Chapter 1: Return Home

The Return to the Village

The bus groaned to a halt, its engine spluttering as though it was also exhausted from the long journey. Elsie stepped out, her boots sinking into the dirty Ekulu road. The village stretched out before her; its familiar smells and vistas drenching her with memories. But this was no triumphal homecoming. The air throbbed with judgment, and the eyes of the villagers cut into her like knives.

"Look at her," a woman taunted, her voice ringing out across the square. "The great Elsie Cole, brought low."

Elsie kept her head low, pretended she didn't hear, her heart bearing the burden of shame. She was no longer the proud and elegant woman who had left the village years earlier. She was broken, brought low, and weighed down by her mistakes. Her children clung to her, their tiny hands on the frayed ends of her skirt, their scared faces contorted in confusion.

"Mama, why are they insulting you?" Emmanuel, her eldest, asked, trembling.

Elsie shook her head, tears rising to her eyes. "Don't listen to them, my son," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "They don't know."

But she did know. She had brought this on herself. Greed and ambition had blinded her, and now she was paying the price.

As she walked through the village, the rumor grew louder, more bitter.

"She and her mother thought they were better than all of us in this village," a man scoffed, his tone laced with contempt. "How the mighty have fallen! Look at her now, humbled. A lizard who defiled her own mother's funeral. Let her be punished by burying her mother alone."

Elsie gasped for breath, and she hurried on, dragging her children behind her. The words stung more than she'd care to have admitted. Her mother's funeral—the final crushing blow in a series of misfortunes—was still etched vividly in her memory. She had buried her mother alone, with no help from the village, with no comfort of friends and kin. Her thoughts kept going back to the day, always reminding her of her shortcomings.

"Mama, why are they so mean?" her youngest child, Ada, inquired, her voice small and frightened.

Elsie stopped in her tracks and got on her knees, cupping Ada's face in her hands. "They don't understand, my love," she said, her voice trembling. "But we will be strong, okay? We will get through this together."

Ada's eyes were wide with trust, and she nodded, but Elsie's heart ached. How could she protect her children from the hardness of the world when she herself could barely keep herself safe?

They continued down the village path, the onlookers closer, the rumors louder. There was a huddle of women at the edge of the path, their arms crossed, their faces twisted with disdain.

"Look at her," one of them jeered, her voice cruel and taunting. "She thought she was too good for us, and now she comes crawling back, begging for scraps."

Elsie's fists clenched, but she forced herself to keep going. She couldn't afford to have an outburst, not with her children to think about. But the words stung, each one a fresh throb on her already battered spirit.

"Mama, I'm scared," Emmanuel whispered, his hand clenching hers.

Elsie gripped his hand tightly, her heart breaking at the fear in his voice. "I know, my brave boy," she whispered. "But we are strong, remember? We will get through this."

As they approached her father's compound, the crowd began to thin out, but the whispers followed her like a ghost. She sensed their eyes upon her back, their judgment burning into her skin. But she kept her head held high, her shoulders set, refusing to let them crack her.

When they finally reached the compound, Elsie stalled, taking a deep breath. This was it. The home she knew, now a last resort haven. She looked at her children, forcing a smile onto her face.

"We're home," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "Everything will be all right now."

But as she stepped through the gate, she couldn't help but think that the worst was yet to come.

Pa Nwoko's Disappointment

Pa Nwoko, Elsie's father, stood at the entrance of his compound with his arms folded across his chest. He looked disappointed as he watched his daughter return. He had heard the tales, the whispers of shame, and here he had to face the reality of her returning.

"Elsie," he said, his tone laden with remorse. "I warned you of the risks of greed. I advised you against your mother's bad counsel, but you would not listen. And see what has befallen you."

Elsie flinched at the words, but she said nothing. She kneeled before him, an attitude of submission, her head in shame. "I'm sorry, Papa," she murmured, her voice shaking. "I should have listened to you. I did a terrible thing. I have no defense."

Pa Nwoko relaxed with a sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping in relief from the weight of his shame. "You can stay here," he finally uttered, "but you'll have to fend for yourself. I will not live under the shame of subsidizing you."

Elsie nodded, her tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, Papa," she whispered, barely able to get the words out.

The Struggle for Survival

Elsie got up before dawn, her muscles stiff and aching from work the previous day. Her small room with her children was dimly lit, the only light coming through cracks in the mud walls. She sat up and became accustomed to the darkness, and she looked at her children. They were still sleeping, their small bodies curled up together on the thin mat they used as a bed. Ada's face was filthy, and Emmanuel's clothes were torn at the seams. They looked so peaceful, so pure, and yet they bore the marks of the life into which they had been born.

Elsie's heart ached as she looked at them. They deserved so much more than this—more than a life of hardship and poverty. But for now, this was all she could give them.

She slipped from the room quietly, not wanting to disturb them, and headed out to the small outdoor fire pit. The coals of the night's fire were still warm, and she blew gently on them, coaxing them to come alive. As the fire crackled and spat, she put a pot of water on to boil, her mind racing ahead to the day.

