IF ONLY THEY KNEW WHY SHE ALWAYS BACKS HER BABY ON HER HE@D

 If ONLY They KNEW Why She ALWAYS BACKS Her Baby ON HER HE@D  

       PART 4✅

On the first day, Joel stood at the school gate — on your head on Grace’s back, holding his little schoolbag tightly.

Children stared. Some laughed. Some pointed.

But one girl walked up to him and said, “Hi. I’m Chioma. Do you want to sit near me in class?”

Joel smiled. “I’d like that.”

Grace watched from the gate, tears in her eyes.

She looked up to the sky and whispered, “Thank you.”

But not every day was easy.

One boy threw stones at Joel during break time.

“Ghost boy! Go back to the spirit world!”

Joel didn’t cry. He just stood there, confused.

Later that night, he asked, “Mama, why do they hate me?”

“They don’t,” Grace said. “They fear what they don’t understand.”

Joel frowned. “But I’m just me.”

“And that,” Grace said, “is more than enough.”

One evening, Grace saw the red cloth was tearing again.

She took it into her hands and held it close.

It had carried him for almost ten years.

She remembered the first time she tied it — how her hands shook. How people laughed. How her own family doubted.

But this cloth had become more than fabric.

It was a shield. A promise. A fight.

Grace sat down and began to sew it one last time.

With every stitch, she said a prayer.

“For the first step he will take.”

“For the breath he will still draw.”

“For the life he will live.”

Two months before Joel’s tenth birthday, Grace had a dream.

She was standing in a field. Joel stood in front of her — tall, straight, barefoot. But his eyes were empty.

She called out, “Joel!”

He didn’t answer.

Suddenly, he fell.

And turned to dust.

Grace woke up screaming.

James held her. “It was just a dream.”

“No,” she cried. “It’s a warning.”

He shook her gently. “No, Grace. It’s fear.”

She clutched her chest. “I don’t know if I can untie him.”

“You must,” James said. “He has to stand one day. And you have to let him.”

The next day, Grace went to the forest.

She knelt at the big tree.

“I need to see him,” she said aloud.

The wind blew.

The leaves shook.

And the man with white eyes stepped out.

He looked older. Or maybe the world just looked different now.

Grace stood. “The time is almost here.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I had a dream. He fell. He turned to dust.”

The old man nodded. “Dreams are mirrors. Sometimes, they show truth. Sometimes, fear.”

Grace whispered, “Will he live?”

The man looked deep into her eyes. “That is no longer my answer to give.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the choice is yours. You must let go. And believe.”

Grace looked down. “What if belief isn’t enough?”

He walked closer. “Then love must carry what belief cannot.”

And he disappeared.

The night before Joel’s birthday, Grace couldn’t sleep.

She stared at the cloth.

She stared at his little shoes, never worn.

She stared at the stars.

Then she whispered, “Please don’t take him from me. Please.”

Morning came too quickly.

Joel jumped on the bed. “Mama! I’m ten! I’m ten!”

Grace forced a smile.

James came in with a cake. Chioma and two other kids from school stood behind him, holding balloons.

Grace carried Joel on her back — on your head — one last time.

They walked outside.

The village had gathered.

Even the ones who had laughed. Even the ones who had cursed her.

The chief was there. The priest. The midwife who had once buried her babies.

Grace stood in the center of the village square.

Joel looked around. “What’s happening?”

Grace slowly knelt down.

She reached behind her.

Her fingers found the knots.

Her hands shook.

Then, with one breath, she untied the cloth.

Joel’s legs dropped gently to the ground.

His feet touched the earth 

Grace held her breath.

He looked around.

Then, slowly…

He stood.

Tall.

Straight.

Strong.

Alive.

The crowd gasped.

Then silence.

Joel looked at his mother. “Mama?”

Grace covered her mouth.

Tears fell from her eyes.

“I’m okay,” he said with a smile.

And she dropped to her knees, crying.

Chioma clapped first.

Then James.

Then the whole village.

People wept. Some knelt. Some begged.

“Forgive us, Grace.”

“We didn’t know.”

“You are not mad. You are a mother. A strong one.”

Grace didn’t speak.

She just pulled Joel into her arms and whispered,

“You’re my miracle. And you were worth every stare, every tear, every pain.”

Joel hugged her tight.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“What now?”

She smiled.

“Now… we walk.”

The sun was high as Grace and Joel walked side by side.

His feet touched the earth like he had always belonged there.

Children followed them, whispering.

“Is he flying now?”

“No. He’s walking!”

