Rosyworld family

10/09/2025

🌹 “They Said I Belonged to the Streets — But I Became the Man Who Built Homes for the Homeless.”

Written by RosyWorld CRN

---

Part One: Abandoned at Birth

My name is Samuel.
I was abandoned as a baby at Mile 2 in Lagos. My mother was too poor to raise me, so she left me wrapped in an old cloth by a refuse dump.

A street woman found me and raised me alongside her own children. I grew up in brokenness, sleeping under bridges, eating leftovers, and wearing clothes pulled from dustbins.

People called me “omo street” — a child of the gutter. Some even said,
“He will die a criminal. No good can come out of him.”

Those words cut deep, but every night I prayed to the God I barely knew:
“Give me one chance. Just one.”

---

Part Two: Life in the Gutter

At 10, I joined other street boys hawking sachet water in traffic. I dodged cars, chased buses, and fought hunger daily.

One evening, an accident happened — a car knocked me down as I was selling. Instead of helping, bystanders laughed:
“See street boy, he go die here!”

That night, as I lay with bruises, I told myself: If I survive this street, I will not waste my life.

---

Part Three: The Unexpected Helper

At 14, a kind woman named Madam Bisi, who ran a small NGO, noticed me. She took me in, gave me food, and sponsored my education.

For the first time, I held a school uniform. I cried as I wore it because it felt like wearing hope.

I studied with fire. I knew I was not just reading for myself — I was reading for every abandoned child still under the bridge.

---

Part Four: The Struggle to Belong

Even in school, classmates mocked me.
“That one is from the street.”
“He doesn’t even know his father.”

But I refused to bow to shame. I joined debates, topped my class, and gained admission into the University of Lagos to study Civil Engineering.

I worked as a bricklayer and security guard to pay bills. Many nights, I went hungry, but I never stopped dreaming.

---

Part Five: The Rise

After graduation, I started working with a construction company. I learned everything I could, saved every kobo, and eventually registered my own building firm.

At first, I built small houses. Then schools. Then estates. Within 15 years, I became CEO of Hope Builders Nigeria Ltd.

But I didn’t forget my roots. I built free hostels for homeless children and vocational centers for street boys.

---

Part Six: Full Circle

One day, I drove past Mile 2 and saw street children running between cars, just as I once did. I parked, stepped out, and gathered them.

“Listen,” I said, “you are not cursed. You are not forgotten. If I could rise from this same street, so can you.”

I now house over 300 abandoned children through my foundation. The same boy they called street rat became the man who builds homes for the homeless.

---

Moral 🌹

Your past does not define you. Where you started is not where you must end. Even the streets can produce kings.

---

👉 If you were Samuel, would you go back to live among the street children to inspire them daily — or keep your distance while supporting from afar?

---

✨ Hashtags:

10/09/2025

🌹 “They Said My Tears Would Drown Me — But I Built a Bridge Others Now Walk On.”

Written by RosyWorld CRN

---

Part One: The Weight of Tears

My name is Chiamaka.
I was the first daughter in a family of six children. My father loved his wine more than his children, and my mother struggled endlessly to feed us.

At 13, I dropped out of school because there was no money. My dream of becoming a teacher shattered. Every night, I cried silently into my pillow. Neighbors often said:
“This one will marry early and continue her mother’s suffering.”

Those words pierced me, but I whispered to God: “Let these tears one day water my destiny.”

---

Part Two: The Fall into Darkness

At 16, I left the village for Lagos as a housemaid. My first madam treated me like trash — beatings for mistakes, insults at every turn. Sometimes I ate only the crumbs left after her dogs.

One evening, she pushed me out because I accidentally broke a glass. Standing on the street with nowhere to go, I cried bitterly. People walked past as if my pain was invisible.

I slept under a shed that night and told myself: “Chiamaka, if you don’t fight, you will die here.”

---

Part Three: A Spark of Hope

I found another family who treated me better. They allowed me to attend adult education classes at night. I grabbed the chance like my life depended on it.

