There is a kind of hunger that makes you weak.
And there is another kind—the one that kills your pride.
That second kind was the one that lived with me in Aunt Ezinne's house.
By then, I already knew the pattern of meals. Her children would eat first, always. They sat on stools, laughing, fighting over meat, complaining when the stew was too hot or too salty. I stood nearby, pretending not to watch, pretending the smell was not tearing my insides apart.
Sometimes, when they finished eating, Aunt Ezinne would scrape the plates into the bin. Other times, she left them on the table. Those moments became my only hope.
I learned to wait.
I waited until everyone had eaten.
I waited until the room grew quiet.
I waited until night swallowed the house.
Only then would I move.
My small body crept toward the plates, my heart pounding like I was committing a crime. I picked up the plates one by one, licking the remains quietly—grains of rice stuck to oil, pieces of soaked garri, bones already sucked dry.
That was how I survived.
One night, Chiamaka left half-eaten rice on her plate. I stared at it from across the room, my mouth filling with saliva. When the lights went off, I rushed to it, scooping the cold food into my mouth with my fingers. It tasted like heaven.
But heaven never lasts.
"What are you doing?" Aunt Ezinne's voice cut through the darkness.
She had been watching me.
Shame flooded me. My hands shook. Rice fell to the floor.
"You thief!" she screamed.
"So you're eating my children's leftovers now?"
She beat me with a plastic cane until my legs burned. Then she forced me to kneel till morning.
As I knelt there, stomach still aching, tears dripping silently, something inside me died. Not my hope—but my dignity.
From then on, leftovers became both my survival and my shame. I ate secretly, sometimes from the bin, sometimes from plates still smelling of saliva. I learned to swallow food fast, before anyone could see.
Once, a neighbor caught me licking a plate outside.
She looked at me with pity.
"Nwa m, have you eaten today?"
Before I could answer, Aunt Ezinne appeared and dragged me away.
"This boy likes to disgrace me," she said loudly.
"He eats anyhow like an animal."
Animals.
That word stayed with me.
At night, lying on the cold floor, I remembered how my mother used to break her food in half to share with me. I remembered how she smiled while watching me eat. Those memories hurt more than hunger itself.
Leftovers kept me alive.
But they also taught me something cruel:
When a child is starved of love, even scraps begin to feel like mercy.
And with each cold mouthful, I felt myself becoming smaller—quieter—less human.
This was Chapter Six.