49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv95ikUDh4y
It was inside Mangero that I first learned the weight of love—and the sting of betrayal.
She wasn’t just any girl. She was my co-worker, moving quietly among the rows of bottled water and stacked cartons, her steps light, her eyes lowered as if she carried a secret the world would never know. There was something about her presence that calmed the chaos of Mangero.
Her beauty was quiet, not loud or boastful. Fair skin that seemed to glow under the factory’s harsh lights. Red lips that curved into the softest shapes. And those eyelashes—long, delicate, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. The first time I saw her, my heart betrayed me. It stumbled, then pounded in my chest like a drum, and from that day, every shift at Mangero was colored by her presence.
Among my friends at work, her name often came up, but not kindly. They teased her, called her strange, even whispered the old Igbo word—obanje—as if she were cursed or destined to bring misfortune. I hated it. Each time, I stood in her defense.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNpye2rDflK
“Don’t say that about her,” I snapped once during a break, my voice trembling with anger.49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUE4eIgIZOd
They laughed. “You? Defending her? Don’t waste your time. She’s not what you think.”49Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuAwbSJSTKg
But I wouldn’t let their words stain her image. To me, she was worth protecting.
I tried to show her how I felt in the only way I knew how—through small gestures. Snacks tucked into her hands during breaks. Cold drinks shared after long hours of lifting and stacking. Biscuits, beverages, little offerings I thought would carry the message my heart couldn’t speak aloud. Every time she accepted, I convinced myself I was building something real, something lasting.
But Mangero’s walls held more than bottled water. They held whispers. And whispers travel.
What I didn’t know then was that behind my back, she laughed. She laughed at the very heart that beat for her. “That boy is stupid,” she told her friends. “He spends on me as if I care. I feel nothing for him.” They giggled together, using my kindness as entertainment, mocking me while I worked harder, sacrificed more, loved deeper.
And then one day, those words found their way back to me. Cruel words, carried by mouths that enjoyed my shock. “She said you’re nothing to her. She only takes what you give.”
The sting was unbearable. My chest tightened. My face burned. It was as though the walls of Mangero themselves had turned against me, echoing her betrayal. I felt naked in front of my colleagues, exposed as a fool who had loved blindly.
From that day, everything changed. Her face, once the reason my heart quickened, became a wound I no longer wished to see. The snacks, the drinks, the quiet hopes—all became ashes of regret. Where there had once been admiration, there was now bitterness. Where there had once been longing, there was now hate.
But as painful as it was, I walked away with a lesson: in Mangero, I wasn’t just learning how to stack bottles or follow rules. I was learning about people—their masks, their manipulations, and the truth that not every smile hides good intentions.
She was the first girl who made my heart beat. And the first who taught me how dangerous it is to give it to the wrong person.
ns216.73.216.121da2
and then Add to home screen.