The Pillar and the Dust.
In my village, they say a first daughter is the pillar of the house, but they never tell you how much the pillar has to bleed just to keep the roof from falling. My name is Precious and before I was a "witch" " I was a girl with a heart full of noise.
I grew up in a compound that felt like a courtroom where my father was always on trial. My maternal relatives were the judges, and their verdict was always the same: Incapable. I remember the day the air changed. My father stood under the parched mango tree, his eyes hollow. My mother was pregnant with my third sibling—a secret life growing inside her that felt more like a burden than a blessing because of the empty pots in our kitchen.
"I am going to Liberia," my father announced.
The silence that followed was broken only by my Aunt's sharp, mocking laugh from the veranda. "Liberia? You want to go and fail in another country since you have finished failing here?"
I watched my father's jaw tighten. He didn't argue. He just packed a single, battered suitcase. As an extrovert, I wanted to hold his leg and scream, "Don't leave us with them!" But I saw the way my mother's shoulders slumped, and for the first time, I felt the heavy iron gates of "The Ada's Responsibility" close around my throat. I stayed silent.
The Five-YearGhost
For five years, my father was a name mentioned in whispers and insults. Five years is an eternity when you are a child. I watched my mother transform from a woman into a shadow. She took on every menial job—washing clothes for neighbors, hawking in the hot Lagos sun—just to keep us in school.
Ifeoma and Kamsi were my only escape. Ifeoma lived three houses away, and her house always smelled like fried fish and laughter. Kamsi was the one who taught me how to braid hair. When we were together, I wasn't the "poor girl" whose father ran away. I was just one of three girls dreaming of big things.
"When we finish JSS3," Ifeoma would say, swinging her legs over the gutter, "we will go to the best secondary school in the state. We will be doctors."
I would nod, even though I knew my school fees were always paid late, usually after my mother had endured a fresh round of insults from her brothers to "borrow" the money.
Then, he came back.
He didn't arrive in a convoy. He arrived on a motorcycle, looking thinner than the day he left. He was a stranger with my father's eyes. I stood at the gate, my heart a mess of tangled threads. I wanted to be happy, but I felt a strange anger. Where were you when the landlord threatened us? Where were you when my sister was born and we had no milk?
I couldn't recognize the man who tried to hug me. I stiffened. The extrovert girl was gone; in her place was a girl who had learned that people—even fathers—could disappear when the world got too heavy.
The Day the World Ended
The real tragedy didn't happen in Liberia. It happened in our sitting room, two months after his return. I was sitting on the floor, my JSS3 textbooks spread out around me. I was determined to pass my Junior WAEC. I thought that if I got the best results, maybe my maternal family would finally stop calling us failures.
The Landlord didn't knock; he banged.
The piece of paper he handed my father was red—the color of a fire that was about to consume our lives. Quit Notice. "I cannot wait anymore," the Landlord shouted, his voice echoing through the thin walls. "Returnee or no returnee, I need my house!"
My father looked at the paper, then at my mother. The "capable" man he promised to become in Liberia hadn't shown up.
"We have to move," my mother said softly that night. Her voice sounded like it was coming from a deep well. "There is only one place we can go. My father's house."
The Final Goodbye
The day we packed was the day I truly became an introvert.
Ifeoma and Kamsi stood by the gutter, just like they always did. But this time, they weren't laughing. Kamsi held out a small beaded bracelet. "So you won't forget us," she whispered.
I couldn't even speak. I felt like if I opened my mouth, a sea of tears would drown the whole street. I climbed into the back of the truck, sitting on top of our rolled-up foam.
As the truck moved, I watched the only life I knew disappear. I watched Ifeoma and Kamsi waving until they were just tiny dots in the distance as our property was still scenting the smell of our home.
We were heading to my maternal grandmother's house—the headquarters of the people who hated us.
I looked at my father, sitting silently in the front seat, and my mother, clutching my younger sister. I realized then that I was the only one left with the fire to fight, but for now, I would keep it hidden.
I would be the "saddest." I would be the "witch." I would be whatever they called me, until the day I was strong enough to burn their house of insults down with my own success.