I blinked into dimness and shut my eyes again because the light felt like an interrogation. When I opened them slowly, the room moved into focus: Ma, Pa, Titi, Emeka—and a woman with a first-aid kit who looked like she'd patched up half the compound. They all stared.
"Why's he here?" I croaked, pain hollowing my throat.
It burned to remember. He was my father—my firstborn fatherhood made him supposed to be proud. Instead he'd beaten me like I was a criminal. I tried to sit up; Ma pushed my shoulders down. "Rest. Not yet." Her voice was soft but firm.
The woman handed Ma a small card. "These are his meds. Buy them and make sure he takes the doses."
"Thank you, ma," Ma said. The woman nodded and left.
Titi flung herself at me. "Brother Ade, I'm sorry!" she sobbed, hugging me so tight I could feel the tremble in her small body.
I wanted to raise my hand to hug her back, but it felt like a mountain. Even lifting was a victory.
"Pa! You're so mean!" Emeka burst out.
"Shut your mouth before you end up like him, idiot!" Pa howled.
"Don't touch him. Stay out of our business," I hissed through the pain.
Pa fumbled with his belt like a man auditioning for cruelty. "I'll hit you, rascal. Just wait."
"Go on!" I spat, surprising myself. "Hit me. I'm not scared of you. I hate you. You had us and you couldn't feed us. You had money but no heart. Why have us if you wouldn't care for us? Hit me, but remember this: you'll regret it. I—Adejoke Chiemelie Francis Onuigbo—am telling you: you'll regret this!" My voice shook but I meant every word.
Ma covered her face with both hands. "Adejoke, take your medicine, please," she begged.
"Ma—let me speak!" I pushed, pain forgotten for a moment as I sat up. Her hand landed on my shoulder, gentle but firm. "Please," she whispered, "he'll hit you again."
I understood her. Survival in our house often meant silence. Still, Pa stood there like a storm waiting to break. Our eyes met for a second; I turned away before either of us could blink too long. My courage felt sudden and small, like a matchstick in a rainstorm.
"Stupid cow!" Pa spat and slammed the door.
"Don't mind him," Ma said, folding her hands and smoothing her wrapper like a shield.
I took the meds Titi bought from the pharmacy and swallowed them with more determination than taste. Then it hit me—my birthday was next week. I'd be fifteen on August 22, 2005. For some reason, that made my chest lighten. A small thread of relief curled into the pain, and I clung to it.
---
A few days later, while Emeka and I were playing, I found a pack of cigarettes in Pa's wardrobe. The smoke smelled like secrets. I thought maybe that was what made him loud and careless—maybe that was his armor. So I stole one.
I sent Emeka away, checked every corner like a thief watching for the sheriff, and hid under the bed with a lighter. The first drag hit my lungs like a slap; I coughed until tears blurred the edges of the room. Then I tried again. The second and third made me dizzy and calm, like a lie that sounded true. By the fourth I wanted another.
The cigarette became a small, dangerous comfort. I made it a habit. I quit the job for a while and started running with the boys who smoked and stole for pocket money. They taught me how to pickpocket, flirt, drink—how to laugh at things I used to fear. Nights on the beach felt free: whispering, pointing at girls, sharing stolen smokes, pretending hunger was an adventure.
I went back to work because the habit costs money. The bar raised my pay to five thousand naira a day, which I spent on cigarettes and cheap alcohol, and hid the rest in a tin box—my "savings." By sixteen, I was an addict and a dropout. I'd missed classes; I was supposed to be in SS2 but I'd drifted out of school because survival felt more urgent than algebra.
Ma noticed. She saw the smell on my clothes, the money missing, the way I stumbled in at dawn. She dragged me, shook me, prayed over me like prayer could pull smoke from my lungs. She took my wages and my cigarettes, locked me in the house before she left for work. For months the craving jabbed at my ribs. I felt empty, like a missing tooth. It wasn't easy. But Ma stayed relentless. She kept my world small until the cravings thinned and then stopped. Eventually the smoke lost its sharpness.
---
So — how did this one hit you? Drop your thoughts. I'm not asking for pity, just truth. Parents: your actions teach louder than sermons. Kids are sponges—they learn the bad as fast as the good. Adejoke learned how to smoke by watching his father. Be careful.
And to my people: smoking kills, for real. The companies know. They sell anyway.
Tell me how I can make this better. Want it more lyrical? Harsher? Rawer? Comment, and I'll keep sailing this ship.
Love you.
From your teen authoress,
— OziomaJasmine 💝💞