Chapter Fifteen

The Price of Survival

Work.

Hard, backbreaking work.

That was the price I had to pay for survival.

The old woman—whom everyone called Iya Abeni—took me in. Not out of kindness, but because she needed hands to help on her farm. She was too old to do much on her own, and hiring real laborers cost money.

I was cheap.

Every day, I woke before the sun. My body ached from the cold night, but I forced myself up and followed her to the farm. The land wasn't far from the village, but the walk felt endless. My bare, cracked feet met sharp stones along the way. I winced with each step, but said nothing.

Complaining would change nothing.

When we reached the farm, she handed me a small hoe.

"Start weeding," she said.

The soil was dry—hard as stone in some places. My fingers blistered as I gripped the hoe. My palms burned from the rough wood. With every swing, sweat poured down my face. The sun was merciless, scorching my skin like punishment.

I looked at Iya Abeni, hoping for mercy.

She only pointed at the weeds still standing. "You are not done."

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to scream.

But I couldn't.

Because the moment I stopped working… I would stop eating.

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A Hunger That Never Ends

The pay was small—too small.

For all the hours I spent bent over that farm… pulling weeds, planting cassava, carrying heavy loads—Iya Abeni gave me only a few naira. Not enough for proper food.

Some days, she let me eat a little of what she had—leftover amala and watery ewedu soup, or just garri soaked in water. But most times, she reminded me that I had to fend for myself.

I tried saving the little she gave me, but hunger always won.

There were days when I had to choose:

Eat, or buy soap to wash my clothes.

Drink clean water, or find something to rub on my cracked feet.

The village children mocked me when I passed. Some threw stones. Others called me names like "omo radarada"—a useless child.

But I kept going.

Because I had no choice.

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The Washings

When farm work ended, my day wasn't over.

I had to fetch water from the stream, walking long distances with a heavy calabash on my head. My neck ached. My legs shook. But I moved forward.

I also washed Iya Abeni's clothes—her wrappers, her old blouses, even her bed sheets. My fingers turned white from scrubbing. My nails broke. My hands bled.

And all for a few more naira.

I watched village girls my age playing in the evenings. Their bellies full. Their laughter free.

They carried their mothers' baskets from the market, chatting about school, about dreams, about things I no longer allowed myself to think about.

I had none of that.

No school. No games. No future.

Just work.

And survival.

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The Nights of Regret

At night, I lay on the thin mat Iya Abeni gave me.

My body sore.

My heart heavier than the loads I carried.

I thought of Mama.

Would she have wanted this life for me?

Would she have told me to run? To find another way?

But where would I run to?

Who would take me in?

Tears slipped down my face, soaking into the old cloth I used as a pillow.

The darkness whispered a truth I tried to bury:

I was alon

e.

And in this world, no one would come to save me.

If I wanted to survive…

I would have to keep fighting.