There are moments in life when a small act of kindness can save a soul.
For me, kindness became another reason to suffer.
By the time Chapter Twelve began, my body had grown used to pain, but my heart still hoped—foolishly—that someone somewhere would notice me.
That hope came in the form of Mama Nkechi, our next-door neighbor.
She was a quiet woman with tired eyes and a gentle voice. Every morning, as I swept the compound, she watched me from her window. She never spoke much, but her eyes always looked sad when they rested on me.
One afternoon, while Aunt Ezinne was away, Mama Nkechi called me softly.
"Nwam, come."
I hesitated. Fear lived inside me now. Fear of punishment. Fear of being seen.
She held out a small bowl of garri soaked in water with a little sugar.
"Eat," she whispered. "Before someone sees you."
My hands trembled as I took it.
That garri tasted like heaven.
I ate slowly, afraid it would finish too soon. Tears dropped into the bowl, but I didn't stop. My stomach eased for the first time in days.
Before I could thank her, I heard footsteps.
Aunt Ezinne.
My heart stopped.
She saw the empty bowl in my hands.
Her face changed.
"So you are now collecting food from people?" she shouted.
Mama Nkechi tried to explain.
"Sister, the boy is thin. He hasn't been eating—"
That slap came fast.
Not for me.
For Mama Nkechi.
The sound echoed.
"Mind your business!" my aunt screamed. "Don't teach this useless boy bad habits!"
People gathered. Nobody spoke.
She dragged me into the house, locked the door, and picked up the cane.
That day, she flogged me longer than ever before.
Each strike landed with anger—not discipline.
"You want to turn my neighbors against me?"
"You want to make me look wicked?"
My skin tore. My back burned. My cries filled the room.
When she was done, she pushed me into the store room and locked me in.
It was dark.
No window.
No food.
No water.
I sat on the cold floor, hugging my knees. My wounds throbbed. Ants crawled on my legs, but I was too weak to move them away.
Hours passed.
I began to talk to myself, just to hear a voice.
I sang the song my mother used to sing when I was sick. My voice cracked halfway through, and I broke down again.
Later that night, her children came to the door.
They didn't open it.
They laughed.
"Maybe he will die there," one of them said casually.
I covered my ears.
That night, I did not sleep.
I just waited.
Waited for morning.
Waited for pain to ease.
Waited for something—anything—to change.
But when she finally opened the door the next day, her only words were:
"Go and fetch water."
No apology.
No regret.
I stepped out slowly, my body aching, my spirit bruised.
And as I carried that heavy bucket on my head, one thought repeated itself again and again:
In this house, kindness is forbidden.
Love is punished.
And survival is the only rule.
That was Chapter Twelve—
the chapter where I learned that even help could hurt. 💔