The Spark in the Storm

The rain had been falling since evening, drumming endlessly on the patched zinc roof of the little house at the edge of Aremu village. The thunder rolled like distant drums, and every flash of lightning revealed the crooked outline of houses struggling against the wind. Inside one of those rooms, a twelve-year-old boy named Tunde sat hunched over a wooden table. His lamp, weak and trembling, fought to stay alive against the wind sneaking through the cracked window. Yet, his eyes — sharp, hopeful, and restless — stayed fixed on the page before him.

It was not the first time Tunde had studied in a storm. For as long as he could remember, rain had been his companion on nights like this — loud, heavy, and alive. He often thought the sky cried for those who had dreams too big for their surroundings. His mother, a petty trader at the village market, had long gone to bed after pleading, “Tunde, abeg, rest small. You will spoil your eyes one day.” But Tunde’s heart had other plans. Sleep could wait; understanding could not.

Earlier that day, the class had laughed at him again. His teacher, Mr. Okon, had asked a simple arithmetic question. Tunde had stood up confidently, but midway, his memory blanked out. He stammered, froze, and finally sat down, his face hot with shame as the chalk screeched across the blackboard: “0 – Try again.” The laughter that followed chased him all the way home. But what others saw as failure, he saw as fuel. Deep within, something whispered — “You can do better than this.” That whisper became the spark that carried him into the night.

He lit the lantern again after everyone slept, spreading out his old exercise books — some pages torn, others stained with palm oil from his school lunch. He didn’t have a proper ruler, so he used the edge of a matchbox to draw his lines. His pencil was short — barely long enough to hold — but he treated it like gold. He sharpened it with a razor blade until it hurt his fingers, then began to write. Outside, the storm roared on, but in that tiny room, a boy was quietly rewriting his destiny, one equation at a time.

Every mistake became a lesson. Every correction, a step forward. When the lantern dimmed, he tilted it, adjusted the wick, and kept reading. His handwriting wobbled under the uneven light, yet each number told a story of persistence. Occasionally, a drop of water would leak through the roof and blur a line, but Tunde would simply move his book aside and continue, undeterred. He knew education was his only bridge out of poverty — and he was determined to cross it, no matter how shaky it seemed.

He remembered his father’s words before he passed: “Tunde, knowledge will open doors that strength cannot.” Those words stayed with him like a sacred echo. They were why he endured mockery, why he refused to quit, why he chose his books over sleep. He didn’t fully understand what doors education would open, but he knew he wanted to see the other side. Each night of study was a quiet promise to his late father — that he would make those words come true.

By midnight, the rain began to ease, and the air smelled fresh, like renewal. Tunde closed his book, stretched his stiff fingers, and smiled faintly at his last correct answer. For the first time, he had solved the entire page without error. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything. It was proof that effort works — that diligence, no matter how small, always leaves a mark. He whispered to himself, “Tomorrow will be better.” It wasn’t a hope; it was a declaration.

When he finally blew out the lantern, the room sank into darkness, but his mind was still bright. Outside, the storm had ended, but inside, a new one was just beginning — not of fear or failure, but of determination. In that silent hour, Tunde’s dream refused to sleep. It burned quietly, like a spark waiting for dawn to turn into flame.