TRUE LOVE, WRONG FIRM

The morning Ronda left home, nobody begged her to stay. That was what hurt the most. Not the cracked walls of her father’s house. Not the noise that lived there like a curse. Not even the fact that she was stepping into a future she could not see clearly. It was the silence. The kind that told her she had already been carrying too much for too long, and somehow, still, no one noticed what it cost her. She sat on the edge of her mattress before dawn, staring at the small travel bag at her feet. Everything she owned that mattered was inside it; a few clothes, a purse with thinning savings, some documents, and the stubborn hope that if she left now, she might still save herself before life finished swallowing her whole. Outside, the compound was already waking up. A pot clanged. A child cried. Someone cursed. A door slammed hard enough to shake the thin window frame in her room. Ronda closed her eyes. Same house. Same noise. Same suffocating life. As the first daughter in a polygamous family, she had stopped belonging to herself years ago. There was always something to do, someone to help, something to endure. She had become useful before she ever got the chance to become young. While other girls learned softness, she learned survival. While other girls dreamed, she measured rice, fetched water, swallowed insults, and carried responsibilities that never seemed to end. And the worst part? No one called it cruelty. They called it life. “Ronda!” her stepmother’s voice cut through the early morning like a blade. “If you’re awake, come outside and stop acting like a visitor!” Ronda’s jaw tightened. Even this morning. She stood slowly, tied her scarf over her hair, and stepped outside. The air smelled of damp earth, leftover smoke, and the heaviness of too many unhappy people waking under one roof. Her younger half-brother ran across the courtyard barefoot. One wife was already complaining. Another was muttering curses under her breath while rinsing a pot. Her father sat on his usual stool, expression hard and distant, as if fatherhood had happened to him by accident and all of them were the punishment. Nobody looked at Ronda and saw a young woman about to leave with fear in her chest and pride as her only companion. They only saw another pair of hands. Her younger sister, Simi, found her at the well. “Are you still going?” she whispered. Ronda tied the rope around the bucket and nodded once. Simi’s eyes widened. “Today?” “Yes.” “What if Daddy gets angry?” Ronda gave a bitter, tiny smile. “He’s almost always angry.” Simi didn’t smile back. She moved closer and lowered her voice even further. “What if the city is worse?” The bucket hit the water below with a hollow splash. Ronda stared down into the well for a second before answering. “Then at least it will be a suffering I chose.” That silenced them both. She pulled the bucket up with burning arms and steady breath. The rope bit into her palm, but she barely felt it. Pain had become too ordinary to deserve much reaction. By noon, the compound had grown hotter, louder, and more irritating. Ronda had finished the chores expected of her and more. She had kept her mouth shut through sharp comments and dismissive looks. She had earned the right to one conversation. So she went to her father. He was sitting in the shade, drinking from a cup and listening to one of the wives talk about money as if the whole family’s suffering had not already become a permanent guest in the house. “Daddy,” Ronda said. He looked up slowly. “What?” “I want to leave for the city.” The wife beside him scoffed instantly. “Ah. Here she goes.” Ronda kept her eyes on her father. He stared at her for one long second. Then another. “For what?” “To work,” she said. “To learn something. To build a better life.” His face hardened further. “And the life here is not good enough?” The question was so insulting it almost made her laugh. But she held herself still. “No, sir,” she said quietly. “It isn’t.” That did it. The woman beside him clicked her tongue loudly. “See how children talk now.” Her father set down his cup with force. “You think life in the city is waiting for you with open arms?” “You think you’re special?” “No.” “Then why are you standing here talking like someone with options?” That one landed. Hard. Because that was the shape of her whole life, wasn’t it? Being spoken to like wanting more was pride. Like hunger for change was insult. Like hope itself was disobedience. Ronda swallowed once. “Because if I stay here, nothing changes.” Her father leaned back and looked at her as if she had become a stranger. “So now you know life better than your elders?” “No,” she said. “I just know I can’t keep living like this.” Silence followed. Ugly silence. Tense silence. Then he waved one hand in dismissal. “Do what you want,” he said. “But don’t come back here blaming anyone when the world teaches you sense.” No blessing. No caution. No softness. Just rejection wearing the shape of permission. And somehow, that hurt more than anger would have. That evening, Ronda packed fully. Simi helped her fold the last blouse with trembling hands. “Will you really be okay?” Ronda looked at the bag. Then at the tiny room. Then at her sister’s frightened face. She wanted to say yes. Instead, she chose the truth she could survive. “I have to be.” Simi hugged her so tightly it almost broke her. Ronda held her back and stared over her shoulder at the room where she had cried quietly too many nights to count. She had once imagined leaving home would feel like freedom. It felt like amputation. Before dawn the next day, she left. No one stopped her. No one asked if she had enough money. No one said, call when you arrive. No one stood at the gate watching with regret in their eyes. She stepped onto the road with one bag and a heart full of bruised determination. At the motor park, the world was already loud. Engines coughed smoke into the morning air. Hawkers shouted over one another. Conductors barked destinations with impatient voices. Sweat, dust, food, and fuel mixed in the heat