Page 9 of Ripe & Ready
Before I can even respond, he’s jogging to catch up with the group, boots sloshing through the mud. I stand there for half a beat, trying to decide whether to scream, melt, or die. I go with “follow quietly while flinching at every leaf,” but something’s different now.
My heart’s still racing, but it’s not panic anymore.
It’s him. It’s always him.
For some dumb reason, knowing Derek’s got my back, even as a joke, makes me feel a little braver.
Still very aware of unknown danger, but braver nonetheless.
4
The ride into the village is worse than any theme park ride I’ve ever been on.
The Land Rover is rattling, metal-on-metal loud, and the road’s basically a suggestion. Because of heavy rainfall, we keep getting stuck in puddles and potholes that feel way too deep for a vehicle that is, allegedly, four-wheel drive
Like… isn’t that the whole point?
I bounce in my seat, grip the door, and try not to throw up or launch myself into the tree line. Derek’s sitting there as if this is a relaxing Uber ride through the suburbs.
Eventually we arrive to a quiet and modest village made of a handful of wooden buildings with tin roofs and wide porches that look like they’ve seen some stories. As we turn the corner, we pass under a big banner that saysWelcome to Mbomoand the truck slows down.
A few kids come running out. Laughing, kicking around a beat-up soccer ball, doing that effortless weaving-around-each-other thing kids do when they’ve got more energy than sense. Some pause to watch us pass, wide-eyed and curious, before returning to their game as we roll into the heart of the village.
We pull up to a building with sun-faded pale blue doors. Inside, it’s this open-air shop that feels part convenience, part hangout spot. They’ve got everything you could possibly need from a general store in a small bustling village. Canned goods, gallon jugs of water, bags of rice, and enough instant noodles to fuel a small army. A small island in the center of the shop is nothing but produce. Boxes stacked high full of locally grown fruits and vegetables.
In the back corner, there’s a tiny TV with a built-in VHS player doing its best. It’s playing what I think is an action movie. Lots of yelling and explosions, but the static’s doing more work than the actual plot. Still, it’s charming and welcoming and bursting with this quiet, infectious kind of joy. This place just is, and that’s more than enough.
I step inside, instantly grateful for the shade. Outside, the village is bright and humming with life. Inside, it’s cooler, quieter, still.
Outside, I spot Derek digging into his backpack. He pulls out a couple of large gallon-sized ziplock bags packed to the brim with school supplies. Pens, pencils, notebooks, crayons, little rulers all lined up neatly. Leave it to Derek to turn his reckless energy into something weirdly coordinated.
He hands the supplies to Obed, who smiles, nods, and claps a hand on Derek’s shoulder in thanks. The donation is a small gesture, easy to miss. He doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t look around to see who’s watching. He does it like it’s second nature.
I hadn’t even known he brought them.
Before my heart stops doing whatever it’s doing he turns, catches me staring like an idiot, and jogs over to the shop.
“What do you say we grab some snacks?” He says it super casual because all of this makes sense to him. It’s like he belongs here. Like he belongs everywhere.
“Sure. Snacks. That’s... a normal thing to do,” I say, full sentences evading me.
I’m still reeling. Not from the heat or the overwhelming humanity of this tiny village, but from him. The way he’s kind without even trying. The way it’s so deeply ingrained in him that it doesn’t read as noble or selfless or showy. For him, it’s as natural as breathing.
He’s always been like that. It’s what love looks like on him.
Even when we were kids, he used to pack extra snacks in his backpack. Not the crusty, off-brand granola bars either… like, the good stuff. Fruit snacks that didn’t taste like wax. Trail mix with actual M&Ms.
At first, I thought it was because he was a human garbage disposal, but then I started noticing the way he handed them out at recess. Quietly. No big moment. No “look at me being generous.” Just... casual kindness. Sometimes to friends. Sometimes to kids who didn’t have much in their lunchbox. He never waited for a thank you. He never expected anything back.
I remember once, in fourth grade, a kid from the next class over forgot their lunch on a field trip. Derek didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his entire sandwich, handed it over, and shrugged like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter that he’d be hungry the rest of the day.
I knew where it came from. His parents were always those “teach by doing” types. I saw it at his house. His mom leaving care packages for neighbors, his dad fixing someone’s car in the driveway for free. They didn’t preach about being kind. They just were.
Derek soaked it up like sunlight.
He was always the guy who thought about other people. Who planned ahead for things that might go wrong, not because he was anxious, like me, but because he wanted to make sure no one felt left behind.
That alone feels like its own kind of bravery. Choosing kindness in a world full of awful, and still being able to recognize it in someone else. To give everyone around you a piece of yourself to keep things steady, to keep their happiness intact without ever asking for anything in return. That’s what he does.
