Chapter Five
413 Words
A House That Was Not Home
Ama was sent to live with her aunt, Auntie Efua, who already had five children.
The decision was made quietly, by voices that did not include her. One morning, her few belongings were tied into a faded cloth, and she was led away from the house where her mother’s footsteps still echoed in her memory. No one asked Ama if she was ready. Children were never asked such things.
Auntie Efua’s house was always full.
Feet shuffled across the floor from dawn to night. Pots clanged. Babies cried. The air smelled of boiled cassava and tired bodies. Ama slept near the wall, her mat folded smaller each night to make room for others.
Food was measured.
Love was divided.
Auntie Efua was not cruel—but she was tired. Her eyes carried the weight of too many mouths and too little rest. When Ama forgot herself and moved too slowly, her aunt’s voice grew sharp. When Ama tried to help, she was often told she was in the way.
“Be quick,” Auntie Efua would say.
“Don’t waste.”
“Children are many.”
Ama learned.
She learned to eat quickly before the pot emptied. She learned to speak softly so her voice would not become a burden. She learned to cry only at night, pressing her face into her mat so no one would hear.
She learned that grief made her invisible.
The other children laughed and fought and complained. Ama watched them like someone peering through a window. When she missed her mother, there was no one to notice. When her chest felt too tight, there were no arms waiting.
No one asked how her heart was healing.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments before sleep, Ama touched the small scar on her knee—her mother had kissed it once and called her brave. The memory hurt more than the wound ever had.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks learned her name, but not her pain.
Ama became careful in everything she did. She swept without raising dust. She fetched water without spilling a drop. She learned the art of being useful but unseen.
At night, she dreamed of her mother’s voice. In the mornings, she woke to the reality of another woman’s house, another woman’s rules.
She carried her sorrow like a calabash on her head—
carefully balanced,
never dropped.
And though no one noticed, the weight was growing heavier each day.
- Writer