Within five years, I completed secondary school through evening lessons. At 21, I sat for WAEC and passed. People were shocked:
“How can a maid pass so well? Are you sure she didn’t cheat?”

But I knew it was my sweat, my tears, and my God.

---

Part Four: Climbing the Mountain

I gained admission into the University of Lagos to study Education. To pay fees, I cleaned offices at dawn, worked in a bakery in the evenings, and studied at night.

There were days I fainted from hunger. Days I thought of quitting. Days I begged God for just ₦200 to eat.

But every time I wanted to give up, I remembered the laughter of those who said I was finished. That pain became my fuel.

---

Part Five: From Maid to Mentor

Four years later, I graduated with a degree in Education. Today, I am founder of Bridge of Hope Foundation, a school and charity that provides free education for street children and orphans.

I have helped over 500 children go back to school. The same girl who was mocked as a hopeless maid now teaches and inspires generations.

---

Part Six: The Day of Redemption

Last year, my first madam — the one who threw me out — came to me. Her daughter had dropped out of school, and she begged me to help.

I looked at her, my heart heavy. I could have rejected her. But instead, I enrolled her daughter into my school for free.

That night, I wept. Not out of pain, but out of gratitude. God had truly turned my tears into a bridge for others.

---

Moral 🌹

Your tears are not wasted. They can water a garden of hope if you refuse to give up. What once broke you can become the very thing that builds others.

---

👉 If you were Chiamaka, would you forgive the madam who once mocked you — or would you let her taste the bitterness she gave you?

---

✨

10/09/2025

Follow Rosyworld CRN

EPISODE TWENTY-THREE

“The Husband They Called a Beggar”
Written by RosyWorld CRN

The boardroom was chaos. Cameras flashed as Adanna stood in her white suit, waving her so-called evidence. Reporters whispered, directors exchanged worried glances, and Chiamaka’s heart raced as she clutched Somto’s arm.

Somto finally stood, his voice booming through the room.
“Enough of your lies, Adanna! This is not about ownership. This is about revenge. You want the world to believe you built Savage Holdings, but the truth is—you built nothing. Without me, there would be no empire!”

Adanna smirked. “Without me, you’d still be sleeping under kiosks.”

Her words sliced through the room, but before Somto could respond, something unexpected happened.

Chiamaka rose to her feet. Her voice shook at first, but it grew stronger with every word.
“You call yourself his savior, Adanna, but a savior doesn’t hold someone’s past over their head like a weapon. A savior doesn’t demand ownership in exchange for survival. That isn’t love. That isn’t sacrifice. That is manipulation.”

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to Chiamaka.

She stepped closer to Adanna, her tears glistening but her chin held high.
“You may have been part of his past, but I am his present and his future. And I will not allow you—or anyone—to destroy my husband again.”

Reporters erupted in applause. Flashes blinded the room as journalists shouted, “Powerful! Strong words from Mrs. Savage!”

Adanna’s face darkened, her smile vanishing. For the first time, she looked shaken. “You think the world will believe you, little girl? You think your tears can wash away his sins?”

Chiamaka’s voice thundered back, “No, Adanna. But my strength will prove what you never had—love. And that’s something no document can forge.”

The board members began murmuring among themselves, leaning toward Somto’s side. Some even nodded in agreement. The tide was turning.

Adanna’s lips trembled with fury as she realized the unthinkable—she was losing, not to Somto this time, but to Chiamaka.

---

🔥 To be continued…
👉 Like, Share & Comment if you want Episode Twenty-Four!

09/09/2025

Follow Rosyworld CRN

07/09/2025

Ada lay weak on the bed, her body hot with fever. Sweat soaked her hair and her eyes looked tired. She was not feeling strong at all, the stress, hunger, and endless chores had drained her.

Precious, the house help, came to check why Ada hadn’t cleaned the house. She froze when she touched Ada’s skin.

“Chai, Ada… your body is hot. You’re running temperature,” Precious whispered sadly.

Ada only sighed, her voice weak. “I don’t have strength, Precious… I’m tired.”

