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Living in shadow of death 2

The real misery began when we didn’t hear from my dad for a long time. We were starving. With no food and no money, we were forced to take to the streets, begging for alms just to survive. Life turned cruel—harsh and unforgiving. We had no good clothes to wear, and before long, we became known as “bolas.” People called us mad, dirty children. The world looked down on us like we were less than human.

Eventually, neighbors back in the village contacted my dad, and he finally came. He took us back with him to the city—Abuja. But his return didn’t bring peace.

Instead of caring for us himself, he found someone else to watch over us. He claimed he had no time; work kept him constantly busy. We barely saw him.

Then one day, a nurse on duty called us with terrible news: my dad had been in an accident. We rushed to the hospital. When we got there, we learned he had broken his leg. They had to put it in an orthopedic cast. Since then, he’s been limping—he still doesn’t walk properly to this day.

But even after the accident, nothing changed. My life felt like a living hell. I was alive, yes—but I was just existing. Every day felt like walking in the shadows of death, without a single ray of hope.

Then, one day, it became too much for my sister. She ran away from home, leaving me and my younger siblings in the hands of a man who had grown more wicked over time—our father.

After that, he began bringing different women into our home. None of them lasted long. He would grow tired of them and send them away. Then, almost a year later, he introduced someone new. Her name was *Felicia*, and he called her his wife.

From the very moment she stepped into our house, our suffering increased. She came in with the intention of taking control—not just of us, but of our father too. I regretted the day she ever entered our lives. She made our home feel like a prison, and no matter what she did, my dad always agreed with her—even when she was clearly wrong.

Felicia had a daughter named *Lois*, but she couldn’t bear a child for my dad.

One day, while I was feeling very sick, Felicia went to the market. My dad asked me to go to the hospital to buy some medicine. The hospital was far, and I was already weak, but I went. When I returned with the medicine, he said it wasn’t what he asked for and demanded that I return it. I went back to the hospital, but the nurses told me it was non-refundable.

I returned home and explained, but my dad wouldn’t listen.

> “I don’t want excuses,” he said. “I want my money back.”

Then he started beating me—hitting me so hard, I thought I’d faint. He screamed at me to leave his house. I begged him, cried even—but he refused to listen.

In desperation, I ran to my classmate’s shop to ask if she could help me with some money..

When I got to my classmate’s shop, I asked her if she could help me with some money. She told me she didn’t have any at the moment. Then she looked at me seriously and asked, “Deborah, how long will you let your dad keep treating you like this?”

She advised me to go to the nearby police station and report him. With no other option, I went.

But when I got there, something came over me. I was overwhelmed—by fear, pain, anger. I told the officers on duty that my dad had slept with me.

Coincidentally, while I was still at the station, my dad showed up to report that his daughter—me—was missing. The officers were confused. They didn’t know who to believe. In my statement, I told them he had slept with me three consecutive times.

They detained him and began questioning. Later that same day, the case was escalated—they said they would file it with the Benin Headquarters.

But the truth is... my dad never slept with me.

When we got home after that incident, my father called a meeting with the elders. The meeting was about me. After discussing, they concluded that I should be sent to my mother’s village.

The following week, my dad took me to the park and sent me off to my mom’s village.

When I arrived, my relatives welcomed me warmly. It felt like a fresh start, and I began to hope that maybe I’d finally find peace. But my grandmother wasn’t home when I got there. When she returned, she wasn’t pleased. She was upset that no one had informed her of my coming, and I could see the worry on her face. I had hoped to find happiness living with her—but things didn’t go the way I imagined. It turned out to be the opposite.

Soon, I began going to the farm with my grandmother and my cousins. She had a farm where she cultivated cassava, yam, and other crops. It was hard work, but I did it, hoping that better days were ahead.

When I finally arrived in the city, I started living with my aunt and uncle, along with their children. I didn’t begin working immediately—I spent the first few days helping my aunt in her shop.

But barely a week in, she began to complain.

> “You’re spoiling my market,” she said, after I accidentally spilled some of the oil she sells.

I apologized sincerely. I didn’t mean any harm. We moved on—or so I thought.

The following week, my aunt and I began visiting different places to look for work or training opportunities for me. I told her I didn’t like most of the options we saw. Eventually, we found one—a place that offered both tailoring and catering training. I was excited. I felt like I had finally found something I could grow in.

I was grateful to my aunt and uncle. They helped me pay for the requirements I needed to start. For a while, things seemed okay. We were living peacefully—at least on the surface.