Chapter 11: School With Bruised Bones

Six months had passed since Mercy began selling sachet water at the market. The sun was merciless, the days long, and the earnings meager—but they endured. Every step she took through the crowded streets with a basin on her head and sweat running down her back was a silent prayer. A prayer that one day her children would have the life she never had.

Faith, her first daughter, never left her side. At just thirteen, Faith had taken on responsibilities that most adults would struggle with. She carried water, chased customers, counted coins, and wiped her mother's tears when the sales were bad. Every day, she watched her mother's body grow thinner and her spirit more exhausted, yet never did Mercy complain.

Then, one chilly morning in December, Mercy placed the old plastic bowl down on the floor of their one-room shack. Her hands were shaking as she removed a bundle of crumpled naira notes tied together with a rubber band. Faith looked up from the pot she was cleaning.

"Mama?" she asked quietly.

Mercy smiled for the first time in weeks. "We've saved enough. You will stop hawking."

Faith's eyes widened. "Mama, really?"

"You, Anita, and Daniel will start school. A small one... but a school nonetheless."

Faith dropped the pot and rushed to hug her mother tightly, her chest heaving with gratitude. "Thank you, Mama. I promise... we will not disappoint you."

The very next week, Faith enrolled all three of them—herself, Anita, and Daniel—into a local community school. It was the kind of school where the walls had cracks and the blackboards were more white from chalk dust than black, but it was school. A place where dreams could still take their first breath.

On their first day, Faith helped Daniel button up his oversized shirt while Anita held their worn-out lunch bag. They didn't have matching uniforms. Their sandals were handed down from a neighbor's cousin, and their books were second-hand—but their hearts were full.

As they walked together down the dusty road, Mercy walked behind them, carrying her basin for the market. Each child held one of her fingers, their heads high like they were royalty. People in the neighborhood looked on with surprise. The woman whose husband had abandoned her, whose story had become a tale of pity, was walking with purpose.

"Mama," Daniel said, his tiny hand squeezing hers, "when I grow up, I'll build you a big shop. You won't carry water again."

Mercy smiled through tears. "Just go and learn, my son. Make me proud."

At school, the reality was far from kind. Some children laughed at their clothes, some mocked Daniel's small size and his sickly look. One boy even whispered, "That one won't last long. My mum said he's the sickler."

Faith heard it, and though her heart sank, she pulled Daniel closer and told him, "You are stronger than they know. Just keep learning."

Faith, despite her own pain, guided her younger siblings through every class. She made sure Anita understood her multiplication tables and helped Daniel learn his alphabets. After school, they would all sit together at the corner of their small room, doing homework while Mercy stirred a pot of watery soup over a charcoal stove.

Some days, Mercy would come home with bruised feet or empty hands, and Faith would pretend she wasn't hungry so her younger ones could eat. Mercy noticed but said nothing—her heart already bore too many wounds to add another.

Meanwhile, David had not called in months.

He had fully turned his back on them.

Even though he was also now struggling, he had the support of his elder brother James and his new wife Sarah. They gave him shelter, food, and company. But not once did he ask about Faith, Anita, Daniel, or Mercy. To him, they had become shadows in a past he wanted to forget.

Back at school, Daniel grew weaker with each week. He often had pain in his joints and cried silently during lessons. But he never missed school. Not once. "I have to learn," he always told Faith. "If I don't, who will take care of Mama?"

One day, after a long walk to school, Daniel collapsed in the middle of morning assembly. Faith screamed and rushed to hold him, his body cold, his breath shallow. The headmaster ordered them to take him home. With no money for a hospital, Mercy wrapped Daniel in a warm cloth and sat by his side all night.

He survived.

Barely.

The next morning, he got up, took his book, and said, "I still want to go."

Faith wanted to protest, but something in his eyes—something burning—silenced her. She hugged him instead and whispered, "Okay, but I'll carry your bag."

Those were the days Mercy feared the most. Days when her son fought battles his small body had no strength for. And yet he kept showing up.

School became more than just education. It became Daniel's war zone—and his sanctuary.

And through it all, bruised bones and all, he never gave up.