The villagers had made it very plain that they did not wish to have anything to do with her. They refused to buy from her, refused to employ her, and refused even to speak to her save to hurl abuse. But Elsie had no option. She had to feed her children, come what may.

As the water boiled, she heard a noise and turned to find Emmanuel in the doorway rubbing his eyes.

"Mama," he murmured with his voice still thick with sleep. "What are you doing?"

Elsie pasted a fake smile on her face. "I'm preparing breakfast, my good boy," she murmured softly. "Wake up your sister, okay?"

Emmanuel had nodded and stepped back into the room, and Elsie brought her attention again to the fire. She poured a scoop of dried peels from a yam into the pot, everything they had to eat. Not much, she thought, but it would simply have to do.

As she stirred the broth, she couldn't help but remember her mother. Mama Elsie was a fighter, a strong woman. She was ambitious and driven, and she had pushed Elsie to dream bigger, to reach higher than the village. But with ambition there was cost. Mama Elsie's greed had led them down a dangerous path, one that had cost them everything.

Elsie's fingers trembled as she remembered her mother's final days. Mama Elsie had been so thin, so weak, her once vibrant spark extinguished with guilt. She had begged for forgiveness, her voice trembling with remorse. "I was wrong," she had said to her, repeating it so many times. "I destroyed you. Forgive me."

Elsie had forgiven her, of course. How could she not? But the burden of her mother's mistakes fell on her shoulders. She had lost everything—her husband, her wealth, her pride, her identity. And now she was back in the village, struggling to remain alive, just as her mother had feared.

But Elsie was determined not to live her life through the same mistakes as her mother. She would start over, not for herself, but for her children. They were more than this, and she would do whatever it took to provide them with a better life.

As the yam peels softened in the pot, Elsie could hear people laughing behind her. She turned back to find Ada and Emmanuel playing around the compound, their faces smeared with dirt, their clothes loose on their skinny bodies. They were running round and round, their laughter filling the morning.

Elsie's heart contracted in love and tears as she gazed at them. So young, so vibrant, already they had known so much misery. She would not let them grow up like this, poverty-stricken, ashamed. She had to be able to give them something better.

"Mama, look at me!" Ada screamed, dancing round in circles with her arms held high. "I'm flying!"

Elsie smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. "You're my little bird," she breathed, her voice trembling. "One day you'll fly very far from here."

Emmanuel ran to her, his cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. "Mama, may we play a bit more?" he asked, his eyes aglow.

Elsie smoothed his hair and bent down to him. "Of course, my brave boy," she replied. "But first, we eat."

She poured the thinned peel of the yam soup into three small bowls and presented them to her children. They sat on the floor, smiling as they ate. It was little, but to them, it was a banquet.

As she observed them eating, her determination grew stronger. She was not going to let her children live this life of poverty. She would find a means of going back—not to the life of luxury and wealth that she previously knew, but to a life of respect and dignity. She would begin again, not for herself, but for them.

"I'll be back," she said to herself softly, her tone firm. "I'll return, and when I do, I'll be stronger than ever."

The Villagers' Mocking

With the passing weeks, the mocking of the villagers grew worse. They would group in small bunches, snickering and whispering as Elsie passed by.

"Look at her," one woman taunted, loudly enough for Elsie to hear. "She thought she was above this village, and now look at her. A beggar."

Elsie sat with her head hung low, shame weighing her down. She was desperate to cry out, to lash her words at them, but that would only bring hurt. So she focused every last bit of willpower she possessed on her children, those brief moments of joy they exchanged with her.

One evening, when she returned to her father's home, she saw Emmanuel waiting there. He stood holding a small bundle of firewood in his arms, a beaming look on his small face.

"Mama, I helped today," he said to her, displaying the firewood. "I gathered this for us."

Elsie's heart felt proud and sad. Her son, so young, was already attempting to take care of her. She went down on her knees and folded him into her arms.

"Thank you, my brave boy," she said softly, her voice full of tears. "You are my strength."

Emmanuel hugged her in return, his little arms encircling her neck. "I will always help you, Mama," he said solemnly. "We will survive this together."

She embraced him in her arms, her face streaming with tears. At that moment, she vowed to herself that she would do whatever it took to give her children a better life. No matter how tough the road ahead was, she would not leave them behind.

A Glimmer of Hope

Each day, Elsie's determination grew stronger. She worked around the clock, her hands calloused and her body weary, but she would not give up. She knew her children were relying on her, and she would not let them down.

She sat one night by the fire with her children and saw a spark of hope in Emmanuel's eyes. He had been watching her, learning from her resolve.

"Mama," he whispered, "someday, I will be strong enough to make you proud. I will be strong, like you."

Elsie smiled through her tears, her heart overflowing with love for her son. "You already make me proud, Emmanuel," she said, hugging him. "You are my hope."

As the blaze hissed and the night grew black, Elsie wrapped her arms around her children, her mind set with a resolute determination. She understood that what lay before them would be difficult, but she also understood that she had the strength to bear it. For the sake of her children, she could endure anything.