Introduction:
Ezinne's life began in a home filled with silence and neglect. From the moment she was born, she became a shadow, unnoticed and unwelcomed. Love was foreign, and survival was all she knew. Little did she know, the struggle for her own worth would shape the rest of her life.
Chapter One: The Unwanted Child.
By the time she turned five, Ezinne had already learned how to swallow silence.
There were no lullabies in her childhood. No mother's warm embrace to chase away the nightmares. Just the sound of clanging plates, the hiss of hot oil in the kitchen, and the low hum of conversations she was never part of.
Ezinne was born on a rainy Thursday afternoon in Nsukka, a small but bustling town in southeastern Nigeria. Her birth was uneventful, at least that's what her mother always said. No joy, no celebration, no prayers whispered over her tiny body. Just another mouth to feed. Another burden. Her father, before he passed when she was just two, had been the only one who smiled when he held her. But his death changed a lot in the family, it practically sealed her fate.
From the earliest moments she could remember, her mother treated her like an inconvenience. She never understood why it was like that.
She wasn't rebellious, she wasn't disrespectful. She tried to do everything right—but it was never enough for her mother.
"Sweep and clean the floor," her mother would snap.
She cleaned.
"Is this how to sweep? You want me to die of shame?" her mother would hiss again.
She did it again and again and again . Better. Quieter. Still not enough.
By the time her younger siblings were born, Ezinne knew her place. She was known as the househelp with a shared bloodline.
Her sister Adaora, just two years younger, would sit on their mother's lap while Ezinne scrubbed the veranda. Chinedu, the youngest, never lifted a finger for chores. If he so much as sneezed, their mother would drop everything and run to his side.
But Ezinne? She could cough for hours with no one checking on her.
One December morning, as children in the neighborhood prepared for Christmas—sewing new clothes, rehearsing for end of-year parties, Ezinne sat on a stool in the backyard, scrubbing the bathroom tiles. Her fingers were raw from the cold water and detergent, but she dared not stop. Her mother was in a bad mood.
"Mama, I've finished cleaning the bathroom and the toilet," she said, stepping inside with the bucket of dirty water.
Her mother didn't even look up from where she was dressing Adaora in a bright red gown.
"Go and iron your siblings' uniforms for tomorrow."
"Yes, ma."
She didn't ask for new clothes. She had learned not to ask for it. Her Christmas would be a hand-me-down gown from three years ago, faded, torn near the hem, but patched carefully with her own stitches. That was the only gift she gave herself: survival.
School was the only place Ezinne felt a taste of freedom. There, she wasn't the maid. She was Ezinne—the girl who answered questions quickly, who helped others with homework, who smiled even when she felt empty. But even school came with a price.
Her mother hated spending money on anything that relates to her especially her education.
"Why should I pay fees for someone that will just marry and become useless?" she would say often, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
Ezinne would listen, quiet as ever, holding her school bag tighter, willing her tears to stay in.
She started selling things like sachet water, biscuits, sweets and groundnuts after school to contribute to her own fees. She hid the money under her mattress, wrapping the notes in black nylon. Each naira meant one step closer to being something or anything other than what her mother said she was.
But the betrayal that stung the most didn't come from the harsh words or neglect. It came from the little things—the subtle ways her mother made sure everyone knew she didn't matter all the time.
Like when guests came over and Ezinne wasn't allowed to sit with them.
Or when her school got invited to a national competition and her mother refused to give her transport fare.
"You? Represent who? Go and wash the clothes in the basin and sweep the whole compound "
Even her siblings began to mirror their mother. Adaora rolled her eyes when Ezinne spoke, Chinedu laughed when their mother mocked her.
She was alone, and she knew it.
But even then, Ezinne refused to hate them.
At night, when the house was silent, and the world felt heavier than usual, she would close her eyes and whisper prayers she wasn't sure anyone heard.
"God, please help me. Just help me finish school. Just help me leave this house. Let me make something of myself."
She clung to that one hope that her pain would not be wasted.
She didn't want revenge. She didn't want her family to suffer. She just wanted to be seen. Heard. Loved.
One afternoon, when she was about fourteen years old, she overheard her mother speaking to a neighbor.
"Ezinne? That one is just like her father. Very useless. Always chasing shadows. She thinks she's better than us because she reads books always."
Ezinne stood behind the half-open door, her chest tightening. Her mother's words sliced deeper than any cane.
She turned away and walked to her room, breathing slowly and crying bitterly.
One day, she made a promise to herself, I'll make it out no matter what. I'll become someone great in the future.
But even in that silent vow, there was a small ache inside her—the part of her that still, after everything, just wanted her mother to say, I'm proud of you.
That day never came.
But Ezinne had already begun to build armor around her heart. Not of hatred. Not of bitterness.
Of strength.
And soon, life would test it in ways she couldn't ever imagine.