Chapter 4 House of voices

The next morning, I started walking before the sun rose. The air was thick with early heat and the scent of wet dust. I had no idea how far Agege was from where I slept, but Ifeoma's voice had stuck with me - calm, clear, sure.

I held her card like a lifeline, checking it every few minutes as if it might disappear. My legs ached. My sandals wore thin. I ignored the okadas that hissed past me like insults. I had no money for transport, but I had something more dangerous in Lagos - determination.

I reached the centre just before noon.

It was a faded building tucked between a church and a hair salon. A peeling signboard read The House of Voices: A Home for Healing and Hope. My throat tightened. Healing? Hope? I wasn't sure I had the strength to believe in those words anymore. But I climbed the steps anyway.

The woman at the front desk raised a brow as I entered. She had tight braids and wore glasses that slid halfway down her nose.

"I'm here to see Ifeoma," I said softly.

She looked me over once, her eyes pausing at my worn clothes, then nodded. "Sit. She'll be with you shortly."

The room smelled like antiseptic and lemon polish. I sat on a wooden bench next to a girl about my age, her feet swinging nervously. She had a scar across her cheek but eyes that still shone.

"First time?" she whispered.

I nodded.

"I'm Joy," she said. "They call me chatterbox here, but don't mind them."

I smiled faintly. I liked her already.

Before I could reply, Ifeoma entered the room. She looked different in a plain blue blouse, but her posture was the same - upright, confident, warm.

"You came," she said.

Something inside me softened.

"I walked," I whispered. "From Ketu."

Her eyes widened slightly, then she smiled. "Then you're stronger than most people already."

She led me into a small office with mismatched chairs and a shelf filled with books. Real books - Toni Morrison, Chimamanda, Buchi Emecheta. My heart leaped.

"I'll ask you three things," she said, sitting across from me. "Where you came from. What you need. And what you dream about."

The room fell silent.

I told her about Mama. About Chika. About Baba's anger and the writing contest and the envelope under the mattress. I told her about sleeping on concrete, eating groundnuts like gold, and crying in silence.

She listened without interrupting once.

When I finished, she asked, "What do you need?"

"A place to sleep," I said. "And maybe a pencil."

Her lips twitched. "And your dream?"

I paused.

"To become someone Mama would be proud of," I said. "To write stories that make people feel seen."

She nodded slowly. "You're not the first girl to walk in here carrying more weight than food. But you came with fire too - even if you don't feel it yet."

That night, I was given a bed.

A real bed. With a pillow. A thin mattress. Sheets that didn't smell of fear.

In the bunk above me was Joy. She talked nonstop as we arranged our things - about how she'd run away from a forced marriage at fifteen, how she wanted to be a radio presenter, how she once slapped a boy for calling her bush.

"I talk too much," she laughed. "But better to be loud than buried."

She didn't ask me to talk. She didn't ask about my past. She just welcomed me like I belonged. And for the first time in weeks, I did.

Over the next few days, I learned the rhythm of the centre.

Morning chores. Breakfast. Group therapy. Afternoon classes - sewing, computer basics, business training. Ifeoma made sure every girl learned something she could use.

But my favourite hour was after lunch - when we had expression sessions. Girls could dance, paint, sing, cry. Or write.

I wrote.

At first, only a page or two. Then entire short stories. I wrote about rivers and women and broken girls who stitched themselves back together. I wrote about Mama, though I never named her. I wrote about the silence that eats you from the inside. And then, the words that bring you back.

One day, I read aloud.

It wasn't planned. Joy dared me to. I stood, shaking, my fingers gripping the notebook.

When I finished, the room was quiet. Not heavy, but full.

Then someone clapped. Then another. Then everyone.

Ifeoma stood at the back, nodding. Her eyes were shining.

"You have more than a voice, Ezinne," she said. "You have fire."

And just like that, something shifted. I was no longer the girl by the gutter. I was a girl rebuilding.

Word by word.