The sun was merciless that afternoon—too bright, too loud, too alive for the heaviness I carried inside me. Its glare bounced angrily off the dusty road, forcing sweat from my skin as I dragged myself home from school. My uniform clung stubbornly to my tired body, damp with exhaustion and boredom. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the earth itself was trying to hold me back.
School had been uneventful, yet draining. My mind had wandered through lessons I barely heard, my stomach knotted with an uneasiness I could not explain. When I finally reached home, I dropped my school bag by the door and sank into a chair, hoping for a few moments of rest—just enough time to breathe.
Then the phone rang.
The sound sliced through the quiet like a blade. I reached for it absentmindedly, expecting nothing more than another ordinary call. But when I looked at the screen, my breath caught in my throat. Several missed calls glared back at me, their numbers unfamiliar, cold, and accusing.
A strange chill crept through my body.
My hands began to tremble, and my heart thudded violently against my ribs, as if trying to escape. Something was wrong. I could feel it—an invisible weight pressing down on my chest.
What could have gone wrong? I asked myself, panic swelling like a rising tide.
Before I could calm my racing thoughts, the phone rang again. This time, I hesitated. My fingers hovered over the screen, afraid of what awaited me on the other side. Finally, I answered.
"Come home immediately," a firm, emotionless voice commanded.
"Who is this?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my mind spinning in confusion. Almost instantly, it rang again. This time, the caller ID revealed a name that made my heart sink—my elder brother, Shine.
"Come home immediately," he repeated, his voice tense.
The room began to blur as I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Memories from earlier that day crashed into my mind. I had been told that my mummy had suddenly collapsed at home and was rushed to the hospital. At the time, I had brushed off my fear, clinging to hope like a lifeline.
I hope nothing has happened to her, I murmured, though my voice lacked conviction.
I did not wait another second.
I ran.
My feet pounded against the dusty road as I raced home, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the ache in my legs. When I finally approached our gate, my pace slowed instinctively. A crowd had gathered in front of our house—far too many people for an ordinary day.
They stood in small clusters, whispering among themselves, shaking their heads solemnly. My heart began to hammer harder than ever before.
Please… hope nothing has happened to my mummy, I whispered, my voice barely audible.
As I moved closer, people noticed me. Their conversations fell silent. One by one, they turned toward me, their eyes filled with pity—an expression I had come to fear deeply.
A woman stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on my arm.
"Take heart," she said softly. "We are sorry for your loss."
The world tilted beneath my feet.
"What happened?" I asked, forcing the words out through a tightening throat.
Another person leaned closer, their voice trembling as they whispered the sentence that shattered my life forever.
"Your mummy is dead. Her body is inside the room. We were waiting for you before the burial."
The words struck me like thunder.
I collapsed instantly, my legs giving way beneath me. A loud cry tore from my chest as tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. I sobbed like a helpless child, my body wracked with grief too heavy to contain.
Seven years earlier, death had taken my father.
Now it had returned—for my mother.
At just ten years old, I became an orphan.
Alone.
The world that once felt familiar suddenly turned cold and unforgiving. Questions screamed inside my head, unanswered and cruel.
Who will pay my school fees?
Who will feed me?
Who will clothe me?
Who will take care of me now?
With trembling steps, I walked into the room.
There she lay—my mummy—motionless, wrapped in white cloth. The sight stole the last bit of strength from my legs. I moved closer, my heart shattering into pieces with every step.
I looked at her face one final time. She looked peaceful, as though asleep. I whispered a silent prayer for her soul, hoping—desperately—for a miracle.
"Please, mummy," I cried, my voice breaking. "Stand up. You can't leave us now. Daddy is already gone… and now you too? Who will take care of us?"
The room answered me with silence.
She never moved.
A hand rested gently on my shoulder. I turned to see Gan, my elder brother, his eyes swollen with grief.
"Stand up and take heart," he said softly. "She's not coming back."
As Muslims, burial must be immediate. Preparations were made swiftly, as tradition demanded. Her body was taken to the graveyard as the entire town gathered in large numbers. People came from far and near—men and women, rich and poor alike.
My father had been a successful transporter in his lifetime, known across regions for his hard work and generosity. Even in death, people came to honor his memory through her.
Prayers were offered. Tears flowed freely.
