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“Pascal, what are you saying? We built this house together. I gave you money. I collected loan from the bank.” “And I used that loan to complete my house. The paper says Mr. and Mrs. Pascal. But we never did court marriage, Osaro. Only traditional marriage. So legally, you have no claim to this property. You have no proof you contributed anything.”
“No proof?” Osaro was shaking. “Na I worked for this house. I suffered. I…” “Stop that crocodile tears, Osaro,” Pascal cut her off. “I spent 20 years with you and you couldn’t give me sons, not even one. Osaro, you gave me daughters, five useless girls who will marry and take their husbands’ names.
But this woman,” he put his hand on the pregnant woman’s shoulder, “she is carrying my sons, twin boys, real children, my legacy.” The words hit Osaro like physical blows. “Pascal, think about Aihe, Ose, Eve, Amen, Efe. They are your children. They love you. They need you.”
“Tell them to find husbands,” Pascal said, his voice like ice. “That’s all girls are good for. I don’t have time to waste on them. I will soon have sons to raise now, real heirs.” He turned to the gateman. “Remove her from this compound and make sure she never sets foot here again.” Osaro was shocked in a way that she could not move. The gateman gently took her arm.
“Please, madam, make we go.” Osaro stood there for a moment, staring at the man she had loved for 20 years. The man she had built a life with, the father of her five daughters. And all she saw was a stranger. “You will regret this,” she whispered. “I swear to God, Pascal, you will regret this.” He laughed. “I don’t regret anything.
The only thing I regret is wasting 20 years on a woman who couldn’t give me sons.” Then he shut the door in her face. “Madam, your keke?” The mechanic’s voice pulled Osaro back to the present. She blinked, realizing tears were running down her face. “Thank you, sir,” she said, wiping her cheeks quickly. She brought out 2,000 naira and handed it to him. “God go bless you,” he said kindly.
Osaro nodded and climbed into the keke. Her body was heavy with exhaustion and heartache. Then she bought one liter of fuel for 500 naira at the nearby filling station before heading home. As she started the engine and pulled onto the road, she thought about what was waiting for her at home. Her five daughters, hungry, waiting for their mother to bring food.
And she had nothing. The ride home felt longer than usual. Every turn, every street, every pothole seemed to mock her. When she finally parked in front of their compound, it was almost 7:30 p.m. The small room they lived in was dark, no light. The landlord had removed the bulb last week because she could not pay the electricity bill.
Osaro pushed open the door quietly. In the dim light from the neighbor’s window, she could see her daughters lying on the floor. All five of them pressed together on thin mats, trying to sleep. But they were not asleep. “Mama.” Aihe sat up immediately. “Mama, you’re back.” All five girls scrambled up, surrounding their mother in the darkness.
“Mama, are you okay?” “Why are you late?” “We were so worried.” “Did you eat?” “Mama.” Osaro could not speak. Her throat was too tight. She could see their faces in the dim light. Thin faces, hopeful faces, trusting faces. They were waiting for her to tell them she brought food. Waiting for her to make everything okay like she always did. But tonight she had failed them.
“The keke broke down. I had to fix it.” “Oh.” Aihe’s voice fell. “So there’s no food?” Osaro shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my daughters. I used all the money to repair the keke. I gave the owner his balance. There was nothing left.” Silence. Heavy, painful silence. Then little Efe, only 10 years old now, came and hugged her mother’s waist.
“It’s okay, Mama. We already ate.” Osaro looked down at her. “You ate? What did you eat?” The girls exchanged glances. Finally, Ose spoke quietly. “We… we soaked garri. Just garri and sugar. We found small sugar in the container.” Osaro’s legs gave out. She sank to the floor, her whole body shaking with sobs.
Her daughters, her precious daughters, had gone to sleep with only garri and sugar in their stomachs because their mother could not provide for them. “Mama, don’t cry,” Eve said, kneeling beside her. “We are not hungry. We are fine.” But Osaro could see the lie. She could see their thin arms, their sunken cheeks.
She could see the way Amen held her stomach, trying to ignore the hunger pains. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my daughters. I’m failing you. I’m failing all of you.” “No, Mama.” Aihe pulled her mother into her arms, crying too. “No, Mama, you’re not failing us. You are the strongest woman in the world. You wake up every day and fight for us. You ride keke so we can eat, so we can go to school.
Mama, you’re our hero.” All five girls gathered around their mother, holding her, crying with her, telling her how much they loved her, how grateful they were, how proud they were to be her daughters. And in that dark room with empty stomachs and empty pockets, somehow they found strength in each other.
That night, after they had all cried together, Osaro lay awake on the thin mat, staring at the ceiling. The darkness pressed down on her, heavy with all the weight of their suffering. But somewhere deep inside her, a fire was burning. She thought about her five daughters sleeping beside her. She thought about their empty stomachs. She thought about their dreams that seemed so far away. And she made a promise to herself. I will work harder. I will give them a better life, even if it kills me.
The next morning, Osaro woke up at 4:30, had a cold bath, said a quick prayer, and headed out with the keke. She took trips other riders refused. The short ones that paid little, the long ones that took her far from home. She worked through rain, through scorching heat, through days when her body screamed for rest.
The money came in slowly, painfully. 2,500 naira one day, 3,000 another, sometimes only 1,800 naira. Her daughters watched their mother sacrifice. And it changed something in them. They stopped complaining. They studied harder. They helped more at home. Six months later, life was still hard, but they were surviving, barely.
The bank that had seized Osaro’s shop kept sending people to their compound, demanding the balance of the loan. Even after taking everything in her shop, every bag of rice, every carton of noodles, every bottle of drink, they said it was not enough. She still owed them 200,000 naira. Osaro did not have 200,000 naira. She did not even have 20,000 naira. So the bank people would come shout at her in front of the whole compound, embarrass her, threaten her with police and court.
Each time they came, Osaro would stand there with her head bowed, taking the insults while her daughters watched with tears in their eyes. “Mama, why are they shouting at you like that?” little Efe asked one evening after the bank people had left. “Don’t mind them, my dear,” Osaro said, forcing a smile. “God will settle everything.” But inside, she was breaking.
One Sunday afternoon, Aihe came to her mother with tears in her eyes. “Mama, I need to talk to you.” Osaro looked up from the beans she was sorting. “What is it, my daughter?” “JAMB registration is closing next week. Mama, I really want to register. I’ve been studying so hard. All my classmates have already registered.
Please, Mama, I don’t want to wait another year.” Osaro’s heart sank. She knew this conversation was coming. She had been dreading it. “Aihe, my dear, how much is the form?” “5,000 naira for the form, then another 3,000 for the biometric capture and photograph. So 8,000 naira total.” 8,000 naira sounded like 8 million naira to Osaro. Osaro opened her small purse and counted the money inside. 2,300 naira.