A Lady So Faster

Everyone in the neighborhood called her “the lady so faster.” Not because she was rude or impatient, but because she moved like a gust of wind—quick on her feet, quick in her words, quick to be gone before you could catch her eye.

From the moment she stepped outside her front door in the morning, it was like she was already racing the sun. Her sandals barely touched the ground, and her hair, always pulled back in a tight bun, whipped behind her like a banner trailing a swift ship. You’d see her crossing the street in two strides, carrying her shopping bags as if they weighed nothing, and sometimes humming a tune that sounded more like a challenge to the world.

Her real name was Amina, but no one used it much. “Lady so faster” was easier, and somehow affectionate. It fit her, the way she zipped past the slow afternoons and long conversations, as if life itself were a race she was determined to win.

She wasn’t always this way.

Ten years ago, Amina moved into the neighborhood quietly. She wore loose dresses and soft smiles, spoke with gentle patience, and listened more than she talked. Neighbors noticed the way she paused to greet children, the way she watered her plants slowly, savoring each drop as if it were precious.

But then something changed.

Maybe it was the loss of her mother, or the job she’d taken to make ends meet. Maybe it was the sharp edge of loneliness or the weight of a promise she made to herself—Amina didn’t say. What was clear was that she began to move faster. Not just physically, but inside. Her thoughts raced. Her days filled up with endless to-do lists. Her heart beat to a tempo that left no room for lingering.

At first, the neighbors tried to keep up. They’d wave and call out, hoping to slow her down. “Amina! Wait, come have tea!” But she was already half a block away before the words reached her ears.

One afternoon, I decided to follow her. Just to see where the lady so faster went.

She darted through the marketplace, negotiating prices with sharp efficiency. She picked up bread and vegetables without hesitation. She smiled briefly at the old man selling dates but didn’t stop. She crossed the park, stepping over the cracks in the pavement as if they were hurdles in a race.

At the edge of town, she finally paused, sitting on a bench under a giant oak tree. She pulled a small notebook from her bag, flipping through pages filled with neat handwriting and scribbles. Then she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and for the first time that afternoon, she sat still.

That moment struck me. Beneath the rush, there was someone who needed stillness but was scared to admit it.

Days turned into weeks, and I watched her from a distance. The lady so faster, who once seemed invincible, was breaking down in quiet, hidden moments. I saw her wipe tears away when no one was looking, and I heard her whisper to herself, “Slow down.”

One evening, our paths crossed at the little café on Main Street. I finally said hello.

“You’re always moving so fast,” I told her gently.

She laughed, a sound both bright and sad. “It’s easier than stopping.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

She hesitated. Then, looking out the window, she said, “Because when I stop, I remember. The things I lost, the dreams I buried. When I move fast, I don’t have to feel those things.”

That was when I understood.

Amina wasn’t just running through life; she was running from the past, from grief, from memories that threatened to pull her under. Her speed was her shield.

But shields can crack.

Slowly, I encouraged her to pause more. To sit down with a cup of tea, to share stories, to let the silence fill the spaces between her breath. It wasn’t easy. The lady so faster resisted at first, afraid of what she might find if she stopped racing.

One day, she told me, “Maybe it’s time to stop being so fast. Maybe I’m tired.”

And in that moment, she was no longer the lady so faster but a woman ready to face herself—her pain, her loss, and her hope.

Now, sometimes when I see her, she still moves quickly, but there’s a new rhythm. She walks with purpose, yes, but also with moments of pause—moments where she looks up at the sky, listens to the birds, and lets the world catch up with her.

The lady so faster learned that moving quickly doesn’t always mean running away. Sometimes, it means racing toward a new beginning.