said nothing. He walked straight to the chief and handed him the piece of cloth.
The chief examined it carefully. His eyes widened.
“Whose cloth is this?” he asked.
Baba Jimo slowly lifted his old hand and pointed to a sad-looking girl standing quietly at the back of the crowd.
It was Ami.
Ami’s eyes widened in fear. She did not want to move. But Baba Jimo spoke to her gently.
“Come, my child, come and tell the truth.”
Ami slowly stepped forward. She was trembling. Tears filled her eyes.
The chief held up the cloth.
“Is this your cloth?” he asked.
Ami slowly nodded.
“Yes, it is mine,” she whispered.
The villagers gasped in surprise.
“But how did Baba Jimo get it? What does this mean?”
Baba Jimo stepped forward, his voice deep and clear.
“I found it near the river. It was tied to the tree where Ami often cried. Her tears awakened the spirit of her late mother.”
The murmurs grew louder.
“She cried? Why was she crying?”
Ami’s eyes were now full of tears. She looked at Sira and spoke in a soft voice.
“My mother was a thief? Is that what Sira said? She told everyone my mother was stealing at the market. But that is not true. My mother collapsed at the market because she was hungry. She had not eaten for days. She had given me the last meal we had, and then she fainted.”
The crowd gasped.
Sira stepped back, her eyes wide.
“I—I was only talking,” she stammered.
Ami shook her head.
“You did much more than talk. You shamed my mother’s name. People insulted her. They called her a thief.”
Sira felt tears rise. Ami’s gaze was firm and painful at the same time.
Ami continued, “When I heard what she said, I went to cry by the river. I cried so much and whispered such a painful thing about my mother that her mouth should never stop growing.”
A new murmur passed through the crowd.
Baba Jimo slowly nodded, his wise eyes shining.
“The spirit of a mother hears the cries of her child,” he murmured.
Sira fell to her knees, trembling.
“No, I—this was not—I did not know.”
Ami stepped closer.
“My mother’s spirit heard me,” she said simply.
Sira, eyes filled with tears, bowed before her, her heart heavy with sorrow.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I did not know. I did not understand.”
Ami looked at her without moving, tears in her eyes.
“Did you not think before you spoke?” she asked softly. “Did you not measure the pain you caused?”
Sira sobbed.