The rain began that morning—slow, cold, and soft like the tears that had soaked Anita's pillow the night before. In the small, sagging house at the edge of Aiyetoro village, the sound of droplets hitting the tin roof was the only music that played. There was no laughter. No songs. No stories by the fire.
Because Mama Bisi was gone.
Anita sat curled up in the corner of the room, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her mother's wooden comb still lay beside her mat, and her wrapper still hung on the hook by the door. Everything in the house whispered of her mother, yet she was nowhere.
At ten years old, Anita had learned what it meant to lose something so deeply woven into her heart that even breathing now felt like betrayal. She heard the soft footsteps outside and the creak of the door opening. A woman from the village leaned in with pity in her eyes.
"Your father's looking for you," she said softly. "The elders have arrived."
Anita rose slowly. Her bones ached—not from sickness, but from sorrow. She stepped outside into the gray light of the morning, the cold mud squishing beneath her bare feet. The village compound was quiet, save for hushed voices and the soft shuffle of sandals. A small gathering of men sat under a tree, speaking in low tones.
Her father, Adewale, stood apart from them. He looked thinner than usual, his eyes sunk deep into his face. He didn't say a word when he saw Anita. He didn't kneel to hug her or wipe her tears. He simply looked away.
The burial was quiet. Mama Bisi's body, wrapped in white cloth, was lowered into the red earth behind their hut. The rain mixed with the soil, turning it into something sticky and heavy—like the weight in Anita's chest.
No one explained anything to her. No one told her how to grieve. She just stood, her small hands clenching her mother's comb, and watched the earth cover the only person who had ever truly loved her.
Days passed.
Visitors came and went. Pots of soup were left. Calabashes of water. Sorrow mixed with rituals and traditions, but Anita couldn't feel any of it. She drifted through each day like a ghost, her eyes dull, her words few.
It was on the ninth day that her father came home with someone new.
"Her name is Remilekun," he said stiffly, as if the introduction was enough to explain everything.
The woman was tall, dark-skinned, and sharp-featured. She wore a gele wrapped so tightly it looked like a crown. Her smile never quite reached her eyes.
"She will help take care of the house," Pa Adewale added. "And help raise you."
Anita blinked.
She hadn't asked for another mother.
Remilekun moved in that same night. She brought bags of clothes, jewelry, perfumes, and a tongue that dripped with sugar when neighbors were around—but turned to fire when they left.
At first, it was small things. She scolded Anita for not folding her mat neatly. Then for walking too loudly. Then for leaving one grain of rice in her plate. Her voice grew sharper by the day, her words like tiny thorns scratching Anita's skin.
By the second week, the beatings began.
Not with sticks. Not with hands.
But with silence. With slaps of harsh chores. With locked cupboards and cold meals, if any. Anita was made to wake before the sun and scrub the floors until they shone. She fetched water from the stream until her arms trembled. And when she dared to complain or cry, she was locked in the small storeroom where the rats danced at night.
Her father watched it all from a distance.
Sometimes he looked like he wanted to speak, but he never did. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he thought it was discipline. Maybe he had already given up.
But Anita hadn't.
Not yet.
Because on the darkest nights, she would lie awake and whisper to herself the words her mother had told her again and again:
"You are a star, Anita. Even in the deepest darkness, stars still shine."