Precious looked around helplessly. “Don’t worry, let me just help you. I will clean small before Madam comes back.”

She ran to the sitting room, tied her wrapper and picked up a rag, dusting the sofa quickly.

Just then, the front door opened. Mrs. Collins stepped in. Her eyes fell on Precious, and she froze.

“Precious! Precious! Precious! How many times did I call you?” her voice thundered.

Precious dropped the rag immediately, fear in her eyes. “I… I’m sorry ma.”

Mrs. Collins walked closer, her heels clicking on the floor. “Did I not warn you? How many times have I told you not to work in this house when we already have someone who can do that?”

Precious tried to explain. “But ma, Ada is very down, she’s sick and”

“Shut up your mouth!” Mrs. Collins shouted. “She is down and so what? If she likes, let her die, that one doesn't concern me? Precious, don’t provoke me to send you packing from this house!”

Precious shook her head, trembling. “I’m sorry ma, please forgive me…”

“Go and call her for me. Now!” Mrs. Collins barked, sitting on the couch with a hiss.

Precious hurried to Ada’s room and returned moments later with Ada, who looked pale and weak.

Mrs. Collins folded her arms. “Are you not ashamed of yourself, Ada? So you left the work you’re supposed to do and went inside to sleep? In my own house?”

Ada bent her head, scratching weakly. “I’m sorry ma… I’m not feeling fine.”

Mrs. Collins scoffed loudly. “And how does it concern me? Do I look like a doctor? If you like, die… I don’t care. You already know the only thing that can save you from this suffering is to leave this house.”

Ada shook her head with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, you won’t leave? Fine. Then anything you see here, you must take it.” She pointed at the rag. “Now take that and continue from where she stopped.”

Ada dragged her feet, took the rag, and bent down to clean. Suddenly she gasped, holding her waist in pain, but Mrs. Collins only smirked and crossed her legs.

“Precious!” she called.

“Yes ma!” Precious answered quickly.

“Go to my son’s room. Bring all the dirty clothes he wants to send to the laundry man. Ada will wash them. From today, he won’t pay outsiders when there’s someone in this house that can scrub clothes. And if you see Sandra’s dirty things, bring them too.”

Precious hesitated. “Okay ma…” She ran upstairs immediately.

After Ada finished cleaning, she went to the backyard and began washing piles of clothes. Sweat rolled down her forehead, her body shivering. Precious kept bringing more loads. At some point, She got tire of squatting down sat on the ground,her back aching her, tears quietly dropping as she scrubbed.

When she finally finished, she went to meet Mrs. Collins when she was eating. “Ma, please… can I have small food to eat?”

Mrs. Collins looked at her with disgust. “Food? Did you clean the backyard where you washed clothes? Did you wash the basin? And you’re still asking for food?”

Ada’s eyes watered. “Ma please, I have not eaten since yesterday…”

Mrs. Collins dropped her spoon on the table and hissed. “If you want food, go and finish your work. After that, maybe I will give you something.”

After hours, she finally tossed Ada a plate of food so little, it wouldn’t satisfy a child. Ada ate quietly, tears mixing with the taste.

Meanwhile, Sandra stayed in her room pressing her phone, painting her nails, and laughing at chats. She never entered the kitchen.

Days later, Mr. Collins returned from his trip. He sat in the sitting room and called his son.

“Chidi, bring the one million naira I gave you last week. I want to deposit it in the bank today.”

“Yes, Dad,” Chidi replied and ran upstairs.

Sandra was on the bed, phone in her hand, giggling at her chats when chidi entered he opened his wardrobe quickly, but the money was gone. His eyes widened. He searched everywhere, turning his room upside down.

He looked at Sandra. “Sandra, did you see any money I kept in this wardrobe?”

She ignored him, laughing into her phone.

“Sandra, I’m talking to you!”

Sandra hissed and dropped her phone. “What is it, Chidi? Why are you shouting at me?”

“Did you take the money?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Yes, I took it. And so what? Don’t start behaving like I stole something.”

