The morning sun cast golden beams across the countryside, brushing the tops of banana trees, wild grass, and the wide, lush fields beyond. In a small village tucked between rolling hills and the gentle curve of a lazy river, Bibi stood barefoot in the garden behind her family’s house. Her hands were covered in soft brown dirt, and her wide-brimmed hat shaded her bright, determined eyes.
Today was a special day.
It wasn’t her birthday or a festival. It wasn’t even a holiday from school. But for Bibi, it was a day she had looked forward to all week—because today, she was going to harvest sweet potatoes all by herself and cook them for her dad.
Her father, a kind and quiet man with strong hands and a warm smile, had been working hard lately. He was a farmer, and during the rainy season, the work never seemed to end. Every evening, he returned home tired but cheerful, always greeting Bibi with a hug and asking her how her day went. He never complained. But Bibi could see the tired lines near his eyes and the way he moved slower than usual.
“I want to do something nice for him,” Bibi had told her mom a few days ago. “I want to cook sweet potatoes. He loves those, right?”
Her mom had smiled and nodded. “He loves them more when they come from you.”
So here she was, crouched in the soft earth, carefully pulling up the long, leafy vines. Sweet potatoes grow underground, like little treasures hiding beneath the soil. As she dug around the roots, she felt the thrill of discovery with each plump, reddish tuber she uncovered.
“Oh, this one is huge!” she exclaimed, holding it up with both hands. Her little dog, Tika, wagged his tail and barked in agreement.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, Bibi had collected a small basket full of sweet potatoes. Some were long and skinny, others short and round. All of them were speckled with dirt, but to Bibi, they looked like gold.
She carried the basket carefully into the outdoor kitchen next to the house. This was her favorite spot. It smelled like smoke and spices, and it had a clay stove her grandmother used to cook over when she was still alive. Her mom had taught Bibi how to build a small fire with dry sticks and coconut husks. Today, she’d do it herself.
She washed the sweet potatoes with water from the large rain barrel and scrubbed the dirt off with a coconut brush. As she rinsed them, she remembered how her dad used to roast them during cold evenings. They’d sit by the fire, the two of them wrapped in blankets, waiting for the smoky scent to fill the air.
But today, she was going to boil them. Soft, warm, and sweet. Just the way he liked them with a sprinkle of salt.
With the fire going and the pot of water bubbling on top, Bibi gently dropped in the sweet potatoes. As they cooked, she set the table on the porch—two small wooden stools and a mat laid out with a cup of tea for her dad. She even added a tiny flower from the garden in a jar, just to make it special.
The smell of boiling sweet potatoes filled the air, sweet and earthy. Bibi sat by the fire, humming a little tune, Tika curled up beside her. She imagined her dad’s face when he came home and saw what she had done. Would he be surprised? Would he smile that big, happy smile that made his eyes twinkle?
Finally, the sweet potatoes were done. She carefully used a spoon to lift them out of the pot and placed them in a woven basket lined with banana leaves. They were steaming hot and looked perfect.
Just then, she heard footsteps crunching down the path.
“Bibi?” her father called.
“I’m here, Papa!” she shouted, grinning from ear to ear.
He appeared from behind the papaya tree, carrying a hoe over his shoulder, his shirt soaked with sweat.
“What’s that smell?” he asked, sniffing the air. “It smells like… sweet potatoes?”
Bibi stood proudly beside the table. “I harvested them myself! And boiled them for you. Come sit! You have to try them.”
Her dad looked at the table, then at her, and his tired face lit up like the morning sun. He put down his tools and sat on the stool, glancing at the flower in the jar and the cup of tea.
“You did all this?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “All by myself. Just for you.”
He picked up a hot sweet potato, blew on it gently, then took a bite. The moment he did, a slow smile spread across his face.
“Mmm,” he said. “This is the best sweet potato I’ve ever tasted.”
“Really?” Bibi asked, her eyes wide.
“Really,” he said. “Because it was made with love.”
They ate together in the warm afternoon sun, laughing and talking. Her father told her stories about when he was her age, and Bibi told him about how she almost fell in the mud while pulling up the biggest sweet potato.
When the food was gone and only the flower in the jar remained, Bibi leaned against her father’s shoulder.
“Do you think I can make sweet potatoes again next week?” she asked.
He wrapped his arm around her. “You can make them whenever you like. And I’ll always be the happiest man in the world when I eat them.”
From that day on, “sweet potato day” became a regular thing in their house. Sometimes they roasted them, sometimes they mashed them with coconut milk, and sometimes they shared them with neighbors. But the best part was always the same—Bibi and her dad, sharing a quiet moment, made special by a simple act of love.
