Chapter 5 A voice that carries

Three months passed in quiet transformation. Not the kind that announces itself with fireworks, but the kind you only notice when you look back and realize you're no longer afraid of mirrors.

I was no longer the girl curled up behind BRT terminals. I was learning to sleep without fear, to eat without guilt, to speak without trembling.

And I was writing - more than ever.

Ifeoma encouraged me to submit one of my stories to a youth empowerment event sponsored by a women's foundation in Surulere. It was a regional summit - young women sharing personal narratives of struggle and growth. The theme was "Speak Loud, Stand Tall."

"I want you to represent the centre," she said, sliding the flyer across her desk.

"Me?" My voice cracked with disbelief.

"Yes, you."

I stared at the paper. Featured storytellers will perform original works live on stage.

"I'm not a performer," I mumbled. "I just write."

She leaned forward. "Your voice is more than ink, Ezinne. It's time the world hears it."

So I wrote a story called "The Day the Sky Didn't Fall." It was part fiction, part truth - a girl who lost her mother and was told to stay silent, but found her words hidden inside broken memories. I read it to Joy and the other girls. They cried. One girl, Uduak, hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.

"They need to hear this," she said.

The day of the event came faster than I was ready for. We took a bus to Surulere. I wore a borrowed dress and borrowed courage. The hall was bright and filled with people - mentors, donors, community leaders. There were cameras. Microphones. A banner with bold letters: HER STORIES MATTER.

When they called my name, my knees almost gave out.

I walked to the stage like someone walking a tightrope. The spotlight was warm. The mic trembled in my hand.

Then I began to speak.

At first, my voice was low. But then I remembered Mama's lullabies. Miss Remi's red-ink encouragement. Chika's bruised arm. Ifeoma's words: You have fire.

My voice rose.

I read about fear, about hunger, about sleeping with one eye open. I read about dreams hidden beneath mattresses. I read about how silence became my second language - and how I was learning a new one: truth.

When I finished, the room was silent. Not awkward - reverent.

Then came applause.

Not polite claps. Not sympathy. Real applause. The kind that wraps around your chest and tells you you are not invisible anymore.

People came up to me after - a woman from a publishing group who gave me her card. A university student who said my story felt like hers. A young girl who hugged me and whispered, "Thank you for saying it out loud."

For the first time, my story carried beyond the page.

But with the spotlight came shadows.

A week later, while scrubbing floors during chores, Joy came running into the room, breathless.

"There's a man outside," she panted. "He says he's your uncle."

My heart dropped.

"What did he look like?" I asked slowly.

She hesitated. "Tall. Dark skin. Greying beard. He asked for 'the writer girl who ran away.'"

Ice flooded my stomach.

Ifeoma was already speaking to him by the gate when I approached, carefully. He turned, and my knees locked.

It wasn't Baba - but it was someone who knew him.

Uncle Okey. My father's younger cousin. The one who'd once brought us akara on Christmas morning, before Mama disappeared.

He looked older. But his eyes were the same - sharp, scanning.

"Ezinne," he said flatly. "So this is where you ran to."

I didn't answer.

"You caused quite a stir back home," he continued. "Your father has been searching. Your sister cries every day."

A thousand emotions tore through me at once - guilt, anger, fear, longing.

"She's still there?" I asked. My voice cracked.

He nodded. "And not doing well. But you? You're reading stories on stage like it's a game?"

Ifeoma stepped in, her arms folded. "She's under my care now. If anyone harmed her before, they will not do so again."

He narrowed his eyes. "This is family business."

"No," she said firmly. "This is about safety."

He looked at me again. "Think carefully, Ezinne. Your voice may carry now, but not all ears that hear it will clap for you."

Then he turned and walked away.

I couldn't breathe.

That night, I sat alone outside the center. The city buzzed beyond the walls, but inside, I was quiet. Torn. I had found safety - but I hadn't truly escaped. The past was still watching.

Joy found me and sat beside me, handing me a bottle of water and a soft smile.

"Don't let ghosts make you silent again," she said.

I nodded, but my mind was already spinning with one word:

Chika.