Mama used to keep biscuits in a blue tin at the top of the cupboard. On days the hunger was loudest, she'd take one, break it into five, and say, “One day, this will be full again.” We’d all sit—me, my three siblings, and Mama—chewing our dreams with crumbs.

When Papa died, the blue tin stayed empty for months. Mama started selling akara at the junction, wiping sweat with the same cloth she used to count coins. I tried to help, but I was just a boy with calloused feet and big dreams. Still, every morning, she’d smile like she wasn’t breaking inside.

One day, I returned from school with torn shorts and a prize—a small plastic medal for coming first. Mama cried when I gave it to her. That night, she reached for the blue tin.

Inside was a single biscuit.

She had been saving it.

She broke it into two. Gave me the bigger half. “You’ve earned it,” she said. It tasted like gold.

Years passed. Now I sit in a leather chair, in a glass office, but I keep that medal in my drawer. And on my shelf, a blue tin. Full of biscuits. Just in case a hungry child walks in needing a taste of hope.

Because sometimes, the smallest gifts shape the biggest futures.