Night Without Food

Chapter 8: Nights Without Food

There are nights you never forget. Nights when hunger grips your stomach so tightly that it feels like it's eating you from the inside out. And no matter how hard you try to sleep, the emptiness gnaws at you, keeping you awake in a battle you know you can't win.

I remember one such night, a night so full of hunger that it became etched in my memory like a scar. It was during one of the toughest seasons for our family—one of those years when the harvest had failed, and our savings had long since dried up. The rains had been inconsistent, and the crops had withered on the fields. We had little to sell, and even less to eat. The struggle was real, and the weight of it felt unbearable.

I was no stranger to hunger. Growing up in Ogbabo Centra, a village where food was scarce and the demands of survival were endless, I had often gone to bed with an empty stomach. But this night felt different—more desperate, more painful. The sun had set, and the darkness outside was thick and oppressive. The stars, which normally offered a sense of comfort, seemed far away, distant from the struggles of those below.

That evening, our meal had been nothing more than a handful of boiled cassava, barely enough to satiate our hunger. My mother had tried to make the best of it, pairing the cassava with a small portion of palm oil to add flavor. But it wasn't enough. It never was. My siblings and I ate in silence, each of us too aware of the growing emptiness inside us to speak much. The silence in the house was deafening, a quiet reminder of the harsh reality we faced.

After dinner, we did what we always did—we went to bed. But sleep did not come easily. I tossed and turned, my stomach growling, my body feeling weak from the hunger. My mind kept racing, the sharp pangs in my stomach preventing me from drifting into any sort of peaceful rest. I could hear the faint sounds of my siblings as they tried to sleep, their bodies shifting restlessly, the same hunger weighing down on them as it did me.

That night, I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, consumed by the emptiness. The pain in my stomach was intense, but it was the hopelessness that hurt the most. It wasn't just the hunger—it was the realization that this was our life. For some of us, it felt like a cycle we couldn't break. There were days when I felt like we were stuck in a never-ending loop of survival, with no way out.

The frustration built up inside me as I lay there in the darkness, thinking about my parents, especially my mother. She worked tirelessly, doing everything she could to provide for us, yet the situation never seemed to improve. My father, too, did his best in the fields, but no matter how much he labored, it was never enough. I had seen the lines of worry etched into his face, his eyes growing duller with each passing day.

I thought of my younger siblings, who were still too young to fully understand the weight of the situation. They didn't know the pain of going to bed hungry every night, of waking up to the same hunger the next morning. They didn't yet understand what it meant to fight just to survive. But I did. And it crushed me.

In that moment of darkness, as I lay there with the hunger gnawing at me, a spark of something began to stir within me—a determination, a promise to myself. I could not live like this anymore. I could not accept this as the norm. This pain, this hunger, the constant battle to survive—it had to change. I would change it.

I didn't know how, and I didn't know when, but in that moment, I made a vow to myself: I would fight for something better. I would do whatever it took to ensure that one day, my family would never again go to bed hungry. It wasn't just about the food—it was about dignity, about the hope of a future where hunger wasn't a constant companion. I could no longer accept the powerlessness I felt in the face of our circumstances. Something had to give.

As I lay there, tears welling up in my eyes, I realized that this hunger was not just physical—it was spiritual. It was a hunger for change, for a life beyond mere survival. And that night, in the midst of my pain, I felt a seed of determination planted deep within me. It was the first time I truly understood that change would not come without a fight. But I was ready for it.

The next morning, when I woke up, I felt different. The hunger still clung to me, but now there was something else—a resolve to not let this be my future. I went through the day in a daze, but in my mind, the plan began to form. I couldn't keep working the fields and living this life of scarcity forever. I needed to find a way out, a way to create something better for my family.

I began thinking of ways to improve our situation. Maybe we could find a way to make money, something other than just farming. I began to explore other avenues—selling firewood, helping neighbors with small tasks, anything to bring in a little extra income. It was never easy, and many of my attempts failed, but the desire to change, to never again feel the sting of hunger, kept me moving forward.

Though the journey was long, I began to see small victories. A better harvest one year, a little more income from odd jobs, the chance to go to school for a while—all of these things began to add up. But it was that night of hunger that sparked something far greater than just a search for food—it sparked the desire for a different kind of life, one where my family's dignity would never again be overshadowed by hunger.

In the years that followed, I would face many more nights of struggle. There would be more hunger, more pain, more obstacles. But the memory of that night—the night I went to bed hungry and made a promise to myself—would continue to drive me forward. It reminded me that change begins with the individual, and that determination can transform even the darkest of nights into something hopeful.

And so, I carried that hunger with me—not the physical hunger that gnawed at my stomach, but the hunger for a better life, the hunger for change, the hunger to ensure that no one in my family, or anyone I loved, would ever again have to feel that pain. It was a hunger that would never be satisfied until I had achieved something greater—a hunger that would shape my every step, my every decision, and my every effort. And as the years passed, I realized that it was the hunger for change that would ultimately feed me not just in body, but in spirit.