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That was all she had, and she needed to buy food for the week. “Aihe…” Osaro’s voice cracked. “I don’t have the money. Please, can you wait till next year? By then, I would have saved enough.” “Next year?” Aihe’s voice rose, then broke. “Mama, I’ll be 19 next year. All my mates are already in university. I can’t keep waiting.
I’ve studied so hard for this exam. I know I can pass. I know I can get into medical school. Please, Mama. Please.” She was crying now, and it tore Osaro’s heart into pieces. “I’m sorry, my daughter. I’m so sorry. I want to help you, but I don’t have the money. The bank people are still coming for their money. We can barely afford to eat.”
“Then I’ll call Papa,” Aihe said suddenly, wiping her tears. Osaro froze. “What?” “I’ll call Papa and ask him for the money. It’s just 8,000 naira. He’s my father. He should be able to help with at least that much.” Osaro wanted to say no. She wanted to forbid it. But when she looked at her daughter’s desperate, hopeful face, she could not.
“I will never use my phone to call that man,” Osaro said quietly. “But if you want to try, I won’t stop you.” The next day, Aihe borrowed a phone from their neighbor, a young man named Chidi. Her hands were shaking as she dialed the number, a number she had memorized but never called. It rang once, twice, three times. “Hello.” Pascal’s voice came through, sounding irritated. Aihe’s mouth dried. “Papa, it’s me, Aihe.”
Silence. Long, painful silence. “What do you want?” His voice was cold. So cold. “Papa, I… I want to register for JAMB. The form is 8,000 naira. Papa, I really want to go to university. I want to study medicine. Please, can you help me? Just this once.” Pascal laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound that made Aihe’s stomach turn. “Medicine? University?” He laughed again. “Aihe, listen to me.
You’re 18 years old now, right?” “Yes, sir.” “Then you should be thinking about finding a good husband, not wasting time on school. Do you know how much medical school costs? Millions of naira. And for what? So you can marry some man and use his name? So all my investment will go to another man’s family.” “Papa, that’s not…” “I have twin sons now.
Strong, healthy boys who will carry my name. They are the ones I need to invest in. They are my future, not you, not your sisters. I can’t waste my money training girl children who will just get married and leave. Tell your mother to find the money herself.” The line went dead. Aihe stood there, the phone pressed to her ear, listening to the silence.
Tears streamed down her face, but she made no sound. She walked back to their compound slowly, like someone in a dream. When she entered their small room, all her sisters were waiting, their faces full of hope. “What did he say?” Ose asked eagerly. Aihe shook her head, unable to speak. “He said no,” Eve whispered.
“He said…” Aihe’s voice broke. “He said I should find a husband. That he can’t waste money on girl children. That he has sons now who are his future.” The room went silent. Then Osaro stood up, walked to Aihe, and pulled her into her arms. All five daughters gathered around their mother, holding each other, crying together in that small dark room.
Two weeks later, the pain of Pascal’s rejection was still fresh when their neighbor, Mama Tunde, came rushing to their compound one evening. “Osaro, Osaro, you won’t believe what I just saw.” “What happened?” “Your husband, he just threw a big party for those twin boys. It was their first birthday. Osaro, you need to see it. He rented the biggest event center in town.
There was live band, food everywhere, drinks flowing like river. He must have spent over 500,000 naira on that party. Maybe even 1 million.” Osaro felt like someone had poured cold water over her head. 500,000 naira, maybe 1 million for a birthday party.
When his own daughter was begging him for 8,000 naira to register for JAMB. That night, all six of them cried again, but this time the tears were different. There were tears of anger, of pain, of betrayal so deep it felt like a physical wound. “Mama,” Aihe said quietly, her voice steady despite the tears on her face. “I will never call him again. Never. He’s not our father.” Ose agreed. “We don’t need him,” Eve said. “We will make it without him,” Amen added. Even little Efe nodded.
“We will be great, and he will be sorry.” Osaro looked at her five daughters and felt something shift inside her. “Yes,” she said firmly. “We will make it without him. You will all go to university. All five of you. I promise you this.” The next day, Mama Tunde came to Osaro with an envelope. “What is this?” Osaro asked. “Open it.”
Inside was 8,000 naira in cash. Osaro’s eyes went wide. “Mama Tunde, what?” “It’s for Aihe’s JAMB registration,” Mama Tunde said quietly. “I heard what happened. I heard how that useless man refused to help his own daughter. So, I am helping. Take it.
Let that girl register and go to university and become a doctor and show that foolish man what he lost.” Osaro broke down crying. “Mama Tunde, how will I pay you back? I don’t have…” “I am not asking you to pay me back,” Mama Tunde said firmly. “Just make sure that girl becomes a doctor. That will be my payment.” When Aihe heard the news, she fell on her knees and thanked Mama Tunde over and over until the older woman pulled her up. “Don’t thank me.
Just go and make us all proud.” One week later, Aihe registered for JAMB. She studied like her life depended on it because it did. Meanwhile, Osaro was working harder than ever. Every single day, she was at the motor park by 5:00 a.m., taking passengers until 10:00 p.m. After six months of grinding work, she finally paid off the hire purchase agreement for her keke.
The keke was now fully hers. When the brother handed her the documents with her name on them, Osaro cried. It was the first thing she had truly owned in two years. But she did not stop there. She kept saving, kept working, kept fighting. Three months later, the JAMB results came out. Aihe scored 345. When she saw her score on the computer at the cyber cafe, she screamed so loud that everyone in the cafe turned to look at her. “345? I got 345!”
She ran all the way home, clutching the printout of her result, crying and laughing at the same time. When Osaro saw the score, she grabbed her daughter and they danced around their small room, both of them crying with joy. “My daughter is going to be a doctor. My daughter is going to be a doctor.” The whole compound came out to celebrate.
People were clapping, ululating, praising God. Two months later, the admission list came out. University of Benin, Faculty of Medicine. Aihe’s name was there. The celebration that day was even bigger. People brought rice, drinks, small amounts of money to contribute. Everyone knew the story of Osaro and her daughters.
Everyone knew how much they had suffered. But that night, when everyone had gone home and her daughters were asleep, Osaro sat outside their room and calculated the costs. Acceptance fee, 45,000 naira. First semester school fee, 135,000 naira. Hostel fee, 25,000 naira. Books and materials, 20,000 naira. Feeding for six months, at least 50,000 naira. Total, 275,000 naira. Osaro looked at her savings box.