Chapter Twenty-four.

A Road of Thorns

She walked.

Through dusty paths, past quiet streams and sunburnt farmlands, beyond the corners of the village that had once been her entire world. The morning sun rose gently, but it did not stay gentle for long. By midday, it pressed down on her skin like punishment.

She had no food, no water, and no destination.

But she had a choice.

And that was more than the woman in that house had offered her.

Each step away from the village felt like shedding old chains. But it also felt like entering a desert with no promise of water. The people she passed looked at her with narrowed eyes. Some stared too long. A few whispered behind her back. But no one asked her anything. No one offered a drink. No one asked if she was alright.

By the time the sun was directly overhead, her strength had nearly given up. Her legs throbbed, her lips cracked from dryness, and the hunger in her belly felt like an angry drum. She stumbled to the base of a tree by the roadside and collapsed in its shadow.

"Will I die like this?" she thought bitterly.

She pressed her back against the tree trunk, clenched her jaw, and refused to cry.

Then—footsteps.

She opened her eyes.

A woman was standing before her, older than Iya Abeni but with softer eyes. She wore a faded wrapper and balanced a wide basket on her head. The woman didn't speak immediately. She just looked at the girl with a gaze that seemed to search her story without a single word spoken.

"You're far from home," she said at last.

The girl hesitated. "I have no home."

Something in the woman's face shifted. Not pity, but memory. She slowly lowered the basket from her head, unwrapped a cloth from the top, and pulled out a small piece of roasted yam. She handed it to the girl without fanfare.

"Eat."

The girl's hands trembled as she reached for it. She had not eaten since the night before. The yam was still warm, and as she bit into it, the heat spread through her chest like comfort. She chewed slowly, her eyes stinging.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The woman sat down beside her on the dusty ground. She didn't ask questions. She didn't talk about the past. She just sat. The silence was more comforting than words.

After a while, the woman spoke again.

"There's a village not far from here. You might find work there. But it won't be easy."

The girl looked at her. "What kind of work?"

The woman exhaled. "Farms need hands. Some women want girls to help with their children or house chores. But people will test you. They won't trust you. They'll make you suffer before they let you stay."

The girl looked down at her bare feet, crusted with dust. Life had never been easy. It had always been a road of thorns.

But she was still walking.

"I will go," she said quietly, but firmly.

The woman gave a small nod.

"Follow the road until you see a broken palm tree. Turn left. Walk until you find the first group of huts."

The girl nodded, then paused. "Why are you helping me?"

The woman looked at her for a long moment, then gave a faint, sad smile.

"Because once, I was like you."

She stood up, lifted her basket back onto her head, and turned to leave. Her steps were slow but steady.

The girl watched her go. Something warm stirred in her chest—not just from the food, but from the kindness. From the knowing look. From the reminder that not everyone in the world wanted something in return.

Maybe—just maybe—there was good in the world.

Maybe she didn't have to become like the others to survive.

Maybe survival could still carry dignity.

She stood, brushed the dust from her legs, and followed the road.

Her feet still ached.

Her future was still uncertain.

But her heart was no longer empty.

She walked forward—toward a village she didn't know, toward work that might break her body, but not her spirit.

Beca

Use she was no longer running.

She was choosing.

And that made all the difference.