09/09/2025
“I was given food at the back door for ten years, not knowing that the girl they called ‘orphan’ would one day own the school.”
My name is Amarachi.
When I was six years old, I lost my parents to a fire. Our landlord said, “Your people are cursed. I can’t keep the daughter of a witch.” So, from Owerri to Port Harcourt, I lived under a bridge. I begged for food.
One morning, I saw a group of students wearing green uniforms entering a school: Royal Kingsway Academy. Their food smelled like glory. So I waited by the back door. A woman—the kitchen cleaner—passed me a nylon bag of jollof rice.
That became my routine. Every lunch hour, Mama Risi would sneak me leftovers—sometimes bones, sometimes breadcrumbs, but always with kindness.
I sat on a rock behind the school wall, listening to lessons through the cracks. I memorized poems, answered math questions aloud. They called me “Radiohead.”
One day, a teacher overheard me recite Shakespeare from the other side of the fence. He asked, “Who is she?” I ran away.
The next day, he brought me books, a notebook, a pencil. In a low voice, he said to Mama Risi, “Start letting her sit at the back of Classroom 3. No one has to find out.”
So I started attending school unofficially—barefoot and invisible. After class, I swept the classrooms and mopped the hallways with Mama Risi. But I never missed a class. Not even when malaria tried to stop me.
When I was seventeen, the director asked, “Who registered this girl? She’s not on our list.”
Mama Risi lied, “She’s my niece.”
They let me sit for the WAEC exam using their surname. I got eight straight A’s. No celebration. No pictures. Just me, under the handle, holding my result and crying.
Years of silence followed, as I prepared my place in the world.
A few missionaries gave me a scholarship to study Business Administration in the UK. I graduated with honors. I started a logistics company in Nigeria, then expanded into agriculture and education.
Ten years later, my company b