“Mama said he was a ghost boy. But he looks real.”

Grace didn’t answer. She just held Joel’s hand, her heart beating like a drum.

Joel turned to her. “I feel... tall.”

Grace laughed softly. “You are.”

Later that afternoon, Mama Jude — Grace’s former mother-in-law — came to her compound.

She had aged. Her back was bent. But her eyes still burned with pride and sharpness.

Grace stood at the door, holding Joel's hand.

Mama Jude cleared her throat. “I came to see the boy.”

Grace stepped aside slowly.

Joel stood straight and looked her in the eye.

Mama Jude blinked. “You look like your mother.”

Joel smiled. “Thank you, ma.”

There was silence.

Then Mama Jude sighed. “Grace... we were wrong. About everything.”

Grace didn’t speak.

“I used to say you had a cursed womb,” Mama Jude went on. “But now I see… you were carrying a blessing too big for ordinary eyes.”

Grace’s lips trembled. “I buried ten sons. No one even said sorry.”

Mama Jude’s voice cracked. “Then… let me start. I am sorry.”

Grace nodded slowly. “I accept it. But I cannot return to who I was before. That Grace… she died long ago.”

Mama Jude wiped her eyes. “I understand.”

And then, she left.

News of Joel spread to other villages.

Women came with their babies wrapped in cloth.

Some came just to touch Grace’s hand.

One woman knelt and said, “Please, tell me what you did. My babies keep dying.”

Grace looked into her eyes and said, “I gave up my pride. I carried shame. I trusted madness. And I wrapped my child in faith.”

The woman cried. “Then teach me how to do the same.”

Grace reached down, helped her up, and said, “You start by believing that your child is meant to live.”

That Sunday, the church was full.

Grace wore a bright red dress — the same color as the cloth she’d carried for ten years.

Joel walked beside her, holding a small Bible.

The pastor called her up.

“This woman,” he said, “has shown us what it means to believe beyond fear.”

The crowd clapped.

Grace stepped forward, took the microphone, and said:

“I am not special. I am just a mother. A mother who refused to let sorrow win.”

People wept. Even men wiped their eyes.

One reporter came from the city.

She asked, “Can I write your story?”

Grace smiled. “Only if you promise not to change the truth.”

The reporter nodded. “What’s the truth?”

“That love will make you do strange things. It will make you carry your child on your head for ten years... and still smile.”

Later that evening, Grace sat outside with Joel.

He rested his head on her lap, looking up at the stars.

“Mama,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Why do people say I’m a story?”

Grace smiled. “Because you are. You are the kind of story people never believe… until they see it with their own eyes.”

“Will I always be a story?”

“Yes. But now, you get to tell it yourself.”

Joel grinned. “When I grow up, I’ll tell everyone that I walked on the sky before I touched the ground.”

Grace laughed, tears in her eyes. “And I’ll tell them that you were my miracle before you were anyone’s story.”

The next morning, she folded the red cloth for the last time.

She didn’t throw it away.

She placed it inside a wooden box.

Beside it, she put a small pair of baby shoes — the ones Joel never wore till he turned ten.

Then, she locked the box.

Not because she wanted to forget.

But because the journey had ended.

And new ones were waiting.

Years later, Joel grew into a young man.

He stood tall, spoke kindly, and walked with quiet power.

People still whispered when he passed, but now they whispered with wonder.

“That’s the boy who lived on your head.”

“That’s Grace’s son.”

“That’s the miracle child.”

And Joel?

He never forgot.

He wore the memory like armor — soft, sacred, and strong.

One day, he stood before a large crowd as a guest speaker.

“My name is Joel,” he said. “When I was born, my mother carried me on your head for ten years. People laughed at her. Called her crazy. Called me cursed.”

He paused.

“But I’m standing here today… because she didn’t stop.”

The crowd cheered.

He smiled. “So if you’re carrying something that makes people mock you… keep walking. Even if it's on your head.”

And Grace?

She grew older, her hair silver like moonlight.

But her eyes never lost their fire.

She would sit at the edge of her compound and tell the children stories.

They’d sit around her, wide-eyed, asking, “Mama Grace, is it true you carried him like that every day?”

And she’d nod, gently patting her knees.

“Yes. I carried him. Because no one else could. And I would do it again.”

They’d giggle and ask, “Even if it meant people laughed at you?”

She would smile.

“Especially if they laughed. Because that’s how you know you’re doing something worth remembering.”

If you enjoyed this story let me know in the comments. Don’t forget to tell me where you are watching from. Till we meet

THE END

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