RUNNING OVER
"Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”
It was just past dawn in Ojota, and the smoky aroma of fried akara floated from Mama Tayo’s stall. She had been up since 4 a.m., grinding beans and setting up her makeshift shop. Business was her lifeline, but kindness was her heartbeat.
“Mama T, add extra two for me now. I never chop since yesterday,” pleaded Bala, a barefoot boy who hawked sachet water.
Mama Tayo, with her tired eyes and bright smile, dropped four hot akara balls into his nylon. “Go chop, my pikin. When you get money, you go pay. If you no get, God go bless me.”
She did this often—too often, according to her neighbor sellers.
“You dey dash people food, but na we wey dey save every kobo go still dey struggle. Use sense, Mama T!” said Madam Ronke, the puff-puff seller.
But Mama Tayo would just laugh. “God dey see.”
One day, disaster struck. A reckless danfo driver ran into her stall at night, destroying everything. Her pots, gas cylinder, and wooden table—ruined. Her savings? Gone in her daughter’s recent medical bills.
For three days, the stall remained closed.
On the fourth morning, as she sat in front of her house, staring at nothing, she heard a commotion. A group of people approached—Bala, the water hawker, led them.
Behind him came students she had fed, drivers she had offered free breakfast to, and an old beggar she once gave a warm meal to on a rainy day. Each person held something—a gas cylinder, a table, sacks of beans, palm oil, even new aprons.
“We gathered this for you,” Bala said, eyes wide with pride. “You don give all of us. Now na our turn.”
Tears streamed down Mama Tayo’s face. “I don’t know what to say.”
A man stepped forward. “Say thank you to God. You gave us in our time of need. Now, it is pouring back into your lap.”
And so it was. Not just restored—but more. A newer stall. Bigger sales. Even a small freezer gifted by a local church member who heard her story.
EPILOGUE:
"In a world that teaches us to hold tightly, Mama Tayo lived open-handed. She gave out of lack, and received in overflow. Not because she calculated returns, but because love was her currency. Just as the Word says: ‘With the measure you use, it will be measured to you… running over.’”
"Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”
It was just past dawn in Ojota, and the smoky aroma of fried akara floated from Mama Tayo’s stall. She had been up since 4 a.m., grinding beans and setting up her makeshift shop. Business was her lifeline, but kindness was her heartbeat.
“Mama T, add extra two for me now. I never chop since yesterday,” pleaded Bala, a barefoot boy who hawked sachet water.
Mama Tayo, with her tired eyes and bright smile, dropped four hot akara balls into his nylon. “Go chop, my pikin. When you get money, you go pay. If you no get, God go bless me.”
She did this often—too often, according to her neighbor sellers.
“You dey dash people food, but na we wey dey save every kobo go still dey struggle. Use sense, Mama T!” said Madam Ronke, the puff-puff seller.
But Mama Tayo would just laugh. “God dey see.”
One day, disaster struck. A reckless danfo driver ran into her stall at night, destroying everything. Her pots, gas cylinder, and wooden table—ruined. Her savings? Gone in her daughter’s recent medical bills.
For three days, the stall remained closed.
On the fourth morning, as she sat in front of her house, staring at nothing, she heard a commotion. A group of people approached—Bala, the water hawker, led them.
Behind him came students she had fed, drivers she had offered free breakfast to, and an old beggar she once gave a warm meal to on a rainy day. Each person held something—a gas cylinder, a table, sacks of beans, palm oil, even new aprons.
“We gathered this for you,” Bala said, eyes wide with pride. “You don give all of us. Now na our turn.”
Tears streamed down Mama Tayo’s face. “I don’t know what to say.”
A man stepped forward. “Say thank you to God. You gave us in our time of need. Now, it is pouring back into your lap.”
And so it was. Not just restored—but more. A newer stall. Bigger sales. Even a small freezer gifted by a local church member who heard her story.
EPILOGUE:
"In a world that teaches us to hold tightly, Mama Tayo lived open-handed. She gave out of lack, and received in overflow. Not because she calculated returns, but because love was her currency. Just as the Word says: ‘With the measure you use, it will be measured to you… running over.’”
RUNNING OVER
"Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”
It was just past dawn in Ojota, and the smoky aroma of fried akara floated from Mama Tayo’s stall. She had been up since 4 a.m., grinding beans and setting up her makeshift shop. Business was her lifeline, but kindness was her heartbeat.
“Mama T, add extra two for me now. I never chop since yesterday,” pleaded Bala, a barefoot boy who hawked sachet water.
Mama Tayo, with her tired eyes and bright smile, dropped four hot akara balls into his nylon. “Go chop, my pikin. When you get money, you go pay. If you no get, God go bless me.”
She did this often—too often, according to her neighbor sellers.
“You dey dash people food, but na we wey dey save every kobo go still dey struggle. Use sense, Mama T!” said Madam Ronke, the puff-puff seller.
But Mama Tayo would just laugh. “God dey see.”
One day, disaster struck. A reckless danfo driver ran into her stall at night, destroying everything. Her pots, gas cylinder, and wooden table—ruined. Her savings? Gone in her daughter’s recent medical bills.
For three days, the stall remained closed.
On the fourth morning, as she sat in front of her house, staring at nothing, she heard a commotion. A group of people approached—Bala, the water hawker, led them.
Behind him came students she had fed, drivers she had offered free breakfast to, and an old beggar she once gave a warm meal to on a rainy day. Each person held something—a gas cylinder, a table, sacks of beans, palm oil, even new aprons.
“We gathered this for you,” Bala said, eyes wide with pride. “You don give all of us. Now na our turn.”
Tears streamed down Mama Tayo’s face. “I don’t know what to say.”
A man stepped forward. “Say thank you to God. You gave us in our time of need. Now, it is pouring back into your lap.”
And so it was. Not just restored—but more. A newer stall. Bigger sales. Even a small freezer gifted by a local church member who heard her story.
EPILOGUE:
"In a world that teaches us to hold tightly, Mama Tayo lived open-handed. She gave out of lack, and received in overflow. Not because she calculated returns, but because love was her currency. Just as the Word says: ‘With the measure you use, it will be measured to you… running over.’”
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