By: Chioma Madonna Ndukwu
The Way We Live: Saturday Was Once for Visiting
By half past nine on Saturday morning, Mr. Okeke had already swept the compound twice. Because waiting was easier when his hands were busy.
He rinsed two plastic chairs, set them beneath the old mango tree and placed a kettle of hot tea on a small table between them.
The gate remained open, just as it had every Saturday for longer than most of his neighbours could remember.
Across the fence, Mrs. Bello paused from watering her flowers.
“You’ve been up since daybreak.”
Mr. Okeke smiled.
“Old men don’t sleep much.”
She glanced at the empty chair beside him.
“Are you expecting company?”
He looked towards the road before answering.
“I’ve learnt that if you close your gate, nobody comes in.”
Mrs. Bello laughed softly.
“And if you leave it open?”
“Hope has somewhere to sit.”
She shook her head with an affectionate smile and returned to her flowers.
The street settled into its familiar Saturday rhythm. Children chased a football with more enthusiasm than skill.
A woman returning from the market adjusted the basket on her head before disappearing into the next compound. Somewhere nearby, onions met hot oil, and the aroma drifted lazily through the neighbourhood.
Mr. Okeke unfolded his newspaper but found himself watching the road more than reading the headlines.
His phone rang. His daughter.
“Daddy, good morning.”
“My dear.”
“How are you?”
“I’ve been better. I’ve been worse.”
She laughed.
“We’ve been talking about coming to see you.”
“I know.”
“This time we’re serious.”
He smiled to himself.
“You’ve always been serious. Life has simply been busier.”
There was a brief silence.
“We’ll make it happen.”
“I’ll keep the gate open.”
When the call ended, he rested the phone on the table and watched a courier motorcycle stop across the street. A parcel changed hands. The rider disappeared almost as quickly as he had arrived.
Mrs. Bello noticed him smiling.
“What is it?”
“I was just thinking…”
He folded the newspaper.
“Packages still arrive exactly where they’re meant to.”
“And?”
“I wish people found one another as easily.”
Just before noon, a hesitant knock broke the quiet.
A young man stood outside the gate.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m David. I live three streets away.”
“I know your face. Come in.”
David shuffled awkwardly.
“I actually came to borrow your ladder.”
Mr. Okeke pointed towards the backyard.
“It’s there. Help yourself.”
The young man took a few steps, then stopped.
“If you don’t mind…”
“Go on.”
“I’ve always wondered why you sit here every Saturday.”
Mr. Okeke poured another cup of tea.
“Sit first.”
David accepted the cup, wrapping both hands around it.
“When my wife was alive,” Mr. Okeke began, “Saturday belonged to people. Before breakfast someone had usually knocked on the gate. Cousins. Old classmates. Church friends. Travellers passing through town. Nobody asked whether it was convenient. They simply came.”
He smiled at a memory that had not faded with time.
“My wife always cooked more than we needed.”
David looked up.
“Because she expected visitors?”
Mr. Okeke chuckled.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because she expected life.”
For a moment, neither man spoke.
The breeze stirred the leaves above them.
“My sister lives in Birmingham,” David said eventually. “She says every visit goes into a calendar first. If you arrive without notice, people worry something must be wrong.”
Mr. Okeke laughed.
“My younger brother called from Accra yesterday. He said his neighbour still walks in every Saturday carrying fresh bread and asks only one question: ‘Is the kettle on?’”
David smiled.
“I think I’d like that neighbour.”
“So would I.”
His phone buzzed again.
This time it was his grandson.
“Grandpa, Mum says we’ll come during the holidays.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
After the call, David’s eyes drifted to the empty chair.
“Do you miss her very much?”
Mr. Okeke followed his gaze.
“I still pour two cups of tea before I remember.”
David lowered his head.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
The words were enough.
After a while, Mr. Okeke reached for an old photograph lying beneath the newspaper.
Children ran across the compound in blurred excitement. Women carried serving bowls from one house to another. Someone in the corner had been laughing so hard that the camera caught only a streak where his face should have been.
“I once read something by Mother Teresa,” he said quietly. “If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.”
He looked around the quiet compound.
“I’ve come to believe that love is measured less by what we say than by the doors we still walk through.”
David stood to leave.
“I forgot about the ladder.”
Mr. Okeke laughed.
“I noticed.”
“I think I came looking for one thing…”
“…and found another?”
David nodded.
At the gate, he turned back.
“What are you doing next Saturday?”
Mr. Okeke looked at the chairs beneath the mango tree.
“I imagine I’ll be right here.”
“Good.”
David smiled.
“I’ll bring the bread.”
The following Saturday, Mrs. Bello glanced across the fence on her way back from the market.
The gate was open. The kettle was steaming. Three cups rested on the table beneath the mango tree. She smiled and walked on.
Some Saturdays don’t announce that they’ve become special. They simply leave behind one more cup than there used to be.
My Thought
Relationships are rarely sustained by grand gestures. More often, they are kept alive by ordinary visits that quietly remind someone, “You still matter to me.”
One Thing Worth Remembering
If someone has been on your mind for weeks, don’t wait for a perfect moment. Sometimes the visit you almost postponed becomes the memory you cherish most.
Let’s Talk
Who has been waiting behind an open gate in your life? Perhaps this weekend is the right time to stop by, not because there’s an occasion, but because there’s still time.
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