My name is Ogochukwu. I'm 18 years old. I come from a small town in Imo State, and I'm the first daughter of my parents. I was in SS3 when everything changed — the good, the bad, and the pain I never imagined I could handle.
I was always known as the brightest girl in class. Even my teachers would say it. People liked me because I spoke well, I dressed neat, and I was respectful. But behind that neat uniform and those first positions in class, I'm a girl who hustled with her mother every evening in the market.
My father sells female shoes at Afor Market. My mother sold bread just beside him. Life was not easy, but we were contented. We didn't have much, but we had Peace, Respect, Discipline. Especially my father — he was very strict and mean.
After school, I would change my uniform quickly and run to the market to help my mother. It was our normal life, I never complained, because I knew where I was going. I had a dream to achieve.
I wanted to become a pilot.
Then, one Monday morning, everything started to change.
That was the day Corper Tunde entered our class.
He was tall, light dark skin, and fine in a Lagos kind of way. When he walked in, the whole class became quiet and eyes bumped. The way he smiled, the way he spoke… even the teachers respected and commend him
He introduced himself with that boldness
"Good morning, students. My name is Tunde Abiola, your new English Language instructor. I look forward to knowing each of you."
Then he asked us to introduce ourselves one by one. I didn't know it, but my turn changed everything.
"My name is Ogochukwu Ukachi. I'm from Imo State. I want to become a pilot one day."
He paused. He looked at me like I had just done magic. Then he smiled in a way that made me uncomfortable.
"Very impressive," he said. "Ogochukwu, you speak so well. That's good. Keep it up."
From that day, he never left me alone.
He would call me after class, ask me to help him with attendance. He brought me storybooks and said I deserved more than this village life. Sometimes he would stand too close when no one was watching. Sometimes he would say things like:
"You're so special to be here, Ogochukwu. I wish you were in Lagos. You will shine like a star."
At first, I tried to ignore him. I didn't like the attention. But slowly, he kept finding ways to be around me. He would wait after school and follow me halfway to the market. He started buying me snacks. He gave me a small phone once and said,
"So we can talk, just talk. Nothing bad."
I was naive. I believed him. His words were kind to convince. His smile was sweet. I didn't want to fall, but I did.
I started hiding things from my parents. I would tell my mother I was staying back for extra lessons, when I was with him. He told me about his family in Lagos — how rich they were, how he was the only son, how he hated the fake Lagos girls and life style but liked me because I was "real."
One day, after school, I told him,
"Tunde, I don't want to do anything that will make me fail my dreams or disappoint my parents. I still want to be a pilot, that I promised myself.
He touched my cheek and said,
"Ogochukwu, don't you trust me? You are the only one I see a future with. I will marry you after my NYSC Service, Just give me your heart."
And i gave him more than my heart.
It was the last month of his NYSC. He had just told me the name of his father's company in Lagos — "Abiola Groups". I was happy. I felt like I was no longer just the poor girl in the market. I was going to be the wife of someone important.
Then it happened.
After many weeks of pressure, tears, and begging, I let him have me. I was still a virgin. I had always said I would wait till marriage. But I gave it all to Tunde because I believed he truly loved me.
And then — he left to Lagos.
He traveled back to Lagos after passing out. At first, we still talked. Then his calls became short. Then his line stopped going through. Then nothing.
I started vomiting in the mornings. I became tired in school. I was scared. I didn't tell anyone. I used herbs, I prayed. But one evening, my mother looked me in the eyes and said:
"Ogochukwu, are you hiding something from me?"
I burst into tears.
Everything came out. The phone, The lies, The love, The pregnancy.
She sat on the floor and cried for over an hour. She didn't beat me. She didn't insult me. But when my father found out, everything scattered.
He shouted,
"So this is what you' have been doing while pretending to be a good girl? Leave my house! I have no daughter like you!"
My mother knelt down, crying and begging:
"Please, my husband. She made a mistake. Don't throw her out like this!"
But he refused.
That night, with tears in my eyes and a small bag on my back, I wrote down the only clue I had — the name of the company Tunde told me, Abiola Groups, Victoria Island, Lagos.
I knew I had to find him.
With my little savings, I entered a bus to Lagos. No phone. No address. Just a name, a hope, and the baby in my womb.
I arrived at Ojota park around 6 p.m. The city looked like a different planet. I didn't know where to start. I sat at the corner of the park, scared, hungry, but determined.
Then, something happened…
CHAPTER 2
I sat at the edge of Ojota park, cold and hungry. I had never been to Lagos the first time in my life. The noise, the crowd, the rushing cars — everything overwhelmed me. But my mind was made up.
I had to find Tunde.
I brought out the small folded paper where I had written "Abiola Groups, Victoria Island." That was all I had. I didn't even know how to pronounce Victoria Island well, but I showed the paper to one bus conductor.
"Abeg, how I go reach here?"
He looked at me, hissed, then shouted,
"VI! VI! Na VI she wan go o! #1,500 naira last price!"
I only had just ₦1,000 left after the journey. I begged. He looked at me from head to toe, then said,
"If you no get money, come down jare!"
I turned away, embarrassed. I stood there, looking lost, until a kind woman selling snacks came to me.
"My daughter, you look tired. Are you okay?"
I nodded slowly, then I whispered,
"I'm looking for someone. He works in a place called Abiola Groups in Victoria Island."
She looked shocked.
"You came alone? From where?"
"From Imo… I have no one else. Please, I just want to see him."
She shook her head and sighed deeply.
"God will help you, my child. But this Lagos is not safe. You need to be careful."
