“I was given food at the back door for ten years, not knowing that the girl they called ‘orphan’ would one day own the school.”
My name is Amarachi.
When I was six years old, I lost my parents to a fire. Our landlord said, “Your people are cursed. I can’t keep the daughter of a witch.” So, from Owerri to Port Harcourt, I lived under a bridge. I begged for food.
One morning, I saw a group of students wearing green uniforms entering a school: Royal Kingsway Academy. Their food smelled like glory. So I waited by the back door. A woman—the kitchen cleaner—passed me a nylon bag of jollof rice.
That became my routine. Every lunch hour, Mama Risi would sneak me leftovers—sometimes bones, sometimes breadcrumbs, but always with kindness.
I sat on a rock behind the school wall, listening to lessons through the cracks. I memorized poems and answered math questions aloud. They called me “Radiohead.”
One day, a teacher overheard me recite Shakespeare from the other side of the fence. He asked, “Who is she?” I ran away.
The next day, he brought me books, a notebook, and a pencil. In a low voice, he said to Mama Risi, “Start letting her sit at the back of Classroom 3. No one has to find out.”
So I started attending school unofficially—barefoot and invisible. After class, I swept the classrooms and mopped the hallways with Mama Risi. But I never missed a class. Not even when malaria tried to stop me.
When I was seventeen, the director asked, “Who registered this girl? She’s not on our list.”
Mama Risi lied, “She’s my niece.”
They let me sit for the WAEC exam using their surname. I got eight straight A’s. No celebration. No pictures. Just me, under the handle, holding my result and crying.
Years of silence followed, as I prepared my place in the world.
A few missionaries gave me a scholarship to study business administration in the UK. I graduated with honors. I started a logistics company in Nigeria, then expanded into agriculture and education.
Ten years later, my company bought a property in Port Harcourt.
The address?
Royal Kingsway Academy.
The school was bankrupt—salaries unpaid, buildings in ruins. I said nothing during the negotiation. I just signed the check.
The former principal greeted me at the door with a forced smile.
“Madam CEO, welcome.”
I looked at him and said, “I used to sit behind that wall… with jollof in a nylon bag.”
His smile faded.
We renovated every block, fixed every broken desk, raised teachers’ salaries, and invited the community to the reopening.
When the fabric on the new sign fell, gasps filled the air:
“Amarachi Risi Academy: Where Every Child Has a Seat.”
Mama Risi was by my side, crying like a baby.
I whispered, “They gave me bones. I made them a throne.”
Today, hundreds of students—some orphaned, some abandoned—study for free at our school.
No child eats alone.
No child learns outside a fence.
Because sometimes, the girl who was fed through a hole in the wall…
Comes back to buy the whole building—
and feed generations.
My name is Amarachi.
When I was six years old, I lost my parents to a fire. Our landlord said, “Your people are cursed. I can’t keep the daughter of a witch.” So, from Owerri to Port Harcourt, I lived under a bridge. I begged for food.
One morning, I saw a group of students wearing green uniforms entering a school: Royal Kingsway Academy. Their food smelled like glory. So I waited by the back door. A woman—the kitchen cleaner—passed me a nylon bag of jollof rice.
That became my routine. Every lunch hour, Mama Risi would sneak me leftovers—sometimes bones, sometimes breadcrumbs, but always with kindness.
I sat on a rock behind the school wall, listening to lessons through the cracks. I memorized poems and answered math questions aloud. They called me “Radiohead.”
One day, a teacher overheard me recite Shakespeare from the other side of the fence. He asked, “Who is she?” I ran away.
The next day, he brought me books, a notebook, and a pencil. In a low voice, he said to Mama Risi, “Start letting her sit at the back of Classroom 3. No one has to find out.”
So I started attending school unofficially—barefoot and invisible. After class, I swept the classrooms and mopped the hallways with Mama Risi. But I never missed a class. Not even when malaria tried to stop me.
When I was seventeen, the director asked, “Who registered this girl? She’s not on our list.”
Mama Risi lied, “She’s my niece.”
