### *Chapter 1: The Night I Stopped Swallowing It* I was sitting on the floor by my bed, counting scratches on my arms like they were marks on a wall. One, two, three… I lost count at seven. That day started like any other. I was on my own, doing my own things, minding the quiet. Then she came into the room looking for trouble. I talked back. I shouldn’t have, maybe. But I was tired of being the punching bag that never got to say “stop.” Her parents came running in. No questions. No “what happened?” Just shouting: “You always have a problem. You’re always confused. You’re always wrong.” And then the hitting started. Two of them. One holding me, one slapping. My mouth stayed shut because if I cried, they’d say I was “dramatic.” If I fought back, they’d say I was “violent.” So I went quiet. Inside, I was screaming. She didn’t get touched. I did. Again. That night my body hurt everywhere. I told my babe I wasn’t feeling well, but I didn’t say why. He’s the only light I have. He doesn’t know he’s the reason I still think tomorrow might be different. I protect him from this mess, because if he leaves, I’m not sure what’s left. I lay there and thought: _If I keep taking this, when does it end?_ I didn’t have an answer. But for the first time, I asked the question out loud to myself. And that was new.### *Chapter 2: Naming It* For weeks after, I pretended it was fine. “Actually, it’s fine,” I told myself in the mirror. My voice sounded flat, like someone else borrowed it. But my body kept score. I flinched when doors opened fast. I stopped eating with everyone at the table. I made myself small. One evening my babe noticed. “You’re quieter,” he said. I laughed it off. “Just tired.” He didn’t push. I’m grateful for that. But I realized something: I was protecting him from my pain, but I had no one protecting me from theirs. So I started writing things down. Not long essays. Just lines in a cheap notebook I hid under my mattress: - _They hit me. I didn’t start it._ - _I’m not confused. I’m scared._ - _It’s not fine._ Writing “it’s not fine” felt like breaking a rule. Like I was betraying the house. But it also felt like breathing.### *Chapter 3: One Safe Person Outside* I didn’t tell my babe everything yet. I wasn’t ready to risk losing the one soft place I had. Instead, I found one other safe person. An auntie who lived two streets away. She sold pepper soup and always remembered my name. I didn’t tell her the whole story at first. I just showed up with a bruise on my wrist and said, “I fell.” She looked at me for a long time and said, “Falls don’t look like fingerprints, my dear.” I cried then. Not loud. Just tears that had been waiting. She didn’t call the police. She didn’t force me to talk. She gave me tea, a clean cloth for my arm, and her phone number written on paper. “When your house is loud, you can be quiet here,” she said. That became my first exit plan: a door I could walk to that wasn’t locked.### *Chapter 4: Learning the Difference Between Love and Survival* My babe and I fought one night because I was snapping at everything. He said I was giving him a headache. I almost broke. I wanted to tell him, “I’m being hit at home and I’m terrified you’ll leave if you know.” But I didn’t. Instead I said, “I’m dealing with stuff at home. It’s not about you. Please don’t go.” He stayed. He didn’t fix it. But he stayed. That taught me something: I could ask for “stay” without handing over every wound. Love isn’t only trauma-dumping. Sometimes it’s, “I’m not okay, and I still want you here.”### *Chapter 5: The Plan, Small and Ugly and Real* Moving on didn’t look like a movie. There was no big speech, no suitcase by the door on day two. Moving on looked like: 1. *Documents*: I took photos of my scratches with a friend’s phone and sent them to myself on WhatsApp. I saved my auntie’s number under a fake name. 2. *Money*: I started keeping 200 naira here, 500 there, in an empty pen case. It wasn’t escape money. It was “I can buy transport if I need to leave for a night” money. 3. *Words*: I practiced one sentence: “Don’t touch me.” I said it to the mirror until it didn’t shake. I never got to use it at home. But I used it at school when someone shoved me. My voice worked. 4. *Help lines*: I saved 0810 332 0666 in my phone. NAPTIP. I never called. But knowing it was there made the walls feel less total.### *Chapter 6: The Day I Chose Me* Months later, it happened again she hitted me again but this time it was severe so I knew I had to run if I wanted to leave and I knew no one will help,People see me and think they already know who I am. They think I'm always the problem, always the one who is wrong. They never stop to ask what really happened or how much I've endured.This isn't the first time I've been hit. It isn't the first time I've cried for help either. Every time I try to speak, it feels like my voice disappears before anyone hears it.

Both parents held me and kept hitting me while leaving the person that did it and started the argument, I couldn't say anything because they were hitting me so hard, I had scratch's all over my body, I wasn't feeling well that day, she hitted me and they did nothing to her but when I hitted back they both held me one slapping and on heating me, I felt like crying but I didn't because it wasn't worth it, I was on my own doing my own things when she came and started looking for trouble when I then talked back at her, her both parents came running in shouting at me and saying that I have a problem I'm always confused how I'm always wrong when I don't do anything and then they started heating me am not trying to exaggerate but that's what happened, my only source of joy is my babe even though he gives me a bit headache I still love him and I don't want to loose him because he doesn't know that he is the reason that everything looks worth it but my body hurts everytime, I keep complaining to him that am not feeling well but I don't tell him they hit me I don't understand why they always take her side but I don't care again it's fine with me actually , I knew I had to do this all alone and it hurts more than the beatings because the people that were meant to protect me were the same people that am running from my life is so tragic as it may be but at least I have my boyfriend some people thinks that I can't let him go but they don't know they he is my only support in this world, everybody is telling me to run but where will I run to and be safe, if I try to run I will probably be kidnapped and that could be worst for me I don't really know where I stand or what is my role in all this, everyone saying I should ask for help but there is no one to help actually I feel like dying but still that's not sure for me because they won't let me because they know what it will cost them, tragic isn't it how my life is, am not trying to sound negative but sometimes that's more to someone than there smile's because no one would have ever known that I could ever be going through all this because they felt like I was the most happy, correct if am wrong cause I stand corrected but I guess that's how it meant to be