The night stretched long, dark, and silent—except for the quiet sobs of Mercy as she lay on the worn-out mat beside her two youngest children, Anita and Daniel. Her body ached from the blows David had landed earlier. Her lips were still swollen, her right eye partially shut, and her heart… her heart felt like it had been torn open and left to bleed in the silence.
She turned slightly, careful not to wake her children. The lantern in the corner had long gone out, and the moonlight barely slipped through the torn curtain. She hadn't slept a wink. How could she? Pain, both physical and emotional, gripped her like a shackle. She remembered the days when David adored her—when he brought her breakfast in bed, bought her new dresses, called her his queen.
Now, he was a stranger with fists.
As dawn broke and the soft light poured into the room, Mercy got up slowly, suppressing a groan. She couldn't afford to be weak. Her children needed food. They needed school fees. They needed her.
She dressed in silence, tying her faded wrapper tightly over her bruised ribs. Anita and Faith were already awake, sitting on the low wooden bench outside the room, combing each other's hair.
"Mama, are you going to the shop today?" Faith asked gently.
"Yes, my child," Mercy replied with a weak smile, trying to hide the pain behind her swollen lips.
They all knew. They saw. They heard the slaps, the curses, the fights. But they had learned to say nothing—because what could they say? They were children surviving a world that didn't wait for broken mothers and confused fathers.
Mercy walked slowly to the market. The walk that used to be a joyful journey had now become a solemn march. She opened her small kiosk and sat on the stool, looking around at the half-empty shelves. Her hands touched the dusty bags of rice, half-torn sachets of salt, and the three remaining loaves of bread.
She hadn't been able to restock in weeks.
She prayed—silently, desperately—for just one good day. One customer. One miracle.
The morning passed slowly. She managed to sell two satchels of seasoning cubes and a packet of matches. But the sun was already high in the sky, and her children would need lunch.
At exactly 10 o'clock, Mercy heard loud voices approaching. She turned and froze.
Three men and two women from the loan company she had borrowed from stood outside her shop.
"Madam Mercy!" one of them shouted. "We have been patient enough!"
"Where is our money?" another woman yelled, arms crossed with authority.
Mercy's heart dropped. She stood slowly, trembling, and walked to the front of her shop.
"Please," she began, her voice barely audible. "Give me a little more time. Things are hard—"
"Shut up!" one of them interrupted harshly. "We've heard that before! Pay what you owe!"
"I don't have it yet… please, my children are—"
"Your children again?" a man scoffed. "Is that our business? You borrowed, now pay!"
Tears welled in her eyes. The shouts drew the attention of nearby traders, who paused their business to watch.
Mercy fell on her knees in front of them.
"Please… I'm begging. I will pay. I just need more time. Please…"
But the loan officers weren't moved. One of them kicked her stool aside, causing a tin of milk to fall and scatter its contents.
"Madam, you better sell this useless shop and give us our money! You think we're here to play?"
By this time, her children—Faith, Anita, and Daniel—had run from their corner of the market to her shop. Faith held onto her mother's dress, crying.
"Mama! Mama!"
Anita knelt beside Mercy, shielding her mother from further humiliation. Daniel stood silently, eyes wide, too young to understand the cruelty but old enough to feel the shame.
Other traders finally intervened.
"Please, she's a good woman," one said. "Give her some time."
"We all know how hard things are these days," another added.
The loan officers grumbled but finally left, warning they'd be back in three days. Mercy remained on her knees even after they had gone, sobbing into her palms while her children wept beside her.
When she finally returned home that evening, she looked like a ghost of herself. Her wrapper was stained with dust, her eyes swollen, and her lips trembling.
David was sitting in the wooden chair in the corner, legs crossed, reading an old newspaper.
Mercy walked in and sat on the edge of the mattress, her shoulders hunched.
"I was disgraced today," she said quietly, tears already falling. "They came to the market. They shouted at me in front of everyone… in front of our children."
David didn't look up. "And so?"
"I'm your wife," she whispered. "These are your children."
He dropped the newspaper on his lap, finally looking at her. "So you want me to clap for you? Did I send you to borrow money? If you're smart, go and pay your debt."
She stood in disbelief. "David…"
"What is my business with your wahala?" he spat. "You borrowed it, you pay it. Don't bring your problems to me!"
Mercy collapsed onto the mat, covering her face. Her children sat quietly in the corner, afraid to make a sound.
That night, the only thing that filled the air was silence and hunger.