Painful Regret
The sun had barely risen when Kwaku stepped out of his elder brother’s house, stretching his tired limbs. He had come home from the university for vacation—a time he hoped to rest, help around the house, and prepare for the next semester. His brother had asked him to buy fruits from the nearby fruit stall, and Kwaku, always willing to help, agreed without complaint.
He locked the gate and began walking down the dusty road. But just a few meters away, he stopped.
A small boy, not more than five, sat on a low cement block beside a gutter, his tiny shoulders shaking as he cried. His clothes were dirty, and his eyes were swollen from tears.
Kwaku’s heart softened immediately.
“My little brother, what’s wrong?” he asked gently as he knelt beside him.
The boy did not speak. He only wept harder and pointed somewhere behind him.
“Where are your parents? Did someone hurt you?” Kwaku asked again. But the only answer he received was frantic hand gestures and sobs that pierced the quiet morning.
Kwaku tried again and again, asking simple questions, pointing in different directions, hoping for something he could understand. It was then he noticed it—the boy wasn’t responding to sound. He wasn’t following the movement of Kwaku’s lips. He wasn’t speaking.
A painful realization hit him: the little boy was deaf and mute.
For a moment, Kwaku felt torn. He was in a hurry to return home quickly, but he couldn’t leave a lost, helpless child alone. After a short pause, he took the boy’s small hand.
“Let’s go to the fruit seller,” he murmured, “maybe she knows where you came from.”
The boy followed quietly, his tears slowing but his face still wet and frightened. They walked slowly, Kwaku glancing back every few seconds to make sure the child was still beside him.
They were just a few steps away from the fruit stall when Kwaku heard shouting—angry shouting—coming from behind him. He turned.
A large mob, men and youth from the community, were running toward him, holding sticks, blocks, and broken chair legs. Their faces were twisted with rage.
Before Kwaku could understand what was happening, someone shouted:
"That's the man! He's the one who took the boy! "
Everything happened too fast.
The mob surrounded him.
They didn’t ask questions.
They didn’t give him a chance to speak.
The first blow landed on his back.
Another hit his arm.
A stick struck his leg, and he screamed.
Kwaku tried to explain, to shout above their anger.
“I was only helping him! I don’t know him! Please, listen!”
But nobody listened.
The little boy watched in helpless silence, tears streaming down his face as the mob attacked the only person who had shown him kindness.
The beating grew harsher. Sticks cracked, voices grew louder, and Kwaku’s body slowly gave up. He collapsed to the ground, curling into himself as kicks and blows rained down on him.
Just then, a sleek black car approached, slowing as the driver noticed the commotion. A tall, well-dressed man stepped out.
“Hey! Stop this madness!” he shouted.
The crowd hesitated.
The man pushed through, and his eyes widened when he saw the battered young man on the ground.
“Kwaku?” he gasped. “Jesus! This is my friend’s younger brother! What have you done?!”
Silence fell instantly. The sticks dropped. Faces lowered in shame. Some murmured apologies, but it was too late.
The rich man knelt beside Kwaku, who could barely open his eyes.
“Don’t talk,” he whispered, lifting him gently. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
The mob parted, fear and regret written across their faces.
At the hospital, doctors rushed him into emergency care. Bones were broken, ribs fractured, and both legs had suffered severe damage. They did everything they could, but when the doctor finally came out, his expression told the whole story.
The harm was permanent.
Kwaku’s legs, once strong, once carrying him proudly around campus, were damaged beyond repair.
He would never walk again.
He would never return to the university he loved.
His dreams, his future, his plans—everything fell apart in a single morning, because he had stopped to help a crying child.
His brother wept. The man who rescued him wept. Even some members of the mob came to the hospital, begging for forgiveness, crying like children.
But forgiveness could not undo the damage.
Kwaku now sits in a wheelchair, the memories of that day haunting him like a shadow. He had done nothing wrong. His only crime was kindness.
And yet, it cost him everything.
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