Every Sunday for 8 years, Grandpa Musa sat on the same blue bench at the Kaduna park. He always carried a notebook, a pen, and a thermos of tea.
The children called him “Letter Grandpa.” They thought he was writing a diary.
He wasn’t.
He was writing to his daughter, Amina.
Amina left for Canada when she was 19. She promised to call every week. For the first year she did. Then the calls became once a month. Then once a year. Then they stopped completely.
Grandpa Musa never got angry. “Life gets busy,” he would whisper to the empty bench. So he started writing letters instead. He wrote about the mango tree they planted together. About her old cat that still slept on her bed. About how the park got a new fountain and it sounded like her laugh.
He never mailed them. He didn’t have her new address. He just wrote, folded each one carefully, and kept them in a shoebox under his bed. 416 letters. One for every Sunday he waited.
Last winter, Grandpa Musa fell sick. The nurses packing his things found the shoebox. On top was a note in shaky handwriting: _“If anything happens to me, please send these to Amina Yusuf, Toronto.”_
It took 3 months to find her.
When Amina opened the first letter at the airport, she broke down. By the third, she had booked the next flight home.
She arrived in Kaduna on a Sunday morning. The park was quiet. The blue bench was empty. But lying on it was one final letter with her name.
It read: _“My dearest Amina, If you’re reading this, it means you came back. That was all I ever wanted. The tea is still warm. Sit with me?”_
*Title: "The Last Letter"*
*Title: "The Last Letter"*
Every Sunday for 8 years, Grandpa Musa sat on the same blue bench at the Kaduna park. He always carried a notebook, a pen, and a thermos of tea.
The children called him “Letter Grandpa.” They thought he was
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