Chapter Sixteen.

At first, I thought Iya Abeni was strict because she was old—because life had made her hard.

But as time passed, I realized the truth.

She was not just strict.

She was wicked.

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A Slave, Not a Helper

The work became worse.

She no longer gave me small money for my labor.

"You eat my food," she snapped one evening when I asked about my pay. "That is enough!"

But what food?

The scraps she barely touched?

The watery soup that tasted more like sorrow than nourishment?

I had no choice but to endure.

She made me work from dawn until deep into the night.

If the farm work wasn't done, I continued under the moonlight.

If her wrappers weren't washed well, I had to start again—even if my fingers were raw.

Some nights, when she had visitors, she made me serve them while she watched from the corner, her sharp eyes inspecting every move.

"Don't let the plate break," she would hiss.

"If you do, I will break you."

And she meant it.

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The Beatings

The first time she hit me was because I spilled palm oil on her kitchen floor.

I had been carrying the small clay pot when my tired arms gave out.

The oil slipped, spilling across the room.

I knew—even before she turned around—that I was in trouble.

The first slap sent me crashing against the wall.

The second left a ringing in my ears.

By the time she was done, my cheeks were swollen.

My lips were bleeding.

"Useless child!" she spat.

"Do you think you are here to waste my things? If you don't work properly, I'll throw you into the streets where you belong!"

Tears filled my eyes, but I held them back.

Crying would not save me.

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A Life of Suffering

I tried my best to avoid her wrath, but it was impossible.

If the water I fetched wasn't enough—she beat me.

If I came back late from the farm—she starved me.

If she was in a bad mood—she took it out on me.

One night, after a long day of labor, I sat on the floor massaging my swollen feet.

She walked in, holding an old broom.

"Go and sweep the front yard," she ordered.

"But it's dark," I whispered. "I can't see—"

The broom landed on my back before I could finish.

"Are you mad?!" she screamed. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

I bit my lip, swallowed my pain, and picked up the broom.

I swept in the darkness—my heart heavy, my stomach empty, my body weak.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to escape.

But where would I go?

Who would take in a girl with no family, no money, no name worth rememb

ering?

I was trapped.

And deep inside, I feared…

If I stayed too long,

I would not survive.