“You… you took the money?” Chidi asked, shocked.

“Yes. Must I beg you before touching anything in this house? What belongs to you belongs to us,” Sandra snapped.

“But that’s not my money, Sandra! My dad gave it to me to keep for him. He’s asking for it now!”

Sandra folded her arms. “So? Go and tell him you can't find it. Please don't stress me because of ordinary one million.”

Chidi’s hands shook. “Sandra, where is the money? Please give it to me.”

Sandra scoffed. “I’ve used it. Look at my skin is this how a rich man’s wife should look? I bought cream, wigs, clothes, jewelry… and I also sent some money to my sister in school. The only thing left is ten thousand naira.”

Chidi’s jaw dropped. “Ten… ten thousand out of one million?”

“Chidi, stop embarrassing yourself. You are your father’s only son, that company is your inheritance. He can’t deny you because of this small thing.”

Chidi held his head. “Sandra, you’ve ruined me! If my father finds out, he will never trust me with his company again!”

Sandra picked her phone again. “Stop sounding like a baby, abeg. You’re making noise.”

Chidi’s hands shook as he stared at Sandra again.
“Sandra… please tell me you’re joking. You didn’t really finish that money?”

Sandra raised her brow, still scrolling on her phone. “Chidi, abeg, stop making noise. I’ve told you already. I used it.”

Chidi moved closer, his voice breaking. “Sandra, you don’t understand… this is not my money! It belongs to my father. He trusted me. Why didn’t you at least tell me before spending it?”

Sandra dropped her phone carelessly on the bed and folded her arms. “Tell you? Chidi, must I start reporting to you before I do anything? Are you not my husband? Are we not one?”

Chidi ran his hand through his hair. “Sandra, that’s not the point! You should have told me! I could have explained to you how important that money is. Now what do I tell my father?”

Sandra stood up, flicking her wig back. “Oh please, stop crying like a child. It’s only one million naira. How much is that compared to what your father owns? You’re his only son, whether he likes it or not, that company is yours.”

Chidi pointed at her angrily. “Sandra, you don’t get it! My father is testing me! He wants to see if I can handle money well before handing me the company. Now you’ve spoilt everything!”

Sandra hissed loudly. “Abeg, enough of this company talk. That man is stingy! He has all the money yet he gave you only one million to keep. What’s one million in this Lagos? I used part of it to buy cream, some wigs, clothes, jewelry… Do you want me to be looking like that your village girlfriend? You want people to laugh at your wife?”

Chidi’s voice cracked as he shouted. “Sandra, you used cream and wig to destroy my future?!”

Sandra clapped her hands mockingly. “Future ke? Na cream destroy am? Chidi, you’re just overreacting. Do you know how much my mates are enjoying? Look at my skin. Look at my hair. You should be proud of me.”

Chidi banged the wardrobe shut. “Sandra, this is not pride, this is shame! You even sent part of the money to your sister without telling me!”

Sandra turned, glaring at him. “Yes I did. She needed it. I won’t watch my sister suffer while I live in a rich man’s house. You’re making it sound like I committed a crime!”

Chidi shook his head bitterly. “Sandra… Sandra, you’ve finished me. Do you know if my father hears this, he will never trust me again?”

Sandra picked her phone again. “Then lie to him. Tell him you misplaced the money or you used it for something urgent. Stop disturbing me please.”

Chidi’s hands trembled. He pointed at her again, tears almost in his eyes. “Sandra, I swear you don’t love me. If you did, you wouldn’t destroy the one thing I’ve worked for. I haven't married you yet and you are acting like this already, Sandra you’ve killed me!”

Sandra looked at him coldly. “Love? Don’t use that word for me when you can’t even provide ordinary luxury for your woman. Please shift, let me breathe.” If you like don't marry me again na you go regret am... She hissed.

Chidi stared at her, his chest heaving. He couldn’t say anything more. He turned and walked out slowly, his heart broken.

