Chapter Three: A Mother's Back Never Rests
Samuel was seven when Amaka realized childhood had left him too early.
It wasn't something anyone announced. Life simply took it from him, quietly, the way it takes many things from poor children. One morning, as she prepared him for school, she noticed how serious his eyes had become. He no longer asked childish questions. He no longer played carelessly in the dust. He watched people. He listened. He remembered.
That morning, she could not afford his school fees.
Amaka stood in the corner of their one-room apartment, counting crumpled notes again and again, hoping the numbers would change. They didn't. Her chest felt tight. School was the one thing she promised herself she would never take from her son.
"Mama," Samuel said softly, already dressed in his faded uniform. "Are we going today?"
She forced a smile. "Yes. Give me some time."
But time didn't help.
At the school gate, the teacher looked at her with tired eyes. "Madam, you owe two terms."
Amaka nodded. "I know. Please"
"No excuses," the woman interrupted. "Rules are rules."
Other parents watched. Some whispered. Some shook their heads. Amaka felt the familiar heat of shame crawl up her neck, but she did not cry. She never cried in public anymore.
She turned to Samuel. "Go home, my son."
Samuel didn't ask questions. He simply nodded, took her hand, and walked away from the gate. Halfway home, he stopped.
"Mama," he said. "I can help you."
Her heart broke a little. "Help me how?"
"I can sell water after school hours," he said quickly. "Or clean people's compounds. I'm strong."
Amaka knelt in front of him, holding his small face in her hands. "You are a child," she said, her voice shaking. "Your job is to learn."
Samuel looked away. "Then why are you always tired?"
That night, Amaka cried until her chest hurt. Not because she was weak but because she was strong for too long.
The next weeks were harder. Without school, Samuel stayed home while Amaka worked longer hours. She scrubbed floors until her fingers bled. She washed clothes until her arms trembled. Some nights, she returned home to find Samuel asleep without food, waiting for her.
Neighbors talked.
"She's suffering too much."
"If she had stayed with the man, this wouldn't happen."
"Single motherhood is a curse."
Amaka heard it all.
One afternoon, she fainted while working at a woman's house. When she woke up, Samuel was crying beside her, shaking her arm.
"Mama! Mama please wake up!"
That moment haunted her. She saw fear in his eyes the kind children should never know. She realized then that her strength alone was no longer enough. She needed wisdom.
Amaka borrowed money again and enrolled Samuel in a cheaper public school. She worked at night and slept in bits. She sold her last good wrapper. She sold her radio. She sold everything except hope.
Samuel grew lean, quiet, determined.
Sometimes, Amaka caught him staring at other boys playing football with their fathers. He never complained. He never asked questions about his own father. But at night, when he thought she was asleep, she heard him pray.
"God," he whispered, "please help my mama."
Those prayers pierced her deeper than any insult ever could.
One rainy evening, Samuel came home with bruises.
"What happened?" Amaka asked, panic rising.
"Some boys said I don't have a father," he said plainly. "They said my mother is useless."
Amaka pulled him into her arms, shaking with rage and pain. "Look at me," she said firmly. "Listen to me well."
She held his face, tears in her eyes but fire in her voice.
"I may not have a husband, but I am not useless. I am your mother. I am your father. I am everything you need."
Samuel nodded slowly.
That night, Amaka stood outside, staring at the sky, rain soaking her clothes. She was tired bone tired but she was still standing.
And somewhere inside her, pride rose.
Not pride in suffering, but pride in survival.
Because every single mother reading this knows the truth:
You don't break because life hits you.
You bend, you bleed, you endure
and you keep going.
And Amaka?
She was just getting started.