The night I turned sixteen, I celebrated alone with a piece of dry bread I bought with my last ten naira and a silent wish whispered into the darkness. I didn’t have a cake, not even a smile from anyone in the house. Aunt Bola’s daughters were out at a birthday party, their laughter echoing in my ears as they slammed the door behind them, leaving me to wash the mountain of plates from dinner. My palms were raw and my feet swollen, but that night, something inside me snapped quietly. I didn’t cry. I didn’t hope. I just sat in the corner of the small room where I slept beside the mop and bucket, and I stared at the wall like it owed me answers. The truth is, pain had become too familiar—it no longer stung, it just settled like dust. But deep down, even in that hollow part of my soul, a flame was burning. I just didn’t know yet how dangerous it would become. The next morning, I was up before the sun. I cleaned, I swept, I cooked, then I left for school with the same torn sandals and a heart heavy with unspoken words. Mr. Bello, my literature teacher, stopped me in the corridor. He was the only adult who ever looked at me like I mattered. “Zarah,” he said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder, “you’re gifted. Don’t let your circumstances define you.” That day, he gave me a form—an essay competition for underprivileged students. The prize was a full scholarship to any university in Nigeria. I held the form like it was gold. That night, while everyone slept, I wrote like my life depended on it. I poured every wound, every memory, every forgotten birthday and every hungry night into that essay. I wrote about being a shadow in a house that never called my name. I wrote about love that never came and hands that only knew how to beat or push away. I wrote until tears soaked the page. And I submitted it. Then I waited. Three weeks later, I heard my name announced over the assembly speaker. “Zarah Yusuf—please report to the principal’s office.” My heart raced. My hands trembled. I thought maybe they found out I’d used the house’s candle to write my essay or that I’d done something wrong. But when I entered the office, the principal was smiling. Mr. Bello stood beside him, tears in his eyes. “You won,” he whispered. “Zarah… you won.” That was the first time I felt my knees go weak from joy. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I’d won. A full scholarship. Freedom. A door out of my forgotten life. But when I got home and told Aunt Bola, her face changed. Her eyes narrowed. “So now you think you’re better than us?” she spat. “This is my house. You don’t make decisions without me.” That night, she locked the door and took the acceptance letter. She told me I wasn’t going anywhere. I begged. I cried. I even knelt. But she slapped me across the face and said, “You’ll leave this house in a coffin before you leave for university.” That night, I lay on the floor beside my broken hope and made a vow. I would leave. I didn’t know how, but I would. And I would never be forgotten again. Two days later, I ran. I took nothing but my ID card, a few clothes in a nylon bag, and the address of the scholarship office Mr. Bello had secretly written for me on a piece of paper. I left that house at 3 a.m. barefoot, walking for hours through empty streets, praying not to be caught, not to be dragged back. I reached the office just as dawn broke. I collapsed at the gate, too weak to stand. A woman found me and gave me water. That day, my life began to change. The scholarship board listened to my story. They called the school. They verified everything. And they accepted me—housing, feeding, education. Everything. I was finally free. But freedom came with guilt. I kept thinking of Mama. Did she know? Did she care? Did she even remember she had a daughter named Zarah? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I told myself I would never look back. But wounds don’t vanish just because the cage is gone. They bleed quietly. I slept in a new bed, but I still woke up reaching for a bucket to clean. I sat in classrooms with rich kids who didn’t know hunger, and I kept my head low, afraid to speak too loudly, afraid to be seen, because I wasn’t used to being noticed without punishment. But with time, I changed. I spoke. I learned. I excelled. I made friends who didn’t ask where I came from, only where I was going. And for the first time, I allowed myself to imagine love. Yes… love. Because in my final year, he came. A boy with soft eyes and a quiet voice. His name was Malik. He didn’t know my story. He just knew my smile. He said I had strength in my silence. He said my eyes looked like they had survived fire. And somehow, slowly, dangerously, I began to believe I deserved love too. But love has its price. And some wounds, no matter how deep you bury them, never stay buried forever.
