UNBROKEN

CHAPTER TWO: BEFORE I WAS BORN

Every child has a beginning.

Mine began long before the day I was born.

It began with a young girl who believed love could save her.

My mother was only sixteen when she met my father, Sunday, at a birthday party. Fresh out of secondary school, she was determined not to follow the path many of her friends had chosen. She wanted something different for herself. She wanted a family, a home, and a future she could be proud of.

At that time, many girls around her were chasing what society called enjoyment. They wanted the latest clothes, the newest hairstyles, and the attention that came with being seen. Some dropped out of school and turned to p**********n to survive or to maintain a lifestyle they could not afford.

My mother wanted none of it.

She came from a strict and disciplined family. Her parents did not have much, but they taught their children values, respect, and hard work. Though poverty sat at their doorstep, dignity remained inside their home.

My mother dreamed of a simple life.

She wanted a husband.

She wanted children.

She wanted a place she could call home.

Looking back now, I sometimes wish education had been emphasized more strongly around her. I wish someone had told her that marriage was not the only future available to a young woman. I wish someone had encouraged her to pursue university, build a career, and discover herself before giving her heart away.

But those wishes belong to the present.

Back then, life looked different.

University seemed impossible. Money was scarce. Opportunities were few. Marriage appeared to be the safest road a young woman could take.

Then she met him.

My father was older, confident, and charming when he wanted to be. He knew how to say the right things. He knew how to make a young girl feel seen.

She fell in love quickly.

What she didn't realize was that love can sometimes blind us to the things others see clearly.

For four years, they were together.

During those years, my mother sacrificed more than she should have.

She stole money from her parents to support him.

Her mother sold bread in the market, working tirelessly from morning until evening to provide for the family. Yet my mother secretly took from those earnings to help the man she loved pay rent and settle expenses.

At the time, she believed she was helping her future husband.

She believed she was investing in their future.

She believed sacrifice was proof of love.

Looking back, she would later admit that she was too young to understand the difference between love and self-destruction.

The more she gave, the more he took.

When she turned nineteen, my father asked her to move in with him.

Everyone warned her.

Her parents warned her.

Her siblings warned her.

Friends warned her.

They saw things she refused to see.

They saw the anger in him.

They saw the pride in him.

They saw the way he spoke to her.

They saw the red flags.

But my mother was in love.

Love has a way of making warnings sound like noise.

So she left home and moved in with him.

Not long after, the beatings began.

The first time he hit her, she was shocked.

She had imagined arguments.

She had imagined disagreements.

But she had never imagined violence.

Crying, she returned to her family home, hoping someone would tell her to leave him forever.

Instead, she heard words that many women before her had heard.

"Marriage has ups and downs."

"Every couple fights."

"Go back and make peace."

"Be patient."

So she went back.

She believed things would change.

They didn't.

Months later, she became pregnant.

Despite everything, she hoped the baby would bring peace into their home.

A year later, she gave birth to me.

I was born on a Wednesday, the nineteenth of March, 2008.

My mother named me Celia because she loved the sound of the name. She believed it suited the tiny baby she held in her arms.

For a brief moment, she was happy.

People celebrated my arrival.

Family members came to visit.

Friends congratulated her.

She was proudly called "Mama Celia," and she wore the title with joy.

For the first time in a long while, life seemed hopeful.

She held me in her arms and imagined a better future.

She imagined birthdays.

She imagined school uniforms.

She imagined family photographs.

She imagined happiness.

But hope did not stay long.

The struggles returned.

Money became scarce again.

Arguments filled the house.

And my father's temper grew worse.

One particular day would remain etched in my mother's memory forever.

I was only two weeks old.

Like many newborns, I cried throughout the night. My mother barely slept. She spent hour after hour carrying me, feeding me, and trying to soothe me.

According to her, she finally managed to sleep around five o'clock in the morning.

Only two hours later, my father woke her and demanded that she prepare food for him.

Exhausted and weak from childbirth, she asked him to be patient.

He left the house for a while.

When he returned later that morning, she was still asleep.

He became furious.

He demanded to know where his food was.

My mother apologized and explained that she was tired. She reminded him that she had spent the entire night caring for their newborn baby.

She suggested he buy bread, make tea, or find something simple to eat.

Instead of understanding, he became angry.

Very angry.

Sensing danger, my mother picked me up and tried to leave the house.

She never made it to the door.

My father struck her from behind.

She fell.

Still holding me.

The impact sent both mother and child crashing to the ground.

My mother lost consciousness.

And my father walked away.

For nearly twenty minutes she lay there.

Silent.

Motionless.

A neighbour who had heard the argument became concerned when everything suddenly went quiet.

He came to investigate.

What he found horrified him.

My mother was lying on the floor unconscious.

The baby was beside her.

He immediately called for help.

Together with another neighbour, he rushed her to the hospital.

That act of kindness saved her life.

Perhaps it saved mine too.

When people began asking questions, my father created a different story.

According to him, thieves had broken into the house.

He claimed they demanded money.

He claimed my mother refused.

He claimed they attacked her before escaping.

That was the story he told everyone.

And because my mother still wanted to protect her marriage, she went along with the lie.

No one knew the truth.

Or perhaps some people knew and simply chose silence.

Life continued.

As it always does.

A year later, my brother Gideon was born.

Despite the difficulties, my mother loved each of her children deeply.

She gave us everything she could.

Sometimes that wasn't much.

But she gave it anyway.

Four years later came the twins, David and Devina.

The day the twins arrived was one of the happiest days of my mother's life.

People celebrated her.

Neighbours came to visit.

Family members congratulated her.

They called her Mama Ejima, a title proudly given to mothers of twins.

For a little while, joy filled our home again.

But joy could not fill empty pockets.

Feeding four children became difficult.

School fees became a burden.

Every naira mattered.

Ironically, while my father behaved as though he controlled the household, much of the responsibility fell on my mother's shoulders.

She returned to help her mother at the bread shop.

She worked long hours.

She carried goods.

She assisted customers.

She did everything she could to earn something.

During holidays, she often took us to stay with our grandmother.

Not because she wanted to get rid of us.

But because she knew we would at least eat regularly there.

My grandmother's house became a place of temporary relief.

A place where food was more certain.

A place where we could laugh without fear.

Yet even while my mother worked tirelessly, my father continued his old habits.

The money she brought home rarely remained.

Some of it disappeared.

Some of it was wasted.

Some of it was spent chasing other women.

And still, somehow, she endured.

We lived in a face-me-I-face-you compound where privacy did not exist.

Everybody knew everybody's business.

The walls were thin.

The rooms were crowded.

Children ran everywhere.

Voices travelled from one room to another.

Arguments echoed through the building.

Laughter did too.

It was a place where people survived together.

And sometimes suffered together.

That was the world waiting for me.

A world of noise.

A world of struggle.

A world where love and pain seemed to live side by side.

A world where my mother fought every day to keep her children alive.

As a little girl, I would eventually inherit the consequences of choices made before I could even speak.

But that story comes later.

For now, this is the story of the young woman who became my mother.

A girl who wanted love.

A girl who wanted a family.

A girl who believed sacrifice would be rewarded.

A girl who gave everything she had.

And a girl who paid a price far greater than she ever imagined.

The truth is, before I had a story, she already had one.

And before my life began, hers had already been broken in ways that would shape us both forever.