The Ball
I stood on the sidewalk of the busy Mushin street, waiting for cars to stop so I could cross the road. I had just gotten back from school, when suddenly my heart beat fast as I watched my seven year old brother, run into the road to retrieve his ball. The loud honks from cars and shouting vendors swallowed out my cries for him to stop. I clutched my school bag tightly, feeling utterly helpless.
Our mother, a trader who sold okirika wears, was just across the street, carried away in a conversation with a customer. Tears formed up in my eyes as I imagined the worst, fearing I would never see my brother again.
Just as a car sped towards him, a stranger appeared out of nowhere, in a twinkle of an eye he lifted him up from the road and guided him safely to the sidewalk. I ran to them, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Thank…you….so much, sir,” I gasped for air, hugging my brother tightly.
The stranger, a young man in a suit, smiled kindly. “No problem. Just be more careful next time.” He said, handing over my brother’s ball to him.
As he walked away, I noticed something strange; my brother’s soccer ball, now safely in his hands, looked different older and torn, unlike the new one he had been playing with. I turned to ask the man, but he had already vanished into the crowd.
Confused, we returned to our mother, who finally noticed our distress. I recounted everything that had happened, showing her the ball. Her face turned pale as she recognized it immediately.
“Mary! Where did you get this ball!” she shouted, “this ball belonged to my brother Paul, your uncle. He died in a car accident right here, years before you were born.”
