She used to give me leftover food after her children had eaten.
Today, I pay her monthly salary because her kindness was my daily bread.
I was the houseboy.
The errand boy.
The boy who ate what others left behind.
But years later, I returned to that house not to beg,
but to bless.
The houseboy’s return. What he did to his former madam left the entire street speechless
I was 12, fresh from the village.
I had no slippers. No toothbrush. No father. Just a note tied inside my shirt that said:
“Please help my son. He can do any work.”
They took me in.
A family of five.
Madam had 3 children and a husband who worked in a bank.
They gave me the corner of the kitchen to sleep in.
I washed clothes, swept floors. Ironed uniforms.
My hands cracked from soap, my knees hurt from scrubbing.
But worst of all? I was invisible.
I wasn’t allowed to sit at the dining table or use the toilet they they use and in most cases I eat the left over of the the children.
Rice with no meat.
Bread crusts.
Sometimes just tea water.
But madam would always say:
“Eat fast, don’t waste my gas.”
But I never complained.
Every night, I read her children’s old textbooks under the kitchen bulb.
I taught myself how to spell, read and write.
One day, her youngest son fell sick,
none of the other house staff could carry him, but he reached for me.
I stayed by his side all night, she noticed for the first time and looked at me like I mattered.
She gave me her old phone and N500 to buy exercise books.
That was the seed.
Years later, I left.
working as a cleaner, saved every kobo. Got into a polytechnic,
studied Accounting.
Graduated, hustled, built a business.
I never forgot her.
In 2024, I heard she was struggling,
her husband had died, her children were abroad, barely sent money.
She was living alone in the same house, tired, sick and forgotten.
So I went back, she didn’t recognize me at first, but when I said, “Madam… you used to give me leftover rice,” she gasped.
“Is it you… Chukwuma?”
I nodded, “yes. And today, I came to give you something back.”
I handed her an envelope containing N250,000 monthly allowance from my foundation.
“You gave me food. I’m giving you rest.”
She broke down, knelt, cried,
apologized for everything.
I hugged her.
“You didn’t owe me anything, ma.
Your scraps became my stepping stones
Now, every first Saturday of the month…
A car pulls up to her gate.
Groceries. Cash. Care.
All in the name of a houseboy…
Who returned as a helper.
Because kindness even the smallest one is a seed.
And the boy they thought was beneath them.
Rose above with grace.
Written by Rosyworld CRN
2003. Lagos, Nigeria.