When her body was lowered into the grave and covered with sand, my grief erupted uncontrollably. I cried until my chest ached, until my tears felt endless.
After the burial, people followed us home, offering words of comfort and consolation. At the time, I believed their promises—that we would not be abandoned.
I was wrong.
Two weeks later, the house fell silent.
No visitors.
No sympathy.
No financial support.
Everyone was gone.
We were left alone—handed over to fate.
That was where the journey truly began.
I was the third child in a family of five. My eldest brother struggled to survive with his own child. The second worked as a roadside mechanic, earning barely enough to feed himself. Life tightened its grip around our throats.
When third term ended, I dropped out of school.
There was no money for fees.
I became a street boy—wandering aimlessly, searching for survival. I apprenticed as a mechanic, but my heart was never there. Each time customers arrived with their children, speaking fluent English, something inside me broke.
I longed for the classroom.
That longing cost me my job.
Back on the streets again, desperate but determined, I searched for a way to register for WAEC. That was when fate led me to Mariam.
She was newly married and had just moved into her apartment. I pleaded with her, offering to work for her in exchange for help with my exams.
"What about your parents?" she asked.
"They are dead," I replied quietly.
Her eyes softened with sympathy.
"I dropped out in my final year," I explained. "I couldn't pay for WAEC after my mum died."
She paused for a long moment. "I'll see what I can do," she said. "But you'll run errands for me."
"No problem," I answered eagerly.
I cleaned, mopped, and ran long distances without complaint. One day, she gave me ₦3,000 to buy food items from the market.
On my way, five older boys blocked my path.
One carried a heavy stick.
"Stop there," the leader barked.
Fear seized me, and I ran—but they were faster.
"Give me the money," he demanded.
"It's for Madam," I pleaded.
My refusal enraged him. He raised the stick and struck my head.
Everything went dark.
When I regained consciousness, the money was gone. Blood stained my clothes.
Now I have to go home and face it, I told myself.
When I returned, Mariam shouted at me.
"I was attacked," I explained, shaking.
"You're a liar," she snapped. "Pack your things and leave my house now."
And just like that, I was back on the streets—bruised, broken, and alone once more.
The sun was merciless that afternoon—too bright, too loud, too alive for the heaviness I carried inside me. Its glare bounced angrily off the dusty road, forcing sweat from my skin as I dragged myself home from school. My uniform clung stubbornly to my tired body, damp with exhaustion and boredom. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the earth itself was trying to hold me back.
School had been uneventful, yet draining. My mind had wandered through lessons I barely heard, my stomach knotted with an uneasiness I could not explain. When I finally reached home, I dropped my school bag by the door and sank into a chair, hoping for a few moments of rest—just enough time to breathe.
Then the phone rang.
The sound sliced through the quiet like a blade. I reached for it absentmindedly, expecting nothing more than another ordinary call. But when I looked at the screen, my breath caught in my throat. Several missed calls glared back at me, their numbers unfamiliar, cold, and accusing.
A strange chill crept through my body.
My hands began to tremble, and my heart thudded violently against my ribs, as if trying to escape. Something was wrong. I could feel it—an invisible weight pressing down on my chest.
What could have gone wrong? I asked myself, panic swelling like a rising tide.
Before I could calm my racing thoughts, the phone rang again. This time, I hesitated. My fingers hovered over the screen, afraid of what awaited me on the other side. Finally, I answered.
"Come home immediately," a firm, emotionless voice commanded.
"Who is this?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my mind spinning in confusion. Almost instantly, it rang again. This time, the caller ID revealed a name that made my heart sink—my elder brother, Shine.
"Come home immediately," he repeated, his voice tense.
The room began to blur as I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Memories from earlier that day crashed into my mind. I had been told that my mummy had suddenly collapsed at home and was rushed to the hospital. At the time, I had brushed off my fear, clinging to hope like a lifeline.
I hope nothing has happened to her, I murmured, though my voice lacked conviction.
I did not wait another second.
I ran.
My feet pounded against the dusty road as I raced home, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the ache in my legs. When I finally approached our gate, my pace slowed instinctively. A crowd had gathered in front of our house—far too many people for an ordinary day.
They stood in small clusters, whispering among themselves, shaking their heads solemnly. My heart began to hammer harder than ever before.
