The idea of running away did not come to me suddenly.
It grew slowly, quietly, the way despair grows inside a child who has nowhere to hide. Every beating, every hungry night, every insult planted the thought deeper in my heart. By the time I was eight, the road outside our compound no longer looked like danger to me—it looked like escape.
I began to watch the gate.
Each morning, after Aunt Ezinne left for the market, the gate stayed open for a while. I noticed how people passed freely—men pushing wheelbarrows, women carrying loads, children laughing on their way to school. They all looked like they belonged somewhere.
I didn't.
One afternoon, after she beat me for spilling water again, I sat behind the house, my back burning, tears rolling silently down my face. Something inside me hardened.
If I stay here, I will die.
That night, I couldn't sleep. My stomach was empty, my body aching. I stared at the ceiling and remembered my mother's voice.
"If something hurts you, run to me," she used to say.
She was gone—but the word run stayed.
Before dawn, while the house was quiet, I stood up slowly. I didn't carry anything. I owned nothing. I only wore the torn shorts I slept in.
My heart pounded as I reached the gate.
For the first time in years, no one shouted my name.
I stepped onto the road.
Freedom tasted like fear.
I walked without direction, my small legs trembling. The streets felt bigger than me. Cars passed. People stared. My slippers slapped weakly against the ground. I didn't know where I was going—I just knew I wasn't going back.
By afternoon, hunger and fear overwhelmed me. I sat under a tree and cried openly, no longer caring who saw me. A woman selling oranges approached.
"Where is your mother?" she asked gently.
That question broke me.
I cried harder.
Someone recognized me. A neighbor.
"Is this not Ezinne's boy?"
Before I could run again, hands grabbed me.
They took me back.
Aunt Ezinne's face twisted when she saw me.
"So you want to disgrace me?" she screamed.
That beating was worse than any before. She tied my hands, flogged me, and locked me inside for a whole day. No food. No water.
As I lay on the floor, weak and shaking, I realized something painful:
Running away had failed.
But the desire to escape never left me.
That day taught me two lessons I would never forget:
The world was dangerous—but staying was more dangerous.
And one day, no matter how long it took, I would run again.
This was Chapter Eight.