Chapter Twenty-one

A Life of Struggle

Survival became my only purpose.

I had no home, no family, no one. I walked the village paths with tired feet, my belly aching, my throat dry, my heart heavy. I had begged before—oh, I had begged. I had endured the stares, the whispers, the spitting. People looked at me like I was dirt under their feet.

But now... now it was worse.

Because now, I was truly alone.

No one. Not even her—my mother. The one they called mad. The one who used to hold me close, muttering things no one understood. She was gone. Taken from me. Taken from this world.

I began sleeping in corners. Abandoned huts. Empty stalls at the market. Sometimes I curled up near firewood piles or beside walls that blocked the wind. When it rained, I had no choice but to stay out in it. Cold soaked through my bones.

Some days, a kind stranger gave me leftover food—burnt rice, old bread, pieces of boiled yam. On other days, I went to sleep with nothing. My stomach cried through the night, but the worst hunger was in my heart.

I missed her.

I missed her voice—even if it was strange. I missed the way she used to wrap her arms around me and whisper, "You're all I have." No one says that to me anymore.

I walked past houses and heard mothers laughing with their children. I saw girls my age playing with their siblings, calling out to their mamas, helping to stir pots of soup. And I would stand there, frozen, listening.

That wasn't my life.

One day, the hunger got so bad I could barely stand. The sun was hot, my head was spinning, and my feet felt like they didn't belong to me anymore. I wandered back to the market, drawn by the smell of food—roasted corn, fried plantain, and akara.

I saw a woman selling Akara under a shaded hut, gathered what little courage I had left, and walked up to her.

"Please," I said, my voice shaking, "I haven't eaten in days."

For a brief moment, her eyes softened. I saw it. A flicker of kindness. A human moment.

Then... it vanished.

She squinted at me and tilted her head. "You're the mad woman's daughter," she whispered.

I lowered my head.

That name. That curse.

She stepped back. "I don't have anything for you," she said, her voice suddenly hard, her eyes cold.

I nodded slowly and walked away, even though my legs begged me to fall. But I had cried enough. There were no more tears left.

That wasn't the first time someone rejected me. And it wouldn't be the last.

But not everyone was cruel.

There was an old man who roasted yams under a tree near the river road. Sometimes, when no one was watching, he would slip me a small piece—soft, hot, and smoky. He never said a word. He just gave me a look that said, "I see you."

And once, a girl about my age gave me bread. She hid it behind her back and passed it to me when her mother wasn't looking. She didn't smile. She just whispered, "Quick, before she sees." I whispered, "Thank you," but I don't know if she heard me.

Still, these moments of kindness were like brief sun rays in a long, endless night.

They fed my body for a moment—but not my soul. My soul was tired. My heart was heavy. The ache inside me was deeper than hunger. It was the ache of being forgotten.

I didn't want to beg forever.

I didn't want to survive like this—always hiding, always unwanted.

I wanted to work. Even if it was hard. Even if it paid next to nothing. I just wanted something to call mine. Something that would help me live with dignity.

Because I was tired.

Tired of being called names.

Tired of being pitied or feared.

Tired of being the girl everyone avoided because of who my mother was.

I am not her madness.

I am not h

Er shame.

I am just a girl, hungry for food… and hungry for love.

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