04/01/2026
What Broken Homes Don't Tell You
IFE!!!!!!!!!!
A familiar voice screamed my name from a distance in the busy, congested market.
I was too focused on protecting myself from pickpockets and getting the right items I needed.
But Chinaza’s voice was so loud that even the chaos of the market couldn’t drown it out.
I traced the sound with my eyes and saw her waving from afar, excitement spilling out of her body.
I ran toward her and wrapped her in a tight hug.
We didn’t want to let go until her boss interrupted, asking her to attend to a walk-in customer.
I was genuinely happy to see her again, after four long years of leaving secondary school.
“Babe, let me even patronize your boss before leaving. I want to get some hair products too,”
I said, stepping toward the shop.
“Wait!!!”
Chinaza dragged me back and insisted I take off my sandals before entering.
I was surprised. It was a busy shop; of course the floor would be sandy.
But I didn’t argue. Some shop owners just have their rules.
I removed my sandals and walked in with her.
Suddenly, I was no longer in the shop.
I found myself in a tall tower with two children calling me mum.
The older one looked about ten. The younger, barely two.
We were trapped at the top of a building, still in the same market.
We screamed for help, but it was as if no one could hear us.
I pulled the children closer and headed for the staircase.
The building was lined with terr!fying sculptures from the 80s, eerie objects, and pictures of deàd people with bl0od still smeared across their frames.
A solemn sound echoed from somewhere below.
It felt like we were trapped in a forest, inside concrete walls.
Fear gripped me. Cold sweat soaked my body.
I told the children to stay quiet as we descended the stairs.
By the fifth floor, we were forced to stop and rest from the long walk.
I sat the younger child on a raised wooden balcony beside us so she could rest.
Then we heard it.
A low, creepy laugh.
It came from underneath the balcony.
Before I could react, the wood split open with terr!fying speed.
A huge, slimy hand shot out, dragged the child underneath, and sealed the balcony shut.
Just as quickly as it had opened.
I screamed.
I ran.
But it was too late.
I watched the innocent child disappear into a dàrkness I couldn’t name.
With téars burning my eyes, I grabbed the older child and ran down the stairs.
We kept going until we reached a dead end.
No staircase.
Only a strong iron window beside us and a massive hall almost twenty feet below.
People were walking past outside.
They could see us.
But they didn’t notice us.
I tore a piece of the child’s plain clothes, pulled out a pen from my purse, and wrote one word on it:
HELP.
We waited.
No one came.
Footsteps echoed below us.
Whispers.
I pulled the child tightly to my chest and pressed myself against the wall, praying we wouldn’t be seen.
I was thinking of another way to escape when……………..
A hot slap landed on my face.
“Wake up! It’s 5am,” my sister said.
“We need to bathe outside before people realize we slept in Mama’s wooden shop.”
I woke up drenched in sweat, breathing like someone who had just fought a wild animal.
“So… it was a dream,” I whispered.
After rolling on the damp mat for a while, I stood up…… my heart still pounding.
My name is Ifeoluwa.
It means the love of God.
People call me Love… or Ife.
I am the second of three girls from a very poor, broken home.
As if that wasn’t enough, I díe about four times every week.
Like many children raised by struggling single mothers and living-déad fathers who offer no care or support, I barely smile.
I barely laugh.
Because honestly… What is funny?
I grew up with low self-esteem
because of where I come from.
Sometimes I wonder if quotes like “your background shouldn’t determine your future” were written for people like me.
Because when you grow up watching your mother break daily and your childhood disappear quietly, hope doesn’t sound motivational it sounds offensive.
But here’s the part that scàres me the most.
Every time I dream of that tower, I don’t wake up before the fall.
I woke up after.
Maybe it was just a dream.
Or maybe it was my childhood asking to be heard.
Should I continue this story?
Say “continue” if you want Part 2
