Here is Chapter 25: The Harvest Table, a chapter of joyful restoration—where what was broken becomes the very thing that binds everyone closer together.
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Chapter 25: The Harvest Table
Three months after the storm, the Rebuild Centre looked different.
Not newer.
Not perfect.
But stronger.
The garden had been replanted, this time with more than vegetables—there were marigolds, sunflowers, wild basil, and a corner dedicated to "memory seeds," planted in honor of women who never got to tell their stories.
The walls still carried watermarks, but they wore them like badges.
And in the heart of the Centre's open yard, a long wooden table stood, hand-built by the boys from reclaimed wood and painted with fingerprints of every person who had walked through the doors since the flood.
They called it:
"The Harvest Table."
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On the first Saturday of spring, they held a celebration.
No permits. No press.
Just people.
The community brought what they had:
Pots of sadza, roasted peanuts, spiced stew.
Tins of homemade jam.
Loaves from the bakery with crusts that cracked like laughter.
Benaiah set fresh-picked flowers in washed-out tomato cans.
Chido decorated the napkins with tiny affirmations: You matter. You survived. You are soil and seed.
Tafara brought his sunflower in a clay pot, placing it in the center of the table like a crown.
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As the sun lowered, casting honey-colored shadows over the yard, Bonitah stood and raised her glass of mango juice.
No speech.
Just one sentence.
"This table is what happens when we refuse to quit."
Cheers echoed.
Claps followed.
Some wept quietly.
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They ate.
They danced.
They told stories.
Not of the flood—but of the rebuilding.
Of bread shared at dawn, of the first boy to say "I forgive," of the moment the garden sprouted again even when everyone thought it was lost.
And as night blanketed the sky, they lit candles and whispered the names of those who had walked so they could build.
"In their names," they said.help
And around that harvest table, grief and joy held hands like old friends reunited.
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Later, Benaiah stood beside Bonitah, staring at the flickering lights.
"Mama," he said, "do you think the people who hurt us would recognize us now?"
She smiled.
"They wouldn't even recognize themselves in us."
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And she meant it.
Because what stood now—this Centre, this table, this tribe—was not just a symbol of healing.
It was a declaration:
"We were broken.
We were buried.
But we grew back whole.
Together."
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