Brothers and Battles

Chapter 2

Growing up as the only girl among six brothers was like learning to swim in a sea of fists, laughter, noise, and unexpected tenderness.

Adaeze was fifteen when she began to truly understand what it meant to be a sister in a house full of boys. Her days were filled with the scent of sweat, the constant sound of bickering voices, and the rhythm of feet running across the compound barefoot. She loved them fiercely—but it was not easy being the girl in a house that felt like a battleground.

Her brothers—Okechukwu, Chinedu, Emeka, Ifeanyi, Nonso, and little Somto—each carried a different version of their father's absence inside them. Okechukwu, the oldest boy, just two years younger than Adaeze, took it upon himself to act like the man of the house. He barked orders, stood watch at the gate when she went to the stream, and grilled any boy who dared speak too kindly to her in school.

But Okechukwu was still a boy himself, caught between the weight of responsibility and the ache of being fatherless. Sometimes he would sit on the back steps at night, head bowed, whispering to himself. Adaeze heard him once: "I'll make sure we don't suffer forever, Mama… I'll fix it."

Then there was Chinedu, the dreamer. Always lost in books borrowed from the missionary library, always scribbling poetry he claimed wasn't poetry. He was gentle and kind and believed the world could be better if people read more and fought less. Adaeze liked sitting near him when the house grew too loud. He reminded her that softness didn't mean weakness.

Emeka and Ifeanyi, the twins, were a storm. Constantly fighting—over food, over who got to fetch water, over whether Manchester United or Arsenal was the better team. They were mischief on legs but would break anyone's jaw if they saw tears in Adaeze's eyes. Once, a boy had pulled her scarf in the market. Both brothers found him the next day. He came back with a swollen lip and wouldn't look Adaeze in the eye again.

Nonso, the quiet one, spoke less but watched more. He was the one who noticed when Adaeze was hiding her torn sandals or skipping dinner so the others could eat more. He would silently place a bigger share on her plate, pretending not to notice when she looked at him with grateful eyes.

And Somto, the baby, barely six, was full of questions. He didn't understand why Papa never came back. He didn't understand why Mama's eyes stayed red at night when she thought they were all asleep.

The Nkechi family was poor—painfully, obviously poor. Their zinc-roofed house leaked during heavy rains. Their clothes were handed down so many times they were more patches than fabric. They shared one kerosene lamp at night and ate beans so often that Adaeze could count the stones in her plate before each bite.

But they had something many families didn't: love that was loud, chaotic, and relentless.

They fought over everything—whose turn it was to wash plates, who forgot to bring in the goat, who used Mama's soap without permission—but at the heart of it all was an unspoken bond forged in pain and shared survival.

Every morning, Adaeze woke up before the sun to sweep the compound, wash clothes, and cook what little they had. Then she would help Somto with his uniform, plait her own hair in quick cornrows, and rush to school, balancing her books on her head and her worries in her heart.

Sometimes, the shame of their poverty followed her like a shadow. At school, the wealthier girls wore matching socks and carried colorful lunchboxes. Adaeze carried groundnut in nylon. She didn't complain. But sometimes, when she walked past shops with mannequins dressed in neat blouses and shining shoes, she would feel something twist in her chest.

Still, at home, she was Queen—even if it was a kingdom of scraped knees, torn notebooks, and echoing stomachs. Her brothers teased her, protected her, and annoyed her to no end. But when she fell sick once from malaria, they all took turns fanning her, boiling herbs, and begging her to eat. Emeka even offered her his only pair of slippers.

It was not a perfect life—not even close. But it was theirs.

Sometimes at night, Adaeze would lie awake and listen to her mother's soft humming in the next room. Mama Nkechi would often sit by the window, her rosary in hand, whispering prayers over each of her children by name.

Adaeze didn't always understand the strength that held her mother together. But she felt it—every time Mama rose before dawn, every time she defended them from greedy landlords, every time she smiled after selling enough akara to buy a single packet of sugar. That strength stitched the family together.

And so Adaeze learned to fight—not with her fists, but with her resilience.

She fought to be seen in a world that only saw her family's poverty. She fought to remain hopeful, even when her dreams seemed impossible. She fought with her brothers, but also for them. And though she never said it aloud, she knew that one day, she would leave the village—not to escape—but to return stronger, ready to build something better.

Because deep down, despite the scars, despite the hunger, despite the loss, this chaotic, noisy, loving house had become her home.

And when love would finally come calling, it would not arrive like a stranger—but as something familiar, something safe—something that had been growing quietly all along.