The wind that blew across Etinan that morning carried no joy. The sun rose slowly, painting the sky in soft gold, but for young Uduakabasi, the light meant nothing. His mother's burial had ended only the day before, and his small world had fallen apart.
He sat by the mound of fresh earth where Ada was laid to rest. His small hands clutched a faded scarf — the one she used to tie her hair. He pressed it to his chest and whispered,
> "Mama, you said you wouldn't leave me. Who will call me my son now?"
The only answer was the rustling of leaves and the gentle cry of birds above.
For days, the boy wandered around their little house in silence. Neighbours brought him food, patted his head, and offered pity, but none could fill the emptiness that had swallowed him.
Eventually, one of Ada's distant relatives — Uncle Effiong — came to take him away. Effiong was a farmer who lived two towns away. He was known for his strictness and his loud temper. His wife, Arit, had a heart as cold as her husband's tongue was sharp.
When Uduakabasi arrived at their house, he was told plainly,
> "You will live here now. You must work hard and obey. We are not feeding lazy people."
The boy nodded quietly. He was grateful to have a roof, but deep down, he could feel it — this was not home.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.
Every morning before sunrise, Arit's voice echoed through the yard.
> "Uduak! Get up! Go fetch water! Sweep the compound before you eat!"
There were days when he fetched ten buckets of water from the stream before anyone else even woke up. His small hands blistered from farm tools, his feet were cracked, and his clothes faded from too many washes in cold water.
Still, he never complained.
Whenever he felt weak, he remembered his mother's words:
> "Never stop believing in God. Don't let your heart turn bitter."
At night, when everyone slept, he would sit by the window and look at the stars.
> "Mama," he whispered, "are you watching me? I'm trying to be strong."
But his uncle's cruelty only grew.
If Uduak broke a plate, he was beaten.
If he came home late from the farm, he went to bed hungry.
Sometimes Arit would hide food just to watch him suffer.
> "A child without parents should learn his place," she would say with a smirk.
One evening, while eating outside, Effiong turned to his wife and said, loud enough for the boy to hear,
> "When Ada was alive, she thought her son would become great. Look at him now — just a house boy."
Arit laughed, her voice cutting through the night like a blade.
> "At least he's useful. He can fetch firewood."
Uduak swallowed hard, pretending not to hear, but tears rolled silently down his cheeks.
Despite all the pain, a quiet strength began to grow inside him.
He worked harder than anyone else. He learned how to plant, weed, and harvest. He could carry heavy firewood and still smile. Deep in his heart, he made a silent promise:
> "One day, I'll leave this place. I'll make Mama proud."
Then one day, that chance came.
It was during the dry season. The heat was cruel, and the stream had nearly dried up. Effiong sent Uduak to fetch firewood deep in the forest — a place most people avoided because of snakes and wild animals.
As he worked, his eyes caught something glimmering under the sunlight — a small piece of broken mirror lying near a rock. He picked it up and stared at his reflection for the first time in months.
His face was dirty, his eyes red from tears and sun, but in that reflection he saw something he had never noticed before — determination.
He whispered,
> "Mama, I can't stay here anymore. I want to find my own life."
That night, when everyone slept, he quietly packed a small bag — just a torn shirt, his mother's scarf, and the little wooden cross she had given him before she died. He stepped out of the house barefoot, his heart beating fast.
As he walked away under the pale moonlight, he looked back one last time at the house that had been his prison.
> "Goodbye, Uncle Effiong. I will not die in your shadow," he murmured.
He walked through the night, guided only by faith and the memory of his mother's voice.
When dawn finally came, he was miles away — tired, hungry, but free.
He didn't know where he was going, but he knew one thing for sure:
> His story was just beginning.