Chapter 2 The weight of silence

The day I turned twelve, Baba didn't remember.

Not my age. Not my name. Not even that it was a Thursday and my school principal had just called him to say I'd won a regional writing competition.

The competition had been hosted by an NGO that encouraged "youth empowerment through storytelling." I didn't enter it thinking I'd win. I entered it because I had a story to tell - and because Miss Remi had practically shoved the form into my hands with a stern look that said, "You owe this to yourself."

The story I submitted was called "Rain After Fire." It followed a girl named Nneka who watched her house burn down with her mother inside and had to rebuild her life in a new town. The girl learned to use writing as her voice - even when nobody around her cared to listen.

It wasn't subtle.

When the results were announced, I was in the back of the classroom, copying notes from the chalkboard. Miss Remi came in, holding a letter like it was made of gold leaf. She read it out loud in front of everyone. I had come second place - the only student from our entire district to even make the finals.

They gave me a certificate. And a brown envelope with ₦20,000 in cash.

That evening, I walked home faster than I ever had before. The money was tucked safely between my schoolbooks, my shoes worn and dusty, my heart beating with something I hadn't felt in a long time: pride.

Chika met me at the compound, her eyes lighting up when she saw the certificate. "Ezi! You did it!"

"I want to use some of the money for WAEC," I whispered. "And maybe keep a little for-"

She grabbed my hand, "-For jollof rice and cold Coke! Just for tonight. Please. Let's celebrate."

It was the first time in months we cooked without fear of Baba storming in. We laughed as we stirred the pot, and I even danced when Chika sang an old P-Square song out of tune. We hid the envelope under my mattress. It felt safe there. Like hope hidden beneath hardship.

But hope doesn't stay hidden for long.

That night, Baba came home drunk again. He reeked of burukutu and cheap cigarettes. We were clearing dishes when he kicked the bowl of water across the room.

"What are you two laughing about, eh?" he slurred.

Chika froze. I stood slowly, my hands still wet.

"I won a writing competition," I said carefully. "From school. They gave me some money-"

His eyes narrowed. "Money?"

"Yes, Baba. I put it under the mattress. I was going to tell-"

I didn't see his hand swing. I only felt the slap explode against my cheek, followed by the sting of tears I refused to let fall.

"You stole it!" he shouted. "Who would give a girl like you money for writing lies? You think you're better than me, eh? You want to shame me?"

"No, Baba. I swear, I didn't-"

He shoved me back. I hit the wall. Chika screamed.

He turned on her next, grabbing the broomstick by the door.

"Don't touch her!" I yelled, lunging forward.

I don't remember how long it went on - the shouts, the beatings, the broken plates. Only that when it ended, we were in our room, huddled together. Chika's arm was bruised. My lip was split. And the envelope under the mattress was gone.

I lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, my body aching in places I didn't know could ache. My mind wandered to the characters I had written - Nneka, the girl who rose after losing everything. Could I really be like her?

The next morning, Baba was gone. I packed my few books, a faded wrapper, and a pair of sandals. I left a note for Chika:

> I will come back for you when I can. I don't know how or when, but I will not leave you forever. I promise.

Then I walked away from the only home I had ever known.