She gave me a piece of bread and a sachet of water. That act of kindness meant the world to me. I thanked her and continued asking people.
By 7:30 p.m., I found a bus going to VI. I climbed in, holding my belly, whispering prayers.
When we got there, I asked a security man how to find Abiola Groups.
"Go straight, then turn left. You go see am for block 42."
I followed the direction until I stood in front of a tall glass building. My heart began to race.
I went to the front desk. The lady at the reception looked at me with suspicion.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"Please… I'm looking for Mr. Tunde Abiola. He's my friend."
"Mr. Tunde?" she asked, raising one brow. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No, ma. But it's urgent. I came from Imo State. Please, just tell him Ogochukwu is here."
She picked up the phone, spoke briefly, then looked back at me.
"He said he's not available. You can leave your message."
My chest tightened.
"Please… tell him it's Ogochukwu. He knows me… please."
She shook her head.
I sat at the building's entrance for over two hours. It was almost 9:30 p.m. when a black SUV came out of the gate. And then — I saw him.
It was Tunde.
I jumped to my feet and ran towards the car, shouting,
"Tunde! Tunde, it's me! Ogochukwu!"
The car stopped. The driver rolled down the window. Tunde was at the back seat, wearing a clean suit. His eyes widened when he saw me — but he didn't smile. He didn't wave. He looked scared.
"What… what are you doing here?" he said slowly, stepping out.
"Tunde, I have been trying to reach you. I'm pregnant. You said you loved me. I came all the way from—"
"Stop!" he shouted, glancing around.
"Stop saying that here. Are you crazy? Do you want to ruin my life?"
I froze.
"Ruin… your life?"
"I told you to take care of yourself, Ogochukwu. I didn't plan for this. I didn't tell you to come to Lagos. This… this is your problem now."
Tears filled my eyes. My legs felt weak.
"But you said… you said you will marry me. You said I'm special…"
"I was just being nice! You're a secondary school girl. You took things too seriously."
"I gave you everything!" I cried. "I left my home… I left my parents… you're all I have!"
He turned away, breathing hard.
"Look, just go back. I will send you money or something. But don't ever show up here again. My fiancée works in this building!"
That last line hit me like thunder.
"Your… fiancée?"
He entered his car and the door slammed shut. The SUV drove off, leaving me standing there… broken, alone, and pregnant under the streetlight in a city that didn't know my name.
I slept at the doorstep of a closed shop that night.
I woke up with pain in my back, and my mind completely blank.
But then… something happened.
The bread seller woman from Ojota saw me again — by pure chance. She screamed and rushed to help me. She took me in, gave me a small place to stay. Her name was Aunty Ronnie. She listened to my story, wiped my tears, and said something I will never forget:
"Ogochukwu, your life is not over. Men will disappoint, but God never fails. This child in your womb is not a curse. It's a blessing. You will rise again."
Those words began my healing.
I later found a small job at her shop. She encouraged me to enroll in WAEC as an external candidate. I studied at night, my baby grew in my belly, and my dreams slowly returned.
It was not easy, but I passed.
I'm still chasing that dream to be a pilot — not for revenge, but for hope. For every girl like me, who has fallen but refuses to stay down.
"My name is Ogochukwu. I lost everything to love… but I found myself in the process."
CHAPTER 3
They say time heals wounds.
But in my case, time didn't heal anything. Courage did.
Three months after that cold night in front of Tunde's office, I was still in Lagos — still far from home, but not without hope. Thanks to Aunty Ronnie, I now had a roof over my head, food to eat, and someone who treated me like a daughter, not a disgrace.
She used to tell me,
"Ogochukwu, your story no end here. This baby wey dey come, e go bring light to your life."
And slowly, I started believing her.
I woke up early every morning to help in her shop — selling bread, pure water, and groundnuts. In the afternoon, I would go home to rest, read my old school notes, and talk to my unborn baby.
Sometimes I would cry.
Sometimes I would smile.
But every time I looked at my stomach, I remembered the love that betrayed me… and the dream I was still holding onto with my whole heart.
I still wanted to fly planes someday.
The morning my baby came was quiet. No sign, no warning.
I was sweeping the front of the shop when the pain hit me. First in my back, then my waist. I screamed and held my stomach, falling to the floor.
"Aunty… Aunty Ronnie!!"
She rushed out, her hands shaking.
"Jesus! It's time! Somebody help! Help o!"
We rushed to a nearby clinic in a keke. The pain was fire — hot and sharp. But in the middle of the screaming and sweating, something beautiful happened.
At 4:53 p.m., on a rainy Thursday, I heard the cry of my baby.
A nurse smiled at me and said,
"It's a boy… a strong one."
Tears flowed down my face, but this time… they were tears of joy.
I carried him in my arms, and for a moment, everything made sense again.
"I'll name him Chidiebere," I whispered. "Because only God could have written this story."
The days that followed were not easy.
My body was weak. The clinic bills were high. But Aunty Ronnie helped me again — she even called two women from her church to bring baby clothes and food.
I sat outside one evening, watching my son sleep in a wrapper on my lap, and I thought:
What if this child grows up to be someone great? What if this pain was part of the plan?
I started teaching small children in the compound — ABCs, counting, reading. The parents paid ₦500 a week, and it helped me buy soap, powder, and sometimes milk for my son.
The smiles of those children reminded me of who I really was.
Not a girl who made a mistake… but a girl who refused to stay broken.
One day, Aunty Ronnie came home with a flyer.
"Ogochukwu, look this thing. I just see am for our church gate."
It was a program — Aviation for Girls Foundation, offering weekend prep classes and scholarship chances for young women from poor backgrounds.
