The wind howled through the broken windows of the small mud house, carrying with it the heavy scent of rain-soaked earth. The night was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that presses down on the chest and makes breathing feel like work. Twelve-year-old Amara sat on the edge of a raffia mat, her thin frame trembling as she listened to her mother's faint breathing.
Mama's chest rose and fell with effort, each gasp sounding like a struggle against the darkness that was trying to claim her. Beside her lay Papa, motionless, his skin pale and cold from the fever that had raged through his body for days. Amara had tried everything—fetching herbs from the old woman down the street, drawing water from the stream, praying until her lips cracked. But nothing had worked.
Now, the walls of their one-room home felt like a coffin.
"Mama…" Amara whispered, her voice breaking. "Don't leave me, please. I'll be good. I'll take care of you."
Her mother's weak hand found hers. The touch was light, almost weightless, yet it carried the warmth of every embrace, every lullaby, every lesson whispered under the moonlight. Mama's eyes fluttered open, cloudy with tears.
"You are strong, Amara," she said, her voice barely audible. "Stronger than you know. Remember… the world is not kind. But you must never let it kill your spirit. Promise me."
"I promise," Amara cried, clutching her hand tightly, afraid to let go.
And then… silence.
The last breath slipped from Mama's lips like a candle snuffed out in the wind.
Amara's scream tore through the night.
By dawn, the villagers gathered. Whispers of pity and fear circled around her like vultures.
"The girl has lost both parents," they murmured.
"Poor child… what will she do now?"
The burial was quick and unceremonious. A mound of earth. Two wooden crosses. And Amara, standing barefoot in the mud, staring at the finality of it all.
No uncles came forward. No aunties reached out. Everyone had their own troubles, their own mouths to feed. Amara was alone.
That night, as the crickets sang and the moon watched from above, she sat in the empty house surrounded by her parents' belongings. The old iron pot, Mama's wrapper, Papa's farming tools. Memories clung to everything like dust.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. If I stay here, I'll die here too.
The decision formed in her heart like fire. She gathered what little they had—Papa's bicycle, Mama's wrapper, a basket of yams—and sold them in the village square. The money was meager, but it was something. Enough for transport to the city, maybe food for a few days.
As the villagers watched her bargain and sell her parents' belongings, some shook their heads.
"She is too young."
"The city will swallow her."
But Amara's eyes were steady. Beneath the sorrow, there was a spark—fragile yet unyielding.
On the third morning after the burial, she stood at the dusty roadside with a small bag tied in cloth. A rickety bus stopped, belching smoke. The conductor shouted, "City! City!"
Amara climbed aboard, her heart pounding.
As the bus pulled away, she turned to catch one last glimpse of her village. The only home she had ever known shrank into the distance, until it was nothing more than a blur swallowed by the horizon.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her fists were clenched.
She whispered into the wind:
"Papa… Mama… I will survive. No matter what."
And with that vow, Amara's journey began.
The bus jolted forward, creaking like an old man's bones, and Amara held tightly to the edge of the wooden seat. Around her, sweaty passengers shouted over one another—women balancing baskets of tomatoes, men with sacks of clothes, children crying in the heat. The air inside smelled of dust, kerosene, and roasted corn from the roadside sellers.
Amara sat quietly, clutching her small bundle of clothes wrapped in her late mother's faded wrapper. The conductor's harsh voice rang out as he squeezed through the bodies.
"Your money, your money! Hold am tight, abeg, pickpocket dey inside this bus oh!"
Amara's fingers brushed against the small purse tied securely under her dress. That little money was all she had left in the world. If it was stolen, she would have nothing—no home, no food, no future.
She kept her eyes fixed on the dusty road ahead, but her mind was still in the village. She saw Mama's smile, Papa's rough hands guiding hers as she tried to plant cassava, the little evenings they would sit outside telling stories under the moon. Now, the images stabbed at her chest like knives.
The bus stopped and started, picking passengers along the way. At every halt, hawkers shoved roasted groundnuts, oranges, and sachet water through the windows.
"Buy gala! Buy pure water!"
Amara's stomach rumbled, but she dared not spend her money. She pressed her hunger down like a secret.
Hours passed. The sun sank, and the city lights began to glow in the distance like a thousand stars fallen to the earth.
When the bus finally arrived at the motor park, chaos engulfed her senses. Shouts of conductors filled the air:
"Oshodi straight! Yaba straight!"
"Madam, make you enter, last bus dey move!"
Men pushed wheelbarrows, carrying heavy loads. Women bargained in sharp voices. The smell of roasted meat mixed with the stench of refuse heaps nearby.
Amara froze. She had never seen so many people, so many cars, so much noise. The city was alive—but alive like a wild animal, unpredictable and hungry.
She stepped down from the bus slowly, her legs trembling. Immediately, two boys approached her.
"Sister, make we help you carry your bag!" one said, already trying to snatch it.
Amara clutched it to her chest.
"No! Leave me!"
They laughed and walked away, muttering insults.
Her heart pounded. I can't trust anyone here.
The motor park grew darker as the night deepened. Passengers disappeared into taxis, buses, or homes, but Amara had nowhere to go. She wandered aimlessly until she found a corner near a broken fence. She sat on her small bundle and hugged her knees, watching shadows move around her.
That first night in the city was the longest of her life.
Rats squeaked as they ran through piles of rubbish. Drunk men staggered past, shouting and laughing. Somewhere nearby, a baby cried endlessly. Amara shivered as the cold bit into her bones.
She thought of her parents again, and tears welled up. She whispered into the night,
"Mama, Papa… I'm here now. You told me to be strong. I will be strong."
She tried to sleep, but every sound startled her awake. The city did not sleep, and neither did she.
By morning, the city's noise rose like thunder. Buses honked, traders shouted, and the streets teemed with life. Amara stood up, dusted her wrapper, and gripped her bundle.
I have to find work. I have to eat.
She began to walk through the crowded streets, her small frame lost among the sea of rushing adults. She asked people timidly,
"Please… where can I find work?"
Most ignored her. Some hissed. One woman laughed.
"You? Small girl like you? Go back to your village!"
But Amara didn't stop. She kept walking.
As the sun reached its peak, she felt faint from hunger. She leaned against a wall near a roadside stall. A kind-looking elderly woman selling akara noticed her.
"Chai, small girl, you look weak. You never chop since yesterday?"
Amara shook her head. The woman gave her two akara balls wrapped in old newspaper.
"Take, eat. God will help you."
Amara whispered, "Thank you," her voice breaking, and ate greedily, tears falling as the warm taste filled her empty stomach.
The woman looked at her curiously.
"Where are your people?"
"They are gone," Amara said softly. "I came here to find a better life."
The woman sighed deeply. "This city, ehn, no be easy place. But if you want work, I know one family looking for house help. It no go pay much, but you go get food and roof over your head."
Amara's eyes lit up.
"Please, Mama, help me."
The woman nodded. "Come tomorrow morning. I will take you there."
That night, Amara returned to her broken corner near the fence, but this time she carried a little hope in her heart. She hugged her bundle tighter and whispered,
"Maybe this is the beginning. Maybe tomorrow will be better."
But deep down, the city was only beginning to show her its teeth.