Mama's Sacrifice

Chapter 3

Long before the village birds stirred in their trees, and long before the sun's first rays kissed the dusty red earth of Umuokoro, Mama Nkechi was already awake.

The air was always cold at that hour, sharp against the skin, and silent except for the soft rustling of her wrapper as she moved quietly through the one-room house. She tied her headscarf tightly, slipped on her worn-out rubber slippers, and stepped out into the still-dark morning, where dew kissed her toes and prayers clung to her breath.

Every morning followed the same rhythm.

She would first light the small kerosene stove in the outdoor kitchen and boil water—some for soaking beans, some for a quick bath, and the rest to mix with garri or pap. Then she'd prepare the day's batch of akara (bean cakes) or moimoi to sell at the market. Her hands moved swiftly—measured scoops, rapid blending, controlled fire. Her body knew the rhythm even when her mind was still heavy with fatigue.

Mama Nkechi had not truly rested in years.

Her back ached constantly. Her hands were rough, calloused from washing clothes and pounding yam. Her voice, once soft and filled with music, now cracked easily—worn by years of shouting over noisy children, haggling in markets, and whispering prayers that no one else heard.

She did everything—everything—to keep her family alive.

When Obinna, her husband, had vanished years ago, he did not just leave with another woman. He left with their stability, their dignity, and the illusion of a secure future. Since then, she had become father, mother, provider, protector, and priest over her home. And the weight of all these roles settled heavy on her bones.

But Adaeze saw it all.

At first, she was too young to understand the depth of her mother's sacrifice. But as she grew—helping in the kitchen, fetching water before school, accompanying Mama to the local market—she began to notice. The cracked soles of Mama's feet. The way she tightened her wrapper around her waist to hide her hunger. The way she forced a smile even when they made just ₦300 in an entire day. The way she never bought herself new clothes, even though her blouses were faded and threadbare.

"Mama, don't you want to rest today?" Adaeze asked once, as they prepared for the market under the gray dawn.

Mama Nkechi only smiled faintly, pressing her daughter's cheeks.

"My child, if I rest, who will feed you? Who will pay for your school exam? I can't afford rest yet."

It was not bitterness in her voice—but a fierce love cloaked in weariness.

At the market, Mama sat on her low wooden stool with her basin of hot akara, calling out to passersby with an energy that surprised even herself.

"Hot akara! Freshly fried! Come and taste sweetness from heaven o!"

She would smile at customers, greet fellow traders, sometimes even crack a joke. But Adaeze saw behind the performance. She saw how Mama flinched when her knees locked. How she rubbed her back when no one was looking. How she sighed deeply every time she counted her earnings at the end of the day—always not enough, but always given with joy.

When they returned home in the evenings, Mama never complained. She would wash the utensils, prepare dinner for the children, sweep the compound, and still find time to help Somto with his reading. Only when everyone was asleep did she sit quietly by the window, staring into the night sky, her lips moving in silent conversation with God.

Sometimes Adaeze pretended to be asleep just to watch her mother in those moments—her eyes watery but strong, her face drawn yet peaceful. She looked like a woman carrying too many battles in silence, yet still choosing hope.

It was in those nights that Adaeze began to understand what true strength looked like—not the loud kind that shouted or threatened, but the quiet, sacrificial strength that bent but did not break.

Mama Nkechi never asked for much. She never celebrated birthdays, never went to the salon, never gossiped like other women in the village. She lived with purpose. Every kobo she earned was stretched like rubber to cover school fees, garri, palm oil, sanitary pads, and transport to the clinic. Sometimes, it was never enough. But somehow, she made it work.

One day, when Adaeze was sixteen, she returned home from school to find Mama collapsed on the kitchen floor, exhausted from heat and hunger. She had skipped breakfast and lunch again, giving all the little food left to the children.

Adaeze's heart shattered. She sat beside her mother, fanning her with an old newspaper, and whispered, "Mama, you are breaking yourself to build us."

Mama smiled through her weakness, touched her daughter's hand, and replied,

"If I break, but you all rise… then I will have lived well."

That night, Adaeze made a secret vow: "One day, I will give this woman the rest she deserves. One day, I will give her back everything she gave up for us."

Because no one loved like Mama Nkechi. No one carried sacrifice the way she did—with quiet dignity, relentless faith, and the kind of love that doesn't need to be spoken to be felt.