When I saw it, I froze.
Aviation? Me? After everything?
"You go try am," Aunty said. "You no know wetin God fit still do."
Something in me came alive again.
I filled the form.
I wrote the essay.
And every Saturday, with my baby on my back, I went to the training centre. People laughed. Some whispered. But I stood tall, baby or not.
Because dreams don't die… they just wait for you to rise again.
One evening, while feeding Chidiebere, I got a call from an unknown number.
"Hello… is this Miss Ogochukwu Ukachi?"
"Yes, please."
"I'm calling from Aviation for Girls Foundation. Your application was shortlisted. You have been selected for our national scholarship program. Congratulations."
I dropped the phone and screamed.
I ran to Aunty Ronnie, shouting and crying.
"I got it! Aunty, I got it!"
She hugged me tightly.
"I tell you! I tell you say this your boy na light! Na blessing!"
I knelt down, held my son close, and cried like a baby.
Not because I was sad…
But because I had just remembered who I truly was.
Ogochukwu. The girl who fell… but refused to stay down.
CHAPTER 4
I held the scholarship letter in my hand for days.
Every time I looked at it, my heart danced with joy.
But every time I looked at my son, sleeping peacefully beside me, my chest tightened.
The program was in Abuja.
Three whole months, with accommodation and full training. They would even help process a foreign aviation scholarship after. It was everything I ever dreamed of.
But… what about Chidiebere?
He was barely eight months old. Who would feed him? Who would carry him when he cried? Who would wipe his nose when he caught a cold?
One night, I sat outside our room, legs folded, baby in my lap.
"What do I do?" I whispered to the sky. "God, please… don't make me choose between my dream and my child."
Aunty Ronnie later sat beside me. She had noticed the weight I was carrying.
"You're scared," she said gently.
"Yes," I nodded. "What kind of mother leaves her child?"
She placed her hand on mine.
"The kind of mother who sees the future. The one who's willing to sacrifice today's comfort to give her child a better tomorrow. You can't pour from an empty cup, Ogochukwu. You must first become something… so your child can have everything."
Her words stayed with me all night.
The next morning, as I was preparing pap for my son, something unexpected happened.
A small brown envelope arrived. The woman who sold onions nearby brought it.
"Postman say na for you. E come from Imo State."
My heart nearly stopped.
I opened it with trembling hands. Inside, I saw a letter — my father's handwriting.
"Ogochukwu,
I heard what happened. Your mother told me everything. I have been angry, disappointed, and ashamed.
But this morning, something made me cry. I saw your old notebook — the one you used to write, 'I want to be a pilot someday.'
I remembered how you used to teach other children for free. How you woke up early to go sell bread with your mother before school.
Ogochukwu, I was wrong to send you away.
I miss you. Your mother misses you.
I want to see my grandson.
And if you still have that dream, go after it. We will be here, praying for you.
I am proud of you.
– Papa."
I pressed the letter to my chest and wept like a child.
Not out of sadness…
But because something broken inside me was healing again.
That week, I made a decision.
I would go to Abuja.
But before that, I would travel home — with my son.
Returning to Imo was not easy.
People stared.
Some neighbors whispered.
But others hugged me, eyes wide with surprise.
"So this is Ogochukwu's child?"
"Chai, but the baby fine o!"
My mother cried when she saw me.
"My daughter… my daughter, I missed you," she kept repeating.
And Papa?
He didn't say much at first.
He just held the baby in his arms… and smiled.
"You look like your mother," he whispered to him. "But you carry your mother's fire."
Later that night, Papa called me into his room.
"Ogochukwu," he said, "you go to Abuja. Leave the boy here with us. I will carry him on my back to market if I must. But you must not miss this opportunity."
For the first time in a long time… I felt like a daughter again.
I left for Abuja a week later.
As the bus pulled out of the station, I looked back at my parents holding Chidiebere. He was waving his tiny hand. I don't know if he knew what was happening.
But I smiled through my tears.
"One day, my son," I whispered. "You will look up and see your mother flying in the sky."
"And you will know… dreams do come true."
CHAPTER 5
When I stepped into the Aviation for Girls Academy in Abuja, I felt like I had walked into a different world.
White buildings. Women in uniforms. Flight simulators. Instructors from America. It was like entering my dream… but in real life.
We were TWENTY-FIVE girls — from across Nigeria. Some from Ibadan, others from Abuja, Lagos, even Anambra. Each of us carried a different past, a different pain.
But we all shared one thing:
We refused to give up.
There was Bisi, who lost both parents in a fire but still graduated with top scores.
Emito, who escaped early marriage at 16.
Tari, a girl from Ibadan who once lived under a bridge.
And then, there was me — Ogochukwu Ukachi from Imo State. The girl with a baby and a dream too big to bury.
The classes were tough — mathematics, aerodynamics, navigation, meteorology. But I studied harder than ever.
Every night, I would stare at a picture of Chidiebere on my bunk.
"I'm doing this for you," I whispered. "One day, you will fly with me."
My tutors loved me. I always asked questions. I always volunteered. I always stayed behind after class. Some of them started calling me, "Little Captain."
One of them, Mr Kunle, pulled me aside one afternoon.
"You have fire in your eyes," he said. "But it's not just intelligence. You have a reason. A story. Let it keep driving you."
I smiled.
He didn't know how much I had gone through.
He didn't know how much I still carried inside.
Two months into the program, something unexpected happened.
We were in the dining hall eating rice when my roommate walked in with my phone.
"Ogoo, your phone ring tire. One lady just dey call nonstop. She say na urgent."