Ada walked in quietly, her wrapper tied tightly around her thin waist. She saw Mr. Collins sitting and her face lit up with relief.

“Good evening, sir,” she said softly, bowing.

Mr. Collins’ face brightened immediately. “Ah, Ada my daughter! How are you? You’ve grown so thinner. Are they not treating you well here?”

Ada smiled faintly, but her lips trembled. “Sir… I…”

Before she could continue, Mrs. Collins rushed in quickly with a fake laugh. “Ah-ah, Ada, she’s fine! My dear husband, don’t mind her face, she’s always shy. Ada, go and carry your food in the kitchen, hurry!”

Mr. Collins frowned slightly. “But I was talking to her…”

Mrs. Collins touched his shoulder gently. “Don’t worry, she’s perfectly fine. She has everything she needs here. Ada, go and carry it now!”

Ada’s heart fell. She had wanted to tell him the truth, but Mrs. Collins’ sharp eyes warned her. She swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes ma.”

She turned quickly, but as she walked towards the kitchen, Mr. Collins called after her kindly. “Ada! If anything is wrong, you can always tell me, okay?”

Ada paused for a second, her eyes glistening with tears. “Okay sir,” she whispered, and went to the kitchen hoping to see food,she was surprised Mrs Collins was asking her to go and carry her food, what she has never done before.

But when she opened the pots, they were all empty. Her heart sank.

That was when Mrs. Collins followed her in with a wicked smile.

“So you wanted to tell him everything, abi?” she hissed.

Ada shook her head in fear. “No ma, I wasn’t going to”

Before she could finish, Mrs. Collins lifted an empty pot and slammed it on her head. “No come and eat and eat your destiny out! Stupid girl!”

Ada staggered, removing the pot gently as tears fell down her cheeks.

Mrs. Collins stormed back to the sitting room.

Just then, Chidi walked in, his face full of confusion and fear. Mr. Collins looked at him.

“Chidi, where is the money?”

Chidi swallowed hard, his lips shaking.

To be continued.....

WHEN LOVE BLINDS EPISODE 16.

Please like, comment and share and don't forget to fo!!ow up Authoress Favour Sopuruchi

Please fo!!ow my back up page Adinuso Sopuruchi Favour Thank you!!!

07/09/2025

"Don't hurt her — sell her to me," said the farmer when he saw the stepmother beating her daughter.