until breathing itself felt like swallowing struggle. Ronda stood there clutching her bag, trying not to look as scared as she felt. She was really doing this. No safety net. No certainty. No guarantee that the city would welcome her any better than home had. But staying had become its own kind of death. So she boarded the bus. As the vehicle jerked forward and the town began to blur behind her, Ronda looked out the window and let the ache rise fully for the first time. She was leaving everything she knew. Even if everything she knew had hurt her. The tears came quietly. Only two. She wiped them away before anyone noticed. She would not arrive in her new life already broken. The journey was long and uncomfortable. Heat clung to her skin. Her back ached. A woman beside her chewed loudly and slept in intervals against the window. But none of that touched the deeper discomfort sitting inside her chest. What if this failed? What if she spent her last money chasing a future that did not want her? What if home was terrible and the world outside it was worse? She pressed her hand harder against her bag. Then another thought rose, just as stubborn as fear. What if it works? That was the dangerous thing about hope. Even half-starved, it still knew how to breathe. By the time she arrived in the city, she was exhausted. The place did not greet her gently. It rushed at her with noise, buses, unfamiliar roads, impatient faces, and the overwhelming feeling that nobody had time to care whether she belonged there or not. Ronda stood still for a second as the crowd moved around her. This was not the fresh beginning she had imagined in secret. This was chaos. Sharp, crowded, unsympathetic chaos. Still, she tightened her grip on her bag and moved. A distant relative had helped her secure a tiny room on the edge of a crowded neighborhood. Tiny was almost generous. The room barely held a narrow bed, one plastic chair, and a shelf with chipped edges. The fan sounded like it was dying every time she switched it on. The wall carried the stain of old leaks. The window was too small to let in real comfort. But when she locked the door behind her and stood alone in the silence, something inside her cracked open. No shouting wives. No father’s contempt. No one calling her lazy while her body was already tired. Just quiet. Ronda sat on the bed and pressed both hands over her face. For one trembling moment, she almost cried again. Not because the room was beautiful. Because it was hers. The next morning, reality began quickly. Job hunting was harder than courage had prepared her for. Everywhere she went, people asked the same questions. “Do you have experience?” “Any certification?” “What skill do you have?” “We’ll get back to you.” They never got back to her. Days became a cruel loop of effort and disappointment. Ronda woke early, dressed neatly, and stepped into the city with determination every morning. By evening, she returned with tired feet, dry lips, and one more rejection sitting inside her chest like a stone. Her money began to shrink. She started calculating food in painful ways. If she bought transport, she had to eat less. If she ate properly, rent felt closer and more dangerous. Some nights she lay on her bed staring at the ceiling and wondered if she had made the biggest mistake of her life. Maybe her father had been right. Maybe wanting more was only another way to suffer. But every time that thought tried to settle, another rose to challenge it. At least here, the suffering might still lead somewhere. So she kept going. She learned the bus routes. Learned which food seller gave more rice for less money. How to walk with purpose even when she felt lost. How to smile politely through humiliation. How to survive disappointment without letting it show on her face too long. The city did not become softer. She just became harder to break. One Sunday evening, after a week harsh enough to leave her spirit limping, she got back to her room and collapsed onto the bed without even changing clothes. Her body ached. Her stomach was barely settled. Her purse held an amount of money too small to comfort anyone. She took out the notes in it and counted them twice. Still not enough. A slow fear spread through her. Rent. Food. Transport. Tomorrow. Her throat tightened. “God,” she whispered into the quiet room, “please don’t let me fail here.” It was not a polished prayer. Just desperation in plain language. She rolled onto her side, phone in hand, and began scrolling through w******p mostly to escape her own thoughts. Status updates. Group messages. Useless forwarded broadcasts. More noise. More people living lives that looked farther from hers than ever. Then she saw it. An advert. Simple. Bright. Almost too good to trust. It spoke about skill acquisition. Training. Benefits. Growth. Opportunity. Ronda sat up slowly. Her eyes moved over the words once. Twice. Then again. Her heart began to beat faster. This was how disappointment often dressed, she knew that. In attractive promises. In polished language. In hope you could almost touch before it vanished in your hands. Still… Something about this felt different. Maybe it was timing. Maybe desperation had made her willing to gamble. Maybe God had finally answered in a language she could click. She opened the details properly and read everything with breathless care. A firm. A structured program. A chance to learn while building something real. Her tiredness vanished so suddenly it felt unnatural. “Could this be it?” she whispered. This time, hope did not arrive gently. It struck. She slid off the bed, reached for her notebook, and began writing down every instruction before fear could tell her not to bother. Her hand shook slightly. Her mind raced ahead of her. Her chest felt too tight to contain the possibility opening inside it. For the first time in weeks, she did not feel like a girl losing to the city. She felt like someone standing at the mouth of a door. And if that door opened, even a little, she was ready to walk through it with all the hunger and pride she had left.