I took the phone, confused.
It was Aunty Ronnie.
"Ogochukwu, are you alone?"
"Yes, Aunty. What's wrong?"
Her voice was shaking.
"That Tunde boy… the one from NYSC… I saw him today."
My heart dropped.
"You saw him?"
"Yes. At a wedding in Ikeja. But that's not all… he's getting married. To a rich girl. Daughter of a commissioner."
My chest went cold.
"Did… did you tell him about the baby?" I asked, voice trembling.
"I tried. He pretended not to know you. He said he doesn't remember any girl named Ogochukwu."
I sat down, feeling dizzy.
He forgot me?
He forgot our love? Our child? Everything?
Aunty Ronnie continued.
"But I didn't stop there. I followed him to the car park. I looked him straight and said, Tunde, the girl you used and dumped is now becoming a pilot. You should have seen his face."
"He laughed nervously. Then he said, 'Well, if it's true… good for her.'"
I couldn't breathe.
Tears filled my eyes. My chest burned.
But then… something strange happened inside me.
I wiped my tears.
And I laughed.
Yes, I laughed.
Because in that moment, I realized something powerful:
Tunde was no longer the villain in my story… because he no longer had the power to stop my story.
That night, I wrote in my journal:
"Sometimes, God allows people to break you… so you will rise with wings they never imagined.
I will not hate Tunde.
I will fly above him."
One week later, we had our first real flight simulation test.
I entered the mock cockpit, heart racing.
The instructor gave me a signal.
"Little Captain Ogochukwu, take her up."
And as I pulled the throttle… the machine lifted.
I closed my eyes and imagined my son watching.
I imagined my parents, standing with pride.
I imagined a classroom in Imo, where a girl once wrote in her book, "I want to be a pilot."
Now, she was becoming one.
CHAPTER 6
They say success makes noise.
But I didn't know mine would echo all the way from Lagos to Abuja… and even back to Imo state
When I finished the aviation program, I returned to my village with a certificate in my bag, strength in my steps, and fire in my eyes.
At the bus park, my father was waiting.
He didn't say much.
Just hugged me — tight — like a father who had just seen his daughter fly home.
At home, Mama brought out the wrapper she had kept for "special celebration."
She cooked ofe owerri, the kind I loved. Neighbours came around.
Some brought groundnuts, others brought fufu, some just brought smiles.
"This girl don carry our name enter newspaper!"
"Pilot ke? My God! Who say pikin from poor house no fit fly?"
And yes — it was true.
Somehow, my story had gotten into a national blog.
"Young Mother Overcomes Shame to Chase Dream of Becoming Nigeria's Youngest Female Pilot."
They used a photo of me in my aviation uniform — smiling, holding my certificate, and my son beside me.
The article went viral.
Three days later, I was washing my son's clothes behind the house when my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I wiped my hands and picked.
"Hello?"
A man's voice. Sharp. Educated.
"Is this Miss Ogochukwu Ukachi?"
"Yes… who's this?"
"I am Barrister Adetunji. Personal lawyer to Chief Abiola Oladipo — Tunde's father." I froze.
Tunde? After all this time? Why now?
"Why are you calling me?" I asked cautiously.
"Ma'am, Chief Oladipo requests a meeting with you… and the child."
I travelled to Lagos two days later, heart pounding every mile of the way.
When I arrived at their mansion in Island, I almost turned back.
But something stronger than fear pushed me to the gate.
A guard led me in.
Everything sparkled — the floors, the chandelier, even the staircase.
Then the door opened.
Tunde's mother came out first. She looked at me, then looked at my son — now walking, holding my hand.
No smile.
Just a long, quiet stare.
Then the Chief came out.
An older man. His eyes were sharp, his voice firm.
"You must be Ogochukwu," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"We have read about you. We have confirmed the child is Tunde's — his birthmark and date match. But Tunde never mentioned you… or him."
I stood silently, holding back tears.
"We're not here for drama," the Chief continued. "I only want the truth."
I looked him in the eye.
And I told them everything.
From the first day Tunde walked into our classroom… to the promises… to the pregnancy… to being abandoned… to finding my dream again.
When I finished, the room was quiet.
Then Tunde's mother — the woman who hadn't said a word — stood up and walked to me.
She touched my son's head gently.
"He looks like Tunde when he was small," she whispered. Then she looked at me.
"I'm sorry. For what my son did. And for how life has treated you."
I couldn't believe it.
An apology? From her?
Chief spoke again.
"If you will allow it, we do like to be a part of the child's life. Not to take him from you… but to give him the opportunities Tunde was too immature to give."
I sat in silence for a long time.
Then I spoke.
"Sir… I don't want your money. I don't want pity. But my son deserves to know where he came from. And he deserves to choose for himself, when he grows up."
"So yes… you can be in his life. But I will raise him."
Tunde's mother nodded slowly
"That is fair."
As I walked out of the house, I didn't feel broken.
I didn't feel angry.
I felt free.
Tunde came out, finally — probably forced.
He looked at me, ashamed. Couldn't even look me in the eye.
"Ogochukwu, I… I didn't know things would turn out like this."
I looked at him, calm and strong.
"It's okay, Tunde. I'm no longer the girl you used. I'm the mother of your son… and a woman you will never forget."
I walked away without looking back.
That night, in Aunty Ronnie's house, I looked at my son sleeping beside me.
And I smiled.
"My child, you may never know the full weight of what we have survived.
But one day, when you look up and see a plane in the sky, know that your mother refused to be grounded.
We rose, because we believed."
CHAPTER 7
Four years later.