They let me sit for the WAEC exam using their surname. I got eight straight A’s. No celebration. No pictures. Just me, under the handle, holding my result and crying.
Years of silence followed, as I prepared my place in the world.
A few missionaries gave me a scholarship to study business administration in the UK. I graduated with honors. I started a logistics company in Nigeria, then expanded into agriculture and education.
Ten years later, my company bought a property in Port Harcourt.
The address?
Royal Kingsway Academy.
The school was bankrupt—salaries unpaid, buildings in ruins. I said nothing during the negotiation. I just signed the check.
The former principal greeted me at the door with a forced smile.
“Madam CEO, welcome.”
I looked at him and said, “I used to sit behind that wall… with jollof in a nylon bag.”
His smile faded.
We renovated every block, fixed every broken desk, raised teachers’ salaries, and invited the community to the reopening.
When the fabric on the new sign fell, gasps filled the air:
“Amarachi Risi Academy: Where Every Child Has a Seat.”
Mama Risi was by my side, crying like a baby.
I whispered, “They gave me bones. I made them a throne.”
Today, hundreds of students—some orphaned, some abandoned—study for free at our school.
No child eats alone.
No child learns outside a fence.
Because sometimes, the girl who was fed through a hole in the wall…
Comes back to buy the whole building—
and feed generations.
“I was given food at the back door for ten years, not knowing that the girl they called ‘orphan’ would one day own the school.”
My name is Amarachi.
When I was six years old, I lost my parents to a fire. Our landlord said, “Your people are cursed. I can’t keep the daughter of a witch.” So, from Owerri to Port Harcourt, I lived under a bridge. I begged for food.
One morning, I saw a group of students wearing green uniforms entering a school: Royal Kingsway Academy. Their food smelled like glory. So I waited by the back door. A woman—the kitchen cleaner—passed me a nylon bag of jollof rice.
That became my routine. Every lunch hour, Mama Risi would sneak me leftovers—sometimes bones, sometimes breadcrumbs, but always with kindness.
I sat on a rock behind the school wall, listening to lessons through the cracks. I memorized poems and answered math questions aloud. They called me “Radiohead.”
One day, a teacher overheard me recite Shakespeare from the other side of the fence. He asked, “Who is she?” I ran away.
The next day, he brought me books, a notebook, and a pencil. In a low voice, he said to Mama Risi, “Start letting her sit at the back of Classroom 3. No one has to find out.”
So I started attending school unofficially—barefoot and invisible. After class, I swept the classrooms and mopped the hallways with Mama Risi. But I never missed a class. Not even when malaria tried to stop me.
When I was seventeen, the director asked, “Who registered this girl? She’s not on our list.”
Mama Risi lied, “She’s my niece.”
They let me sit for the WAEC exam using their surname. I got eight straight A’s. No celebration. No pictures. Just me, under the handle, holding my result and crying.
Years of silence followed, as I prepared my place in the world.
A few missionaries gave me a scholarship to study business administration in the UK. I graduated with honors. I started a logistics company in Nigeria, then expanded into agriculture and education.
Ten years later, my company bought a property in Port Harcourt.
The address?
Royal Kingsway Academy.
The school was bankrupt—salaries unpaid, buildings in ruins. I said nothing during the negotiation. I just signed the check.
The former principal greeted me at the door with a forced smile.
“Madam CEO, welcome.”
I looked at him and said, “I used to sit behind that wall… with jollof in a nylon bag.”
His smile faded.
We renovated every block, fixed every broken desk, raised teachers’ salaries, and invited the community to the reopening.
When the fabric on the new sign fell, gasps filled the air:
“Amarachi Risi Academy: Where Every Child Has a Seat.”
Mama Risi was by my side, crying like a baby.
I whispered, “They gave me bones. I made them a throne.”
Today, hundreds of students—some orphaned, some abandoned—study for free at our school.
No child eats alone.
No child learns outside a fence.
Because sometimes, the girl who was fed through a hole in the wall…
Comes back to buy the whole building—
and feed generations.
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