CHAPTER 4 – HOME ISN’T ALWAYS SAFE
862 Words
The bus ride home was quieter than usual.
Aisha sat by the window, staring at raindrops racing each other down the glass. Each droplet seemed like a tiny mirror, reflecting a different version of herself — the one who smiled when no one was watching, the one who cried in the dark, the one who wished she could run away and never look back.
Her backpack rested loosely on her lap. Inside it, her books felt heavier than usual. Every page seemed to weigh on her chest, not from the knowledge inside, but from the thought of what awaited her when she stepped through her front door.
She had learned early on that home wasn’t safe.
The streets leading to her house smelled of wet mud and burnt wood. Occasionally, the sweet aroma of akara frying floated out of someone’s shop, teasing her senses with warmth she couldn’t touch.
And then she turned the corner.
Her heart sank.
The lights in the house flickered, uneven.
The faint clink of bottles echoed through the walls.
Her father’s voice… slurred, loud, angry, uneven, uneven.
She froze at the gate.
Some part of her wanted to turn back, to run into the storm, to vanish like a shadow.
But another part — the part she had been building slowly, silently — forced her to take one step, then another.
She opened the door quietly, hoping the floorboards wouldn’t squeak too loudly.
They did.
The sound drew a sharp grunt from her father. He didn’t open his eyes at first, too lost in his drink, but the grunt carried weight.
Aisha swallowed her fear and moved to the kitchen.
Empty bottles. Broken plates. Spilled alcohol.
The smell of neglect hit her like a physical force.
She sighed, heavy, tired.
Her home wasn’t a place for rest. It was a battlefield she navigated alone.
And tonight, like every night, she felt like she was walking on fragile glass.
She set her bag down gently.
She couldn’t bring herself to shout or scold. That never worked.
Instead, she quietly prepared a plate of food — for him, for herself, for some semblance of normalcy.
Her hands trembled slightly. Cooking didn’t bring her joy anymore. It was a routine, a distraction. Something to keep her mind from collapsing under the weight of years of silence.
“Dinner’s ready,” she whispered, though she knew he might not hear.
He grunted, still half-asleep, half-drunk, and maybe half-ignoring her.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
She had long ago accepted that her home would never be warm.
That her father’s love had disappeared somewhere between the bottle and the anger.
She carried her plate back to her room and sat on the edge of the bed.
That’s when her phone buzzed.
A text from Kamal:
“Are you home?”
Her chest tightened. Relief and fear mingled strangely. Relief, because someone else in the world actually cared; fear, because she realized she was more vulnerable than she wanted to admit.
She typed back slowly:
“Yeah. You?”
“I walked past your street but didn’t want to bother you.”
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to ask him to come in, to sit, to talk, to be… safe. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk anyone seeing him. She couldn’t risk anyone seeing her…
So she typed back:
“It’s okay. Just… goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
She set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. The shadows on her walls danced as the wind rattled the windows. She felt lonely, yes, but strangely… not empty.
The thought of Kamal sitting somewhere, thinking of her, gave her a little anchor in the storm of her life.
Later, the house was quiet again.
Quiet, but never safe.
The door to her father’s room creaked.
She held her breath.
“Where’s my dinner, girl?” His voice was rough, slurred, demanding.
“I—” she started, but stopped. There was no courage left for arguing.
“Just eat,” he mumbled, not looking at her.
She did, silently, trying not to make a sound.
Her mind wandered to Kamal again. His sketches. His quiet smile. The way he didn’t flinch as violently when she was near. She felt… hope.
But she forced herself to push it down.
Home was still a battlefield.
Her heart, still fragile.
She realized then that if she wanted to survive — not just exist, survive — she needed more than hope. She needed a plan.
A way out.
And maybe… just maybe… Kamal was the