The sky looked different when you're inside it.
I sat in the cockpit of Flight 312 from Lagos to Abuja, wearing my uniform proudly.
The headset was snug. My voice was calm. My hands? Steady.
"Co-pilot Ogochukwu Ukachi, ready for takeoff," I said into the radio.
The captain beside me — a kind woman named Ada — smiled and nodded.
"You're flying this one, Little Captain. Let's go."
As we pulled off the runway, I remembered my father's shoes.
My mother's bread.
My small classroom in Imo State.
My son's tiny fingers holding mine.
This was not just flying. This was destiny.
In the passenger cabin, over a hundred souls sat, trusting us to take them safely across the sky.
Among them?
Someone I wasn't expecting.
Thirty-five minutes into the flight, while cruising at 35,000 feet, the flight attendant came into the cockpit.
"Sorry, Ma," she said, "there's a passenger who says he knows you. He's requesting to greet you briefly after landing."
"Who?" I asked.
"He said… Pastor Henley from Imo State."
I froze.
Pastor Henley? The youth pastor from our old church? The one who used to say I was destined for greatness..
I smiled.
"Tell him , i will meet him at the gate after we land."
After we touched down in Abuja, I stepped out in full uniform.
Passengers clapped — some always did when a flight ended smoothly.
Then I saw him.
Pastor Henley.
Older now, but still bright-eyed. Still full of energy.
He saw me — and tears welled up in his eyes.
"Is this… is this the same Ogochukwu that used to sell bread in the evening?"
"Yes, sir," I smiled. "The same one."
He hugged me, trembling.
"I saw your story online two years ago. I have been praying I hoped to meet you one day. You inspired half my youth group!"
We sat at a lounge café in the terminal.
He told me about the new school they started in the village. How girls were now returning to school. How he used my story to preach hope.
Then he looked at me seriously.
"But that's not why I came."
"Sir?"
He reached into his bag and brought out an envelope.
"This came to our church last week. It's for you. No return address."
"From who?"
"We don't know. But… I think you need to read it."
Later, in my hotel room, I opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
I knew the handwriting instantly.
Tunde.
"Ogochukwu,
I'm writing this with a heart that's been silent for too long.
I don't deserve your forgiveness.
I failed you. I failed our son.
My marriage didn't last — not that it excuses anything. I just want you to know that walking away from you was the worst decision I ever made.
I saw your story online. I saw the woman you have become.
You are more than everything I ever saw in you… and I was too blind to stay.
If my son ever wants to meet me one day, I will be waiting. But I will never disturb your peace again.
Thank you for raising him.
Tunde."
I stared at the letter for a long time.
Not out of pain.
But out of peace.
I folded it and placed it back in the envelope.
Then I picked up my phone and called my father.
"Papa, tell Mama I will be home this weekend."
"Is everything okay?"
"Yes," I smiled. "I just want to fly home… not in a plane this time. Just to sit on her kitchen floor again… and breathe."
That evening, I watched the sunset through my hotel window.
Chidiebere had just turned five. He was already asking questions about planes, engines, and airports.
I knew one day I'd have to tell him the full story.
But for now, it was enough to know:
I didn't just survive. I soared.
And even when people tried to bury me…
I became a seed.
CHAPTER 8
"Mommy, my teacher said I should dress like what I want to be when I grow up."
It was Career Day at my son's school in Abuja.
Little Chidiebere was jumping around with joy.
I looked at him and smiled.
"So, what do you want to be, my pilot prince?" I asked.
He paused.
Then said with the brightest eyes:
"I want to be… like you."
I knelt down and hugged him tightly.
That was the day I cried and laughed at the same time.
Later that evening, I got an email from the Federal Ministry of Youth and Empowerment.
Subject: "Keynote Invitation — National Girl-Child Summit"
I opened it.
"Dear Miss Ogochukwu Ukachi,
We are honored to invite you as our keynote speaker at this year's National Girl-Child Summit in Abuja. Your story continues to inspire thousands across the country. Please let us know your availability..."*
I couldn't believe it.
Me? A girl who once sold bread with chalk on her lips?
Me? A girl they once mocked as "market girl"?
Now being asked to speak before ministers, governors, ambassadors?
I looked up at the ceiling and whispered,
"Mama, your prayers are still working."
The next morning, I got another call.
"Hello, Miss Ogochukwu? This is Captain Nnamdi of FlyBlue Airlines. We have followed your journey. Our board wants to offer you a full scholarship to complete your international license training in Canada. All expenses covered."
I was stunned.
"You mean… I can train to become a full international pilot?"
"Yes, Ogochukwu. You're one of a kind. We want you flying with us — internationally."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
A global future… or stay near home for my son's early years?
I sat in the dark, watching my little boy sleep.
He turned and mumbled in his dream:
"Mommy fly plane…"
I smiled.
The summit arrived.
I stood on the stage wearing a royal blue suit and a gele that Mama tied for me herself.
There were over five thousand girls in the audience.
And more watching online.
I stood at the podium. Microphone in front of me. Lights on my face.
And I began to speak.
"My name is Ogochukwu Ukachi.
I got pregnant at 17.
I was mocked. I was sent out of my house.
But I didn't let that be the end of my story.
Today, I fly planes.
And I raise a son who knows that his mother never bowed to shame."
The whole auditorium was silent.
Some girls were crying.
Some were whispering, "She's the one… the girl from the story…"
"No matter what you have been through," I continued, "remember this:
People may laugh at your pain.
But one day, they will clap for your rise."
After the event, a little girl came to me with shaky hands.