Don't hurt her. Sell her to me, said the farmer when he saw the stepmother beating her daughter, abandoned by her father, and tormented by her stepmother. Azima's life was a silent hell until the day her stepmother's cruelty erupted into a public beating in the middle of the village market.
While everyone watched in silence, one man stepped in. Baraka, the reclusive farmer, made an unexpected offer. He bought Azima's freedom with nothing but his words. He took her to his farm, a place of silence and hard work. The village began to whisper, wondering about the true intentions of that mysterious man. Had he bought himself a wife or just a servant? What no one realized was that Baraka saw in Azima a reflection of his own past a life marked by abandonment? And that rescue wasn't an act of charity, but the beginning of an
unlikely bond where two wounded souls would find in each other a chance to start over. The path between the village of Kiwana and Baraka's farm was a dirt road lined with trees that knew well the silence of those who carry burdens too heavy to be told. Baraka was one of them.
A man of few words, a direct gaze and callous hands. He bore the weight of a ruthless life. Orphaned since childhood, he had learned to work before he learned to trust. The people respected him, but no one dared call him a friend. They said he lived alone by choice, but only he knew how. Much solitude had been imposed on him.
That day he hadn't gone to the market for supplies. It was fate that led him there. His horse slowed to a trot on instinct, and his eyes saw what no one dared step in to stop. A girl being beaten like an animal. In the middle of the street, dust mixing with swallowed sobs. It wasn't the beating that hurt the most. It was the absence of a single hand raised to defend her.
And that's what Baraka saw more than slaps. He saw abandonment, roar, and exposed before a silent crowd. When Baraka stepped down from the horse, the sound of his boots on the dry ground cut through the air. The murmurs stopped, the merchants averted their eyes, and the children stopped running.
Nafala's hand was still raised, but she didn't strike again. Baraka's gaze was too heavy to ignore. He stared at the woman for long seconds, then said, "Don't hurt her. Sell her to me." Then the sentence hit the silence like a stone. The words, though simple, carried something no one could name. It was more than an offer. It was a sentence, a judgment.
Nefula scoffed, pulling at her skirt and giving a short laugh as if not taking the man seriously. Then take her. Let's see how long you last with this useless thing, she said, spitting out the last word as if it were an animal. You owe me nothing. She's free. Free Azima heard it but didn't understand.
Freedom had never been an option in her life. She stared at the ground, too afraid to lift her head, scraped knees, a bruised face, and a soul curled in on itself. Baraka extended his hand, but she hesitated. For the first time, someone was offering her something, and she didn't know if she was allowed to accept it.
Without a word, he simply walked ahead. Azima followed, not by choice, but because her tired feet knew there was nothing left behind. The villagers who saw everything said nothing. Some women crossed themselves. Others shook their heads. But no one stepped in. No one offered shelter.
No one protested because in the village other people's pain was seen as part of the landscape, and Azima had long since become forgotten scenery. On the way back, the silence was thick. Baraka didn't look back, and Azima didn't dare look sideways. He didn't tell her where to go or what to do. He simply mounted his horse and walked slowly.
From time to time, he glanced sideways to see if she was still coming. And she was with slow wounded but steady steps. Because for the first time, there was someone ahead. Not pushing, not shouting, just walking. When they reached the wooden gate of the farm, Baraka unlocked it with an old key. The kind that groans with tired iron. The sound echoed like an announcement.
A new story was beginning there, even if no one yet knew how. He pointed to the clay house with a simple porch. You'll sleep there. There's a bed, water, and bread. If you want it, she didn't respond. Didn't even thank him. Just walked in. Baraka stayed outside for a while, looking up at the sky that threatened rain despite the high sun. It was as if nature itself was confused like he was.
He had bought a girl's freedom with nothing but his voice, nothing more, and now he didn't know what to do with it. Inside the room, Azima gently shut the door. She sat on the edge of the bed, looked at her hands dirty with dust and dried blood. She touched the clean sheet with hesitation, as if afraid to stain, something too beautiful for her.
And that night, for the first time in a long while, she fell asleep without sobbing. She didn't dream, but she didn't cry either. And sometimes that's more than enough to begin again. Asterisk. Baraka's farmland was generous but demanding just like life. Fertile soil, but it only yielded to the sweat of those who knew how to work it. When Azima arrived, there were no speeches, no warm welcomes.

TO BE CONTINUED...

07/09/2025

I was just six months old when my mother handed me to her trusted friend and left for the UK. By the age of eight, my mornings began before sunrise, hauling 25kg sacks of corn as a human porter, while the other children slept. But the heaviest burden I carried wasn't physical. It was the shameful secret I was forced to keep in that house, a secret whispered to me by a man named Nyamekye and echoed by every person who was supposed to protect me. For years, I tried to tell my mother across the oceans, but her only response was to call me a 'bad child.' This is the story of a stolen childhood, a lifetime of trauma, and the painful journey to becoming the woman I am today: a survivor...👇🏾👇🏾

07/09/2025

FORCED TO MARRY AN OLD MAN

EPISODE 3

The compound was massive, with a high black gate, tiled floors, and a giant house that stood like a castle in the middle of town. As we stepped out, two women came to the door. Both dressed in flowing gowns with coral beads around their necks.

“This is my home,” Chief said proudly. “These are my wives—Ngozi and Clara.” I looked at them and swallowed. Ngozi, the older one, looked like she was in her forties, calm and reserved. Clara, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight.

Chief placed his hand gently on my back. “This is Uju. She’s your new co-wife. My dear bride.” Clara’s eyes darted from my face to my chest, to my feet, then back up to my eyes. Her lips twitched but she said nothing. Ngozi, however, smiled faintly and nodded. “Welcome, my daughter,” she said.