To be continued……
Title :FORGOTTEN CHILD 2
Written by Real life stories
Do not copy or repost
F Agent for more
The night I turned sixteen, I celebrated alone with a piece of dry bread I bought with my last ten naira and a silent wish whispered into the darkness. I didn’t have a cake, not even a smile from anyone in the house. Aunt Bola’s daughters were out at a birthday party, their laughter echoing in my ears as they slammed the door behind them, leaving me to wash the mountain of plates from dinner. My palms were raw and my feet swollen, but that night, something inside me snapped quietly. I didn’t cry. I didn’t hope. I just sat in the corner of the small room where I slept beside the mop and bucket, and I stared at the wall like it owed me answers. The truth is, pain had become too familiar—it no longer stung, it just settled like dust. But deep down, even in that hollow part of my soul, a flame was burning. I just didn’t know yet how dangerous it would become. The next morning, I was up before the sun. I cleaned, I swept, I cooked, then I left for school with the same torn sandals and a heart heavy with unspoken words. Mr. Bello, my literature teacher, stopped me in the corridor. He was the only adult who ever looked at me like I mattered. “Zarah,” he said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder, “you’re gifted. Don’t let your circumstances define you.” That day, he gave me a form—an essay competition for underprivileged students. The prize was a full scholarship to any university in Nigeria. I held the form like it was gold. That night, while everyone slept, I wrote like my life depended on it. I poured every wound, every memory, every forgotten birthday and every hungry night into that essay. I wrote about being a shadow in a house that never called my name. I wrote about love that never came and hands that only knew how to beat or push away. I wrote until tears soaked the page. And I submitted it. Then I waited. Three weeks later, I heard my name announced over the assembly speaker. “Zarah Yusuf—please report to the principal’s office.” My heart raced. My hands trembled. I thought maybe they found out I’d used the house’s candle to write my essay or that I’d done something wrong. But when I entered the office, the principal was smiling. Mr. Bello stood beside him, tears in his eyes. “You won,” he whispered. “Zarah… you won.” That was the first time I felt my knees go weak from joy. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I’d won. A full scholarship. Freedom. A door out of my forgotten life. But when I got home and told Aunt Bola, her face changed. Her eyes narrowed. “So now you think you’re better than us?” she spat. “This is my house. You don’t make decisions without me.” That night, she locked the door and took the acceptance letter. She told me I wasn’t going anywhere. I begged. I cried. I even knelt. But she slapped me across the face and said, “You’ll leave this house in a coffin before you leave for university.” That night, I lay on the floor beside my broken hope and made a vow. I would leave. I didn’t know how, but I would. And I would never be forgotten again. Two days later, I ran. I took nothing but my ID card, a few clothes in a nylon bag, and the address of the scholarship office Mr. Bello had secretly written for me on a piece of paper. I left that house at 3 a.m. barefoot, walking for hours through empty streets, praying not to be caught, not to be dragged back. I reached the office just as dawn broke. I collapsed at the gate, too weak to stand. A woman found me and gave me water. That day, my life began to change. The scholarship board listened to my story. They called the school. They verified everything. And they accepted me—housing, feeding, education. Everything. I was finally free. But freedom came with guilt. I kept thinking of Mama. Did she know? Did she care? Did she even remember she had a daughter named Zarah? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I told myself I would never look back. But wounds don’t vanish just because the cage is gone. They bleed quietly. I slept in a new bed, but I still woke up reaching for a bucket to clean. I sat in classrooms with rich kids who didn’t know hunger, and I kept my head low, afraid to speak too loudly, afraid to be seen, because I wasn’t used to being noticed without punishment. But with time, I changed. I spoke. I learned. I excelled. I made friends who didn’t ask where I came from, only where I was going. And for the first time, I allowed myself to imagine love. Yes… love. Because in my final year, he came. A boy with soft eyes and a quiet voice. His name was Malik. He didn’t know my story. He just knew my smile. He said I had strength in my silence. He said my eyes looked like they had survived fire. And somehow, slowly, dangerously, I began to believe I deserved love too. But love has its price. And some wounds, no matter how deep you bury them, never stay buried forever.
To be continued……
Title :FORGOTTEN CHILD 2
Written by Real life stories
Do not copy or repost
F Agent for more
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