Please… hope nothing has happened to my mummy, I whispered, my voice barely audible.
As I moved closer, people noticed me. Their conversations fell silent. One by one, they turned toward me, their eyes filled with pity—an expression I had come to fear deeply.
A woman stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on my arm.
"Take heart," she said softly. "We are sorry for your loss."
The world tilted beneath my feet.
"What happened?" I asked, forcing the words out through a tightening throat.
Another person leaned closer, their voice trembling as they whispered the sentence that shattered my life forever.
"Your mummy is dead. Her body is inside the room. We were waiting for you before the burial."
The words struck me like thunder.
I collapsed instantly, my legs giving way beneath me. A loud cry tore from my chest as tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. I sobbed like a helpless child, my body wracked with grief too heavy to contain.
Seven years earlier, death had taken my father.
Now it had returned—for my mother.
At just ten years old, I became an orphan.
Alone.
The world that once felt familiar suddenly turned cold and unforgiving. Questions screamed inside my head, unanswered and cruel.
Who will pay my school fees?
Who will feed me?
Who will clothe me?
Who will take care of me now?
With trembling steps, I walked into the room.
There she lay—my mummy—motionless, wrapped in white cloth. The sight stole the last bit of strength from my legs. I moved closer, my heart shattering into pieces with every step.
I looked at her face one final time. She looked peaceful, as though asleep. I whispered a silent prayer for her soul, hoping—desperately—for a miracle.
"Please, mummy," I cried, my voice breaking. "Stand up. You can't leave us now. Daddy is already gone… and now you too? Who will take care of us?"
The room answered me with silence.
She never moved.
A hand rested gently on my shoulder. I turned to see Gan, my elder brother, his eyes swollen with grief.
"Stand up and take heart," he said softly. "She's not coming back."
As Muslims, burial must be immediate. Preparations were made swiftly, as tradition demanded. Her body was taken to the graveyard as the entire town gathered in large numbers. People came from far and near—men and women, rich and poor alike.
My father had been a successful transporter in his lifetime, known across regions for his hard work and generosity. Even in death, people came to honor his memory through her.
Prayers were offered. Tears flowed freely.
When her body was lowered into the grave and covered with sand, my grief erupted uncontrollably. I cried until my chest ached, until my tears felt endless.
After the burial, people followed us home, offering words of comfort and consolation. At the time, I believed their promises—that we would not be abandoned.
I was wrong.
Two weeks later, the house fell silent.
No visitors.
No sympathy.
No financial support.
Everyone was gone.
We were left alone—handed over to fate.
That was where the journey truly began.
I was the third child in a family of five. My eldest brother struggled to survive with his own child. The second worked as a roadside mechanic, earning barely enough to feed himself. Life tightened its grip around our throats.
When third term ended, I dropped out of school.
There was no money for fees.
I became a street boy—wandering aimlessly, searching for survival. I apprenticed as a mechanic, but my heart was never there. Each time customers arrived with their children, speaking fluent English, something inside me broke.
I longed for the classroom.
That longing cost me my job.
Back on the streets again, desperate but determined, I searched for a way to register for WAEC. That was when fate led me to Mariam.
She was newly married and had just moved into her apartment. I pleaded with her, offering to work for her in exchange for help with my exams.
"What about your parents?" she asked.
"They are dead," I replied quietly.
Her eyes softened with sympathy.
"I dropped out in my final year," I explained. "I couldn't pay for WAEC after my mum died."
She paused for a long moment. "I'll see what I can do," she said. "But you'll run errands for me."
"No problem," I answered eagerly.
I cleaned, mopped, and ran long distances without complaint. One day, she gave me ₦3,000 to buy food items from the market.
On my way, five older boys blocked my path.
One carried a heavy stick.
"Stop there," the leader barked.
Fear seized me, and I ran—but they were faster.
"Give me the money," he demanded.
"It's for Madam," I pleaded.
My refusal enraged him. He raised the stick and struck my head.
Everything went dark.
When I regained consciousness, the money was gone. Blood stained my clothes.
Now I have to go home and face it, I told myself.
When I returned, Mariam shouted at me.
"I was attacked," I explained, shaking.
"You're a liar," she snapped. "Pack your things and leave my house now."
And just like that, I was back on the streets—bruised, broken, and alone once more.