Hunger was the first thing that truly became my friend in Aunt Ezinne's house.
Not the kind of hunger that comes and goes, but the kind that stays—quietly, stubbornly—sitting inside your stomach like a stone. I was only five, but within weeks, my body began to understand what my heart already knew: food was not guaranteed in this house.
Every morning, I woke up before everyone else, not because I was diligent, but because hunger would not let me sleep. My stomach growled loudly in the darkness, reminding me that the night had passed without food. Sometimes, I drank water from the tap to deceive myself, the cold liquid filling my belly for a short while before the pain returned, sharper than before.
In my mother's house, mornings smelled of hope—pap boiling, akara frying, or bread warming over fire. Here, mornings smelled of smoke, soap, and impatience.
One morning, I stood quietly in the kitchen while Aunt Ezinne served her children pap with sugar and milk. I watched closely, my mouth watering, my eyes following every movement of her spoon.
When she finished serving them, she covered the pot.
I waited.
"Aunty…" I whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.
She turned sharply.
"What is it?"
"I'm hungry."
Her eyes narrowed.
"So?"
I didn't know what to say after that.
She handed me a cup of plain water.
"Drink this. Food is not free."
I drank it slowly, tears threatening to fall into the cup. Her children laughed and teased me.
"He drinks water like food!" Uche mocked.
I forced a weak smile, ashamed.
Later that day, she sent me to the roadside to sell sachet water. The sun burned my skin, and the nylon cut into my small fingers. When I returned with incomplete money, she refused to give me food.
"Did you think I sent you there for fun?" she shouted.
"No money, no food."
That night, hunger twisted my stomach so badly I couldn't sleep. I curled into myself on the floor, pressing my belly with my hands, whispering my mother's name like a prayer.
One afternoon, something small but painful happened.
A neighbor, Mama Nkechi, bought bread and shared it with children in the compound. When she handed me a piece, Aunt Ezinne appeared suddenly.
"Why are you begging?" she snapped, snatching the bread from my hand.
"You want people to think I don't feed you?"
She ate it in front of me.
That was the day I learned that humiliation could taste worse than hunger.
Sometimes, when her children left food unfinished, I waited until night and scraped the remains from their plates. I ate quietly in the dark, afraid of being caught. Once, she caught me.
She beat me and said,
"Thief! You want to steal my children's food?"
I didn't understand how leftovers could be stealing.
My body grew thin. My clothes hung loosely on me. Neighbors whispered, but no one helped. Teachers later complained that I looked weak, but Aunt Ezinne said I was pretending.
One night, hunger pushed me to do something dangerous.
I sneaked into the kitchen and took a small piece of garri. As I swallowed it dry, my throat burned, but I felt relief for the first time in days. Then I heard her footsteps.
She slapped me hard and locked me outside till morning.
I sat on the bare ground, mosquitoes biting me, tears rolling down my face. I wasn't crying only because of hunger—I was crying because I felt less than human.
In my mother's arms, I had never begged for food.
In this house, I learned to beg with my eyes, my silence, my obedience.
Hunger followed me everywhere—into sleep, into dreams, into every corner of my small life. It taught me patience, fear, and shame far too early.
And as I lay on the floor that night, weak and empty, I realized something frightening:
Hunger was no longer just a feeling.
It had become part of who I was.