"Aunty Ogochukwu… I… I was raped last year. I haven't told anyone. I wanted to die. But when I heard your story, I decided I will live. I want to be a pilot too."
I hugged her tightly.
And whispered,
Back at the hotel, I sat with my journal.
On one page, I wrote:
✈ Canada Training – 6 months abroad. Career growth.
And on the other:
🏠 Stay in Nigeria. Be near Chidiebere. Wait 2 years and apply again.
Then I heard his tiny feet.
My son walked in holding his toy plane.
"Mommy, when will I fly with you?"
My heart broke and healed at the same time.
"Soon, my love. Very soon."
That night, I made my decision.
I called the airline.
"I'm honored," I said. "But I'll have to defer for now. My son needs me close. But I will be ready soon — and when I come, I will come stronger."
The woman on the phone was silent, then said:
"You're not just a pilot, Ogochukwu. You're a mother. And that's the highest kind of leader."
CHAPTER 9
When I got the call, I was in the middle of helping Chidiebere with his homework.
"Hello, is this Miss Ogochukwu Ukachi?"
"Yes, who's this please?"
"It's Nkiru… your cousin. Ogoo, I'm sorry. There's been an accident. Uncle has been rushed to the hospital."
"Which Uncle?"
"Your father. It's bad. Please come home."
I dropped the phone slowly.
The pencil slipped from my hand.
My son looked at me, confused.
"Mommy, are you okay?"
I forced a smile and touched his cheek.
"We need to go home, baby. To Imo."
We arrived in Owerri that evening.
The streets were familiar — but so much had changed.
Yet, the smell of roasted corn, the loud keke horns, the children shouting "Aunty Pilot! Aunty Pilot!" as we passed — it all reminded me of who I was, and who I had become.
At the hospital, Mama was sitting on a bench outside the ward.
Her eyes were red, but her spirit was strong.
She stood up as soon as she saw me and hugged me tightly.
"My daughter… your papa needs you."
I stepped into the room.
There he was.
My father — the man who once threw me out without a second thought — now lying on the bed, tubes in his nose, eyes barely open.
He turned slowly and saw me.
For a long moment, he just stared.
Then he whispered:
"Ogochukwu…"
His voice was weak, but I heard everything in it.
Pain.
Regret.
Hope.
I walked closer.
Held his hand.
"I'm here, Papa."
A tear slipped from his eye.
"I… I didn't know how strong you'd become.
I was wrong… about so many things.
I judged you… when I should have protected you."
I was silent for a while.
Then I sat beside him.
"I needed your love, Papa. But I got strength instead. And it made me who I am."
His grip on my hand tightened.
"Can you forgive an old man who didn't know better?"
I looked into his eyes.
And nodded.
"Yes, Papa. I already did — long before now."
That night, I lay awake in the same room I used to share with my younger sisters — the same room where I once cried myself to sleep after Tunde left.
My son slept peacefully beside me.
And I realized something…
Healing is not just about getting better.
It's about returning to the place that broke you — and finding peace there.
Two days later, Papa was discharged.
The villagers heard that "Ogochukwu the pilot" had returned.
Old men greeted me like a hero.
Young girls came just to touch my hand.
One of the teachers from my old school even invited me to speak to the final-year students.
I stood before those young, hopeful eyes — the same way I once sat, full of dreams, unaware of the storm coming.
"Some of you may think life ends when mistakes happen," I told them.
"But let me tell you the truth…
Your story is not over. It's only beginning."
That night, I took my father outside.
We sat under the stars.
He cleared his throat.
"You know… I kept your school uniform. The white shirt. Even the tie."
I laughed. Tears filled my eyes.
"Why, Papa?"
"I don't know. Maybe because I couldn't let go of my little girl."
We sat in silence for a while.
Then he said something I never expected.
"Ogochukwu… if you still want to go to Canada, go. You have done more than enough for this village. For your family. Now it's time to fly higher."
"What about you, Papa? What about Mama? My son?"
He smiled.
"Your son will always have us. But the sky is waiting for you."
As I stood up to go inside, I looked up.
The stars above Imo State were the same ones that watched me suffer, dream, and grow.
But tonight…
They didn't just shine.
They applauded.
CHAPTER 10
The cold hit me the moment I stepped out of Pearson International Airport in Toronto.
It wasn't the kind of cold that touched your skin. It touched your bones.
I wrapped my coat tighter, my son's tiny hand clutched in mine.
"Mommy, is this Canada?" he asked, his breath making small clouds in the air.
"Yes, Bebe," I said. "This is our new sky."
The FlyBlue training program was intense.
We had lectures from 8am, simulator drills, weather analysis, flight coding, radio communication — everything was sharper, faster, and far more demanding than Nigeria.
But I didn't come here to relax.
I came here to conquer.
Every day, I looked at myself in the mirror and whispered:
"You are not a mistake. You are a mission."
Three weeks in, I met her.
Her name was Amalian, a Kenyan woman in her early thirties.
Tall. Confident. Sharp tongue. But a heart of gold.
We were assigned as training partners for our first night simulation.
"You fly like someone who's flown through storms," she said after our first joint session.
I laughed. "That's because I have."
We quickly became friends — sharing meals, stories, even our deepest secrets.
One evening, while sipping tea in the lounge, she asked:
"So what brought you to flying?"
I looked out the window and said:
"A heartbreak. A baby. And a promise I made to my 17-year-old self."
She stared at me for a moment, then said:
"That's deep. Mine was something else."
"Tell me."
She hesitated. Then spoke.
"I was trafficked… when I was 15. To Europe. Escaped at 18. Spent a year in a shelter. Then found a flight school scholarship. Flying saved me. That's why I'm here."
