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No name.
No love.
No future.

Born in a storm, raised in shame, and called the mad woman’s daughter, her life was marked before it even began. Mocked. Abused. Forgotten.

But within her grew a silent strength—a fire to rise, to fight, and to prove that even the most broken stories can shine.

This is a powerful tale of pain, survival, and unshakable hope.

The Mad womans daughter

I didn't wait for the morning. I didn't wait for a plan. I just ran.

The night was thick with silence, broken only by the sound of my bare feet hitting the dirt path. My heart pounded in my chest, fear rising with every breath. If Iya Abeni caught me, she would kill me.

She had beaten me for mistakes before. What would she do if she found out I had tried to escape?

The thought alone made me run faster.

By the time I reached the village square, my legs were weak, my throat dry. I had nowhere to go. No one to turn to.

I knocked on doors, hoping for kindness. Some people gave me leftovers—stale bread, half-eaten food. Others didn't even let me speak before slamming their doors.

A woman with a basket of yams hissed at me, her face full of disgust.

"Lazy child! Go and find work instead of disturbing people!"

I wanted to tell her I had worked. Hard. That my hands still carried the scars of all I had done. But what was the point?

When night came, I found myself back at the marketplace—the same place Mama used to search for food.

I curled up in a corner, wrapping my thin arms around myself for warmth. The cold night air bit at my skin, but I had no wrapper, no mat. Only the hard ground beneath me and the sky above me.

Some traders who were packing up eyed me suspiciously, but no one told me to leave. They had seen many like me before—children with nowhere to go, sleeping in the shadows of the market stalls.

Rats scurried nearby, fighting over scraps.

The scent of dried fish and rotting vegetables filled the air.

I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to make myself smaller, invisible.

Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them away.

I had learned long ago that crying did not bring food. It did not bring shelter. It did not bring love.

It only reminded me of how alone I was.

And as the darkness swallowed me, I wondered if this was all my life would

ever be—wandering, begging, surviving.

Chapter Seventeen