The first morning I woke up in Aunt Ezinne's house, I did not know where I was.
I opened my eyes and stared at a cracked ceiling, listening to strange sounds—plates clanking, someone coughing, a radio playing a loud morning prayer. For a brief second, my heart lifted, thinking I was in my mother's room and she would soon call my name.
But then my body felt the cold floor beneath me.
Reality rushed back like a slap.
I sat up slowly on the thin mat near the kitchen. My back hurt. My eyes were still swollen from crying all night. I could hear Aunt Ezinne's children laughing inside the room, fighting over who would bathe first. Their voices sounded free, careless—the way children's voices should sound.
I stood up quietly and folded the mat the way I had seen my mother do. I didn't know what I was supposed to do next, so I just stood there, waiting.
Aunt Ezinne walked past me, tying her wrapper tightly around her waist. She didn't greet me. She didn't even look at my face.
"Why are you standing there like a statue?" she snapped.
"Don't you know work?"
I shook my head slowly.
She hissed.
"Useless child. Go and sweep the compound."
The broom she gave me was taller than me. As I dragged it across the dusty ground, the dust rose into my eyes and nose. My arms ached quickly, but I didn't stop. I was afraid of what would happen if I did.
Neighbors watched me from their doorways.
"Ah, poor boy," one woman murmured.
But nobody intervened.
After sweeping, she sent me to fetch water. The bucket was heavy. By the time I returned, water had spilled on my clothes. Before I could explain, the slap landed.
"Are you mad? Look at how you wasted water!"
My ears rang. I bit my lip to stop myself from crying.
That was the beginning.
From that day, I understood that this house had rules—but none of them protected me. There was no place for rest, no place for comfort. Only instructions, insults, and silence.
Food was another lesson.
When meals were ready, her children sat on stools and ate from plates. I waited until they finished. Sometimes she gave me leftovers. Sometimes she didn't. When I asked quietly if I could eat, she replied:
"Did your father send food money?"
I didn't even know where my father was.
At night, I slept on the floor again. Mosquitoes feasted on my skin. When I scratched, she shouted that I was disturbing everyone. I learned to endure itching, hunger, and pain quietly.
I missed my mother with a pain that felt physical. I missed the way she called me "Nwam". I missed how she shared her food even when she had little. I missed being important to someone.
One evening, while washing plates, I dropped one accidentally. It shattered.
The sound froze everyone.
Aunt Ezinne rushed out, fury blazing in her eyes.
"You want to destroy everything in my house?"
She beat me with a plastic cane until my legs trembled. Her children watched silently. Nobody stopped her. When she finished, she said:
"If you break anything again, I'll send you back to the village."
I didn't know where the village was. I only knew it sounded worse.
That night, curled on the floor, I finally accepted the truth my heart had been resisting:
This was not my home.
This was not my family.
I was not loved here.
I was just a child living in a house where kindness had no room for me. And as sleep slowly took me, one thought stayed with me, heavy and sad:
I had survived losing my mother—but now I had to survive living without love. 😭