I was silent for a long time.
Then I reached for her hand.
"Amalian… we didn't just survive. We're writing scriptures in the sky."
She smiled, tears in her eyes.
"Amen, sister. Amen."
Six months passed like a blink.
Chidiebere adjusted beautifully — speaking with a new accent, making friends, even correcting my English sometimes.
"Mommy, it's not shorpener, it's sharpener."
We laughed a lot.
But deep down, I missed Nigeria.
I missed Mama's pepper soup.
Papa's slow wisdom.
The sound of the rain hitting the zinc roof of our Imo house.
Still, every time I wore my training uniform, I
Then came the biggest test: final solo flight simulation.
I was in the cockpit. Alone.
The instructor's voice echoed in my headset:
"Miss Ogochukwu, your task is a cross-country simulation over snowy terrain. Remember: confidence and caution."
As I took off, something happened.
About thirty minutes into the simulation, a technical error blinked red on the panel.
The simulator suddenly powered down.
Emergency lights came on.
The door opened.
"Ogochukwu," said the supervisor, smiling, "your instincts were flawless. You passed.
Welcome to the International Pilot Circle."
I didn't realize I was crying until I felt the
This was it. I had done it.
I ran outside to call Mama.
"Hello, Mama! I did it! I passed!"
She screamed.
"Eh! Chineke! OGOCHUKWU nwa m! The sky is no longer your limit — it is your home!"
We both laughed and cried.
That night, Amalian brought cake and soda to my flat.
We celebrated like two warriors who'd returned from battle.
As we were about to sleep, she handed me a small box.
"A little gift. For being the most inspiring woman I have ever met."
I opened it.
Inside was a tiny necklace pendant in the shape of a plane.
On it was engrave
"For the girl who became the wind."
CHAPTER 11
They say your past never truly disappears.
It just waits—quietly—until the day you're strong enough to face it.
That day came sooner than I expected.
I was on the balcony with Chidiebere, watching the sunset dip below the snowy rooftops of Toronto, when I got the email.
Subject: Flight Assignment — Lagos, Nigeria
It was my first official co-pilot flight for FlyBlue International.
I was going home… but this time, as a pilot.
I stared at the screen in disbelief, then smiled.
"God, this life…"
"Mama, I'm coming back. But not through the bus park. Not by night bus.
I'm coming with the clouds this time."
She screamed so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
"Pilot Ogochukwu ooo! Chineke daalu! I will cook all the soup in the world for you!"
I laughed through tears.
"Please, Mama, just your bitterleaf soup. That's all I need."
The night before my flight, I was packing Chidiebere's clothes when he looked up from his coloring book and asked:
"Mommy, are we going to see Grandpa and Grandma again?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then the question came.
"Will I see my daddy too?"
I froze.
That question had always hovered over my life like a silent drone — waiting for the right time to land.
"Why do you want to see him?" I asked softly.
"Because other children in my class have daddies. And I want to know what mine looks like."
I held him close.
"You have me, Bebe. You've always had me."
But deep down, I knew the time was drawing near — the time to tell him the truth.
Three days later, our flight landed in Lagos.
As we stepped out of the plane, the familiar heat of Nigeria hit me like a warm slap.
But this time, I welcomed it.
I was no longer a broken girl running from shame.
I was a woman coming home with wings.
FlyBlue Nigeria had arranged a driver to pick me up from the airport.
I was halfway into the car when my phone rang.
It was a strange number.
I hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice.
"Is this Miss Ogochukwu Ukachi?"
"Yes. Who is this please?"
"My name is Kim. I'm Tunde's sister."
My heart skipped.
"Tunde's… sister?"
"Yes. Please, I know this is sudden. But I saw your photo in a magazine at the airport. You're… you're the same Ogochukwu, right?"
I stayed silent.
"Please don't hang up. I don't want to cause trouble. I just… I need help. My brother is very sick. He's in the hospital. He's asking for you."
After all these years… after all the pain…
Now this?
I ended the call without a word.
But I didn't delete the number.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I stared at my son.
The boy who came from love, pain, and silence.
He was growing.
He had questions.
And maybe, just maybe, it was time for answers.
The next morning, I wore a sky-blue dress, tied
my scarf gently, and sat with Mama outside the compound.
I told her everything.
About the call.
About Tunde.
About what I was thinking.
She held my hand and said,
"My daughter… you can fly to the ends of the earth, but your heart will always return to unfinished stories.
Go and see him. Not for his sake, but for your peace."
Later that day, I dialed the number.
Kim picked up immediately.
"Hello? Hello, is this—"
"Where is he?" I asked.
"Saint Paul's Specialist Hospital, Victoria island."
"I will be there in the morning."
As I ended the call, I looked out the window.
The clouds were moving again.
So was my heart.
Some stories don't end when people leave.
They end when the truth is finally spoken.
And I was ready for it.
CHAPTER 12
When the nurse led me to Room 204, my hands were trembling.
I hadn't seen Tunde in over five years. The man who once promised me the world… and left me with silence. I didn't come expecting answers — I had learned to live without them.
But when I stepped into the room, something changed.
He was sitting up on the bed, pale but alive. Not the vibrant Tunde I knew, but not a broken man either. Just… someone waiting.
When his eyes met mine, they watered.
"Ogoo…"
I nodded slowly.
"Tunde."
There was silence — the kind that speaks louder than words.
He cleared his throat.
"I have rehearsed this moment a thousand times in my head… but nothing fits. Nothing feels enough. I failed you. I abandoned you and our son. And no excuse can clean that up."
