Amber eyes in the dark

Chapter 5 Rising from ashes

Annabelle’s POV

Six months had passed since Bella and I walked out of the school principal’s office with that brown envelope in our hands. Fifty thousand naira. It wasn’t just money — it was a seed of hope, a chance to breathe again after years of suffocating pain.

We had nothing else to our names. No home. No parents. No friends who knew where we were. But that money — that small bundle of notes — felt like a promise that maybe, just maybe, life could begin again.

Bella was the one who first suggested it.

“We’ll sell vegetables,” she said, her voice calm but full of quiet determination. “Everyone eats vegetables. It’s honest work.”

I nodded, trusting her completely. That’s how our new story began — not with a grand dream, but with a basket of tomatoes, onions, and peppers.

The first morning we went to the market, the sky was still pale with dawn. The air smelled of dew and wood smoke, and traders were already shouting as they arranged their goods. Our spot was a small space between a yam seller and a woman who sold palm oil. It wasn’t much, but it was ours.

“Start small,” Bella reminded me. “Even big trees began as seeds.”

We spent the first few days learning how things worked. Market life was noisy, chaotic, and often unkind. Women argued over prices, customers complained about everything, and the sun never stopped burning. I was only thirteen, but my back ached as though I’d aged years in a day.

Still, we endured.

Sometimes we sold everything before noon. Other days, we went home with nearly full baskets, our hearts heavy with disappointment. But Bella never gave up. She would count our earnings each night, divide them carefully, and put a small part away as savings.

“We must never go back to being helpless,” she said once, looking straight into my eyes. “Even if we fail, we’ll fail standing.”

One afternoon, a woman named Mama Ifeoma stopped at our stall. She was plump, with kind eyes and a voice that carried warmth. She bought a basket of tomatoes and watched me wrap them in old newspaper.

“You two look too young to be doing this,” she said gently. “Where are your parents?”

For a moment, my throat tightened. I didn’t know what to say. But Bella answered softly, “They’re gone, ma. It’s just the two of us.”

Mama Ifeoma nodded slowly, her expression softening. She didn’t ask more questions, but from that day on, she became a regular customer — and a quiet guardian.

Sometimes she brought us leftover food from her house. Other times, she’d drop small advice while pretending to bargain. “Save something every market day,” she’d say. “Even if it’s just fifty naira. Tomorrow doesn’t warn before it comes.”

Those words stuck with me. We began saving little by little, hiding the money in a small tin under our mat.

Life wasn’t easy. There were nights when our feet throbbed from standing all day, and mornings when hunger made us dizzy. The market women often mocked us, calling us “the orphan girls,” but we learned to smile through it. We had seen worse.

One day, the rain poured heavily, flooding the market. Everyone scrambled to save their goods, shouting and cursing as the water rose. Our vegetables floated away before we could grab them. Bella tried to chase after them, but the current was too strong.

We lost everything that day.

That night, sitting under a leaking shed, I cried quietly, my heart breaking all over again. “What if we can’t start over?” I whispered. “What if this is where it ends?”

Bella’s arm slipped around me, warm and steady. “Then we’ll start again,” she said simply. “Even if we have to start with one tomato.”

And we did.

We borrowed a little from Mama Ifeoma, promising to repay her once we got back on our feet. Within a week, we were back in business. This time, we worked harder, smarter. We bought fresher vegetables, learned which customers paid fairly, and avoided middlemen who cheated.

As weeks turned into months, our small stall began to grow. People started calling us the sisters with the sweet tomatoes. Some even came looking for us by name.

One day, a customer told me, “You girls remind me of my daughters. Don’t ever give up. You’re doing something great.”

That day, when we packed up to go home, Bella smiled — a real, bright smile I hadn’t seen in years.

“Do you see it, Anna?” she asked. “We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re living.”

I nodded, tears filling my eyes. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t afraid of tomorrow.

At night, as I lay on our thin mat, I stared at the cracked ceiling and thought of how far we had come — from sleeping under school desks to standing in the market with pride. Life was still hard, but I no longer felt small or invisible.

I remembered what the principal had said months ago: The sky will be your limit if you remain hardworking and wise.

Maybe she was right.

Bella and I had built something — not just a business, but a life we could call our own. And though it wasn’t perfect, it was ours.

As sleep began to pull me under, I whispered softly to myself, “This time, we’ll rise and never fall again.”

For the first time since I lost my parents, I meant every word.