I suddenly realized—Chief had married both of them when they were teenagers too. Maybe that was just his pattern. Madam Ngozi took me through the big house. It was really beautiful but it didn’t impress me.

It felt more like a cage than a home. She led me to a guest room upstairs and helped me settle in. She told me to ask for whatever I needed after which she walked out. That night, I didn’t eat.

Every single morning that first week, I cried. I cried in the bathroom. I cried under the blanket. I cried while pretending to nap. And every night, when I heard Chief’s footsteps down the hallway, I held my breath in fear that he would come into my room. But he didn’t. He left me alone.

Truth is, I lacked absolutely nothing. Although, I didn’t have a bank account and was never given any money, everything I wanted was provided, yet I was not happy. I was not allowed to leave the house, not even with an es**rt. Madam Ngozi became my only comfort.

She visited me every morning, bringing hot tea or fresh fruit. She would sit beside me, and talk to me like a mother would. She told me how Chief married her when she was just fifteen, straight from her village. Told me how Clara came a few years later, equally young and full of hope.

“I used to cry every day too,” she told me. “It doesn’t get easier. But you will learn how to breathe through the pain.” She showed me the house rules. How Chief liked his meals. How he hated noise and how no one must challenge his decisions in the house.

As for Clara, she wasted no time making her hate known. She rolled her eyes and hissed whenever I passed her in the hallway. Some nights, I wondered why the world didn’t care that a child had been handed over to a man old enough to be her grandchild.

Chief had three grandchildren from his first wife who had died, and the oldest was even older than me.

Chief didn’t come to me until one month after I arrived the house. I had just finished taking a bath and wrapped myself in a long gown when I heard the soft knock. He didn’t wait for me to respond before he opened the door and stepped in.

He smiled at me, sat on the edge of the bed, and said softly, “It’s time.” I didn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. He reached out and touched my arm. “I’ll be gentle,” he said. That night, he took what he wanted. I lay still and let him have his way. It was really painful as it was my first time. When he finished, he patted my head and said, “Good girl.”

I got up after he left and vomited into the bathroom sink. I rinsed my mouth, stared at myself in the mirror and cried all over again. From that night on, he came often. Sometimes he was quiet and quick. Other times, he wanted to talk, to touch, to pretend that we were lovers. I didn’t resist him.

Two months after he started coming to me, I collapsed in the kitchen. I had been feeling dizzy for days, waking with nausea, trembling hands, and heavy eyes. Ngozi caught me just as I hit the ground. She took me to the clinic immediately. And just like that… I was told I was pregnant.

I felt my world crack into pieces, carrying the child of the man who broke my spirit. I returned home like a zombie, clutching the result sheet in my fist. Chief was overjoyed when he heard. My pregnancy journey began. Madam Ngozi, God bless her, helped me with the chores, wiped my tears, and rubbed balm on my aching back. But not even her kindness could fill the hole in my soul.

Clara on her own, didn’t show any concern at all. One hot Thursday afternoon, while washing a small wrapper at the backyard tap, I felt a sudden sharp pain, deep in my belly, like something tearing from the inside. Then… warmth between my legs. I looked down and screamed. Bl00d. So much bl00d.

The wrapper fell from my hands. The bucket tipped over. My legs trembled as I collapsed, screaming for help. Ngozi came running. The last thing I remember was her voice—panicked and scared—shouting, “Get the car! She’s bleeding!” When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. The smell of antiseptic filled the room. A drip ran into my arm.
I turned slowly, and I saw Ngozi, sitting by my bed with swollen eyes. When she saw that I was awake, she moved closer and held my hand.

“You lost the baby,” she whispered. Tears filled her voice. I blinked, turned my face to the wall and wept. I wasn’t sure if I was weeping for the baby I had lost or for the life I was living against my will. I just cried.

TO BE CONTINUED

WRITTEN BY Hilda's Forum

Do not copy, repost or reproduce. Just share kindly