My heart pounded. But I waited.
"When I left Imo, my father pressured me. Family expectations. A woman already chosen. But the truth is, I was scared. You were real…
and I wasn't man enough to face it."
He took a shaky breath.
"I looked for you later. Found out you'd gone to Canada. I wrote emails I never sent. Then this sickness came. I thought… if I could see you one more time, and just say I'm sorry…"
I didn't speak.
Not yet.
Then his voice broke:
"I want to know my son, Ogoo. Not because I deserve it — but because I need to. I want to be a father. I want to be better."
I looked at him. Really looked.
The boyish charm was gone. What remained was a man — broken, maybe, but honest.
And in that moment, I realized… healing isn't always loud.
Sometimes it looks like a tired man begging for a second chance.
Two weeks later, I brought Chidiebere to see him.
At first, Bebe stood behind me, curious but cautious.
Tunde knelt down, weak knees and all.
"Hello, Bebe. I'm… I'm your daddy."
My son tilted his head.
"My daddy?"
"Yes. I'm sorry I didn't come earlier. But I'm here now."
He stretched out his hand.
Slowly, Bebe placed his tiny fingers in it.
"Can we play ball later?"
Tunde smiled, tears sliding down his cheeks.
"Of course. Anything you want."
Days turned to weeks.
Weeks into months.
Tunde got better. I watched him grow into the father I'd once dreamed of for my son.
He took Bebe to school, helped with assignments, read bedtime stories. There were still awkward moments, but there was love — the kind that fights to stay.
And when he knelt before me in Mama's compound one cool evening, holding a small ring with trembling hands, my heart whispered what my mouth finally said:
"Yes."
We got married quietly — surrounded by family, friends, and the few people who never gave up on us.
Amalian flew in. Mama cried joyfully. Even Bunmi sent her blessings.
And Bebe?
He danced like the whole world was his playground.
Today, I sit under the mango tree where it all began.
Bebe plays nearby. Tunde is chasing him with laughter in his voice.
And me?
I'm writing this with joy in my heaI forgave.
I healed.
I found love again.
Not perfect love.
But true love.
Thank you all for engaging 💕
CHAPTER 13
This Chapter is written to bring closure and honor Aunty RONNIE — the unsung hero of OGOCHUKWU's story. Just as you all, my beautiful readers had requested 💕
It was a quiet Thursday evening.
The clouds over Owerri hung low, soft and still — the kind that makes you reflect.
I had just finished grading some online aviation tests when Bebe came running into the living room, waving one of my old notebooks like a prize.
"Mommy! Look what I found!"
I smiled, drying my hands.
"Another drawing?"
"No! A small card fell out. It says Aunty Ronnie. Who's that?"
My chest tightened.
I hadn't heard that name in years.
I took the card and sat down slowly.
Worn. Smudged.
Still readable.
Aunty Ronnie — Women of Grace Shelter, Akoka, Lagos.
And just like that, the memories returned.
The rain. The fear. The hunger.
Her arms. Her voice. Her care.
She was the only one who looked at me — a scared, pregnant 17-year-old — and didn't see shame.
She saw hope.
And I never said thank you.
That night, after Tunde tucked Bebe into bed, I told him everything.
He held my hand and said softly:
"Then let's find her, Ogoo She deserves to know."
We traveled to Lagos two days later.
Amalian offered to take care of Bebe for the weekend.
Tunde and I drove straight to Akoka.
The shelter was no longer there.
Just a faded signboard and broken bricks.
My heart sank.
I asked around — nearby vendors, old women, street kids.
Nobody knew her.
Some shrugged. Others stared blankly.
Just as we were about to leave, an elderly meat seller called out:
"You dey find one woman wey help girls that year?"
"Yes! Please, ma. Her name is Aunty Ronnie."
She nodded slowly.
"She don comot since… e don tey. But I hear say she dey live for Mushin now. Small place wey she dey use do prayers."
Mushin was noisy, crowded, alive.
We searched.
And then… we found her.
She was sitting outside a small, dusty room, holding a Bible and praying aloud.
Her hair now gray. Her back slightly bent.
Just as we were about to leave, an elderly meat seller called out:
"You dey find one woman wey help girls that year?"
"Yes! Please, ma. Her name is Aunty Ronnie."
She nodded slowly.
"She don comot since… e don tey. But I hear say she dey live for Mushin now. Small place wey she dey use do prayers."
Mushin was noisy, crowded, alive.
We searched.
And then… we found her.
She was sitting outside a small, dusty room, holding a Bible and praying aloud.
Her hair now gray. Her back slightly bent.
We both cried.
"I have prayed for you," she whispered. "All these years… I prayed God would raise you up."
I pulled out a printed photo from my bag — me in my pilot uniform, standing beside Bebe.
"He did, ma. Because of you."
We took her home with us for a week.
Tunde insisted.
She sat at our dining table. Slept in the guest room. Bebe clung to her like a grandmother.
One evening, while watching Bebe play, she said:
"I never had children of my own. But I mothered many. And now… one of them flies the skies."
I held her wrinkled hand.
"You didn't just mother me. You saved me."
Before she left, I surprised her with something I'd planned quietly.
A full renovation of her Mushin house.
New roofing. Running water. A small worship room. A big supermarket.
She tried to protest.
But I knelt before her.
"Please, ma. Let me say thank you properly."
She wiped her tears.
"God bless you, my daughter. May your wings never break."
We waved her goodbye from the airport.
She turned and said with that same smile:
"Go and continue to shine, Ogochukwu. The world still needs your light."
THE END