Who would've believed it, if told that a girl who seemed to have everything—food, shelter, an education, and a family—chose to live like a rock, solitary, unmoved, and stubbornly independent?
That girl was Angel.
A striking presence, pale-skinned in a land where most bore shades of caramel and deep bronze. People often remarked that she looked misplaced, like a child born in the wrong country. A mistake of destiny, some whispered. She could have easily passed for a foreigner—an "oyinbo" child mistakenly dropped into the wrong soil.
But her appearance was the least of her struggles.
Angel wasn't dull. In fact, she was sharp, observant, and intelligent. But she lacked one essential trait—trust. Not just in people, but in herself. She questioned her worth constantly, doubting her choices, her voice, and even her right to speak up.
She had long made a silent vow to herself: once she made enough money, she would leave her family's house and never look back. She'd find peace in solitude, in her own space where no one could hurt or misunderstand her again.
To outsiders, she was the quiet child—the calm, invisible one who never asked for much. But to those she trusted, those few rare souls, Angel was a chatterbox, a storyteller, and a radiant presence. She simply chose her audience wisely.
Even to her parents, she became a master of concealment. She learned to bury her burdens, to smile through storms. The only lingering regret was allowing them to pay her school fees and boarding school provisions. That still pinched at her pride.
Her mother only heard the full story after Angel had graduated.
About the bullying she endured. About the housemistress who made her life a living nightmare. About the false accusations, the punishments, the isolation she bore—all while being only a child.
Her mother's voice had trembled when she asked, "Why didn't you tell us, Angel?"
Angel's response was quiet but firm:
"Because I believed I could handle it. You and dad already had enough on your plate—Peace's school fees, the house, everything. I didn't want to be another burden."
And truly, she had wanted to die. At just twelve years old, she had wrestled with thoughts no child should ever know. A teacher had made it her mission to break her spirit, to convince her she was worthless.
But Angel survived.
She graduated with her head held high, her smile triumphant. And in an ironic twist, the very teacher who had tormented her made sure she was well-fed and celebrated on graduation night.
It wasn't revenge—not the dramatic kind. But it was enough.
The teacher's unexpected kindness said it all: I see you now. You are somebody.
And Angel clung to that. It was her first taste of silent victory.
Afterward, she sat for JAMB, failed once, and passed on her second attempt. That success was the final spark. She decided to cut everyone off—not out of resentment, but as part of her pursuit of complete independence. She wanted a life that was hers alone, free from obligation or pity.
Her sister, Peace, found her first apartment. But independence came at a cost. The room was shared—an arrangement Angel despised. She craved privacy like oxygen, but with limited resources, she had no choice.
Her roommate, Stella, was everything Angel wasn't. Loud, flashy, and reckless. A self-proclaimed heartbreaker who paraded men in and out of the apartment like it was a revolving door.
Angel tried to stay out of it. But one night, things went too far.
Stella was out, and one of her many boyfriends came by, thinking Angel was available for entertainment. He tried to force himself on her, misreading her silence for submission.
But Angel fought.
She kicked. She clawed. She screamed like her soul was on fire.
Because that night, her life—and her dignity—truly depended on it.
And just when she thought she couldn't hold out any longer, the door burst open.
Peace walked in—unannounced, as always—with her boyfriend. They saw the scene and jumped into action. Together, they pulled the man off her and forced him out.
Angel collapsed into her sister's arms that night, trembling but victorious.
It was her lowest moment—but also one of the most defining. She realized that sometimes, even the strongest need help. And sometimes, the people we try to cut off are the very ones sent to save us.