Please subscribe to this channel to support our growth before we begin. Thank you. Where are you watching from? Drop your city in the comments. Would you still stand by someone everyone called mad if your whole future depended on it? The hall was hot and loud when the convoy stopped outside the small registry.

Ruth clutched her faded handbag in her stomach at the same time, breathing fast as whispers turned into laughter. The man by her side wore torn jeans, a ripped gray shirt, and a rope as a belt. People called him the mad man. Today he was her husband. Her wicked uncle, Mr.

Victor, stood near the door with two policemen and said loudly, “This foolish girl wants to marry a mad man. Let the town see her shame.” The registar cleared his throat, ready to cancel everything. Until three black SUVs rolled in, and a man in a clean suit jumped out, rushing straight toward the mad man. He did not look at the crowd. He looked only at the man by Ruth’s side, and then he bowed.

Sir, the man said softly, eyes lowered. The board is waiting. The time has come. The hall went silent. The madman lifted his head slowly. His voice, usually rough like gravel, was now steady and clear. He took a step forward and the rope belt slipped, falling to the floor. Beneath the torn shirt, Ruth could see a glimpse of a fine white vest, clean and new. The registars’s pen froze. Mr.

Victor’s smile cracked. Everyone leaned in. Who exactly was the man? everyone mocked. “Subscribe and tell me where you’re watching from while we dive in,” I said. Then we go back to the beginning. She was in her third year at the university when tragedy tore her life into.

Ruth Daniels had a father who repaired radios and a mother who sold bright fabric at the roadside. They were not rich, but they were kind. Then the call came one rainy afternoon. A truck skidded. A small bus flipped twice. The day bled into night. By morning, both parents were gone. Mr. Victor, her father’s younger brother, came with a fake smile and quick hands.

“Don’t worry, we will handle everything,” he said, already collecting keys. He sold the shop for safety, took the house papers for protection, and moved Ruth to the small room at the back of the house, the one they use for old tools. He locked the main rooms and said, “You have no share. Your father owed me. If you step out of line, I will show you the paper.

” Ruth cried until her throat burned, then wiped her face and went to class because missing exams would not bring her parents back. At night, she worked at a canteen near the junction, carrying plates, washing cups, and wiping tables while her eyes tried to stay open. That was where she first noticed him. He sat near the gutter under a neem tree, humming to himself.

His hair was rough, his clothes torn, and his sandals had no straps. The children called him lion because he stared with yellow brown eyes that missed nothing. When they threw stones, he only put his hands together and bowed slowly as if saying, “I forgive you.” One evening, the sky turned purple and the transformer exploded with a pop. People shouted.

Ruth stumbled and dropped a tray. A piece of bread fell near the gutter. The man in rags scooped it up, dusted it gently, and placed it back on the tray without touching anything else. “Your hands are shaking,” he said in a low voice. “Drink water. You have not eaten since morning.” Ruth stared.

He was right. Thank you, she whispered. She passed him a fresh roll hot and soft for you. He nodded and broke it into two, leaving half for the night. When he ate, he chewed slowly, eyes half closed, as if tasting not just bread, but peace. Days turned into weeks. Ruth started leaving small food for him after work.

A spoon of yam porridge, two slices of plantin, a little stew wrapped with bread. He never begged. He only said, “Thank you. I will return the kindness.” Once she tried to give him money, but he shook his pet. Keep it. Your school needs it. She laughed sadly. “My school needs more than my pocket can carry.

” He looked at her face the way a doctor checks a patient. “You will finish,” he said softly. “And your hands will build something your father will be proud of.” He said her father would be proud, as if he knew the man. She wanted to ask how, but then a loud horn blasted and the canteen Andy called her name, so she ran back inside. Later that week, Mr.

Victor came at night and threw her clothes into the corridor. “You will pay me rent for this room,” he said. “Or leave.” Ruth begged. “Uncle, I am still in school.” He smiled with mean teeth. “That is not my problem.” From that week, she slept with her bag under her head, ready in case he changed the lock. One evening, she had to walk home late.

Three boys from the street followed, laughing and making ugly jokes. When she began to run, her sandal broke. One boy grabbed her bag. Before she could scream, a shadow moved. The man the town called mad stepped between them and Ruth, silent as midnight. He did not shout. He only looked at each boy one by one with those yellow brown eyes. The boys froze.

The biggest one tried to push him, but his hand dropped as if it had met a wall. Something about the man’s stillness told them danger. They ran off, muttering. Ruth fell to her knees. “Thank you,” she said, breathing fast. The man crouched so they were the same height.

your sandal,” he said and fixed the strap with a quick twist of his fingers. “Held,” she blinked. His hands were rough but steady. The kind of hands that have done real work. As he stood, he offered her his arm like a gentleman. “My name is Leo,” he said. “What is yours?” Ruth was surprised he could speak so clearly. “Ruth,

” she said. He repeated it as if tasting honey. “Ruth.” From then on, she saw Leo everywhere. Near the transformers when they sparked at the canteen when the generator coughed. Outside the pharmacy when a mother cried because her baby had fever. He seemed to know the right wire to touch, the right word to say, the right time to be near.