By the time I turned seven, my body had learned pain the way other children learned play.
Pain woke me.
Pain followed me through the day.
Pain tucked me into sleep.
In Aunt Ezinne's house, beating was not punishment—it was routine.
Sometimes she beat me for things I did. Most times, she beat me for things I did not even understand. A broken cup. A missing spoon. A neighbor's complaint. Her anger always needed a place to land, and I was the easiest place.
One afternoon, while washing plates, my hands slipped. A cracked plate fell and split in two. The sound echoed loudly. My heart dropped.
I didn't run. I just stood there, shaking.
Aunt Ezinne rushed out like fire.
"You want to finish me in this house?"
Before I could speak, she grabbed a broomstick and beat me until my arms burned and my back screamed. I cried and begged, my voice breaking.
"Please, Aunty… I'm sorry…"
She beat me harder.
"Sorry won't buy another plate!"
Her children watched from the doorway, silent. No one defended me. When she finished, she pushed me to the ground.
"Pick it up with your bare hands."
Glass cut into my fingers. Blood mixed with tears.
That night, I slept hungry and bleeding.
Another day, she accused me of stealing meat. I hadn't eaten meat in months.
She tied my hands and flogged me in the compound while neighbors watched. Some looked away. Some shook their heads. No one stopped her.
"See how stubborn orphans are," she shouted.
"They repay kindness with wickedness."
Her words hurt more than the cane.
At night, mosquitoes attacked my wounds. I slapped them away quietly, afraid noise would earn another beating. My body ached, but sleep refused to come. I stared at the darkness and wondered why my mother had left me behind in a world so cruel.
One rainy night, she locked me outside.
Rain soaked my clothes. Cold bit into my bones. I curled against the wall, shivering, hugging my knees. Inside the house, laughter and television sounds floated out, mocking my misery.
I whispered to God, my teeth chattering.
"Please… I don't want to die."
When morning came, she opened the door and ordered me to fetch water like nothing had happened.
No apology. No explanation.
In school, my teacher once noticed marks on my back.
"Who did this to you?" she asked.
I stared at the floor and said nothing.
Silence had become my survival.
Sometimes, at night, I cried quietly into my mat so no one would hear. I cried for the boy I used to be—the one who laughed easily, who felt safe, who believed adults would protect him.
That boy was gone.
In his place was a small child carrying a weight far heavier than his body could handle.
And still, I endured.
Because even in pain, I wanted to live.
This was Chapter Seven—where beatings became normal, shame became constant, and nights became endless. 😭