The void in my life was screaming louder than ever, and I wanted it gone. So, I bought alcohol on my way home—five bottles lined up like silent partners in my rebellion. By the fifth sip, my head was twirling. I laughed, staggered, mumbling nonsense like an insane man who found comedy in tragedy.
When I got home, Ma was eating. I stumbled towards her, giggling.
"Pa! Pa! Where are you? Come out if you've got the guts!" I roared, pounding my chest like a drunk soldier.
Pa's voice thundered back, "Who's making those useless sounds?"
"It's me! Do you remember how you hit Ma? Tonight, I'll hit you just like that," I jeered, bottle in hand, sipping as if it gave me power.
"How dare you challenge me—your father?" he barked.
"Father? Stop the lies. Have you ever bought me clothes? Paid my school fees? Has Titi seen the inside of a classroom? You? A father?" I spat, staggering closer, spilling liquor on his shoes.
His eyes burned. He grabbed me by the collar.
"Get your filthy hands off my shirt, womanizer," I sneered. "I ironed this morning."
"Adejoke, please!" Ma pleaded, tugging at me, but Pa shoved her away with a roar. Poor woman. Always caught between hellfire and heartbreak.
Then Pa snapped. He yanked me hard—I hit the ground. My black eyes blazed at him, wild and unflinching. I lunged.
A blow cracked across my mouth. My head spun. Another strike to my skull—iron hands, wicked soul.
We fought like animals. I pushed him down, bit his hand, scratched, kicked, rolled. He lashed me with his belt until my screams shook the walls. Ma begged, but Pa locked her inside. Blood poured, my vision blurred, my body weak—but I still scarred him. That tiny victory lit me up in the middle of my brokenness.
By the time he kicked me one last time and left me outside, the heavens opened. Heavy rain fell like judgment. I lay there—wounded, drenched, forgotten.
---
Morning came. The sun stabbed my swollen eyes awake. My mouth tasted of blood, my body screamed with pain.
"What the heck am I doing on the ground?" I croaked, dusting mud from my clothes. Memories of last night slammed me hard. Pa. The fight. The belt. The blood.
I limped to the door. "Ma! Titi! Emeka! Open up!" I bellowed, knocking until my fists ached. Nothing. Pa's orders had sealed me out.
Broken, I wandered to the beach. Lovers held hands, strangers laughed, life carried on as if my world wasn't ending. I stared at them, wondering why Pa hated Ma, when she was the most beautiful, curvy, kind-hearted woman alive. I climbed onto the rocks, away from prying eyes, and broke down.
Where would I go? Where would I sleep? This was Lagos—huge, cruel, unforgiving. And me? Seventeen, broke, bleeding.
But I wasn't going to die there. I prayed for a miracle, but I also remembered: "Heaven helps those who help themselves."
So, I limped back home. Ma and Titi were cooking rice. If they saw me, they'd break down, and I couldn't bear that. Quietly, I slipped into my room, packed my belongings—along with some of Pa's expensive stuff—into his traveling bag.
I needed medicine. I needed freedom. And just like I came, I left.
---
This words of raw, unfiltered pain. My hands were shaking as I typed. Pa is wicked, heartless, beyond cruel. But Adejoke? He endures.
This world is full of trouble, isn't it?
Stay tuned, my loves. 💝😘
—Your favorite teen authoress,
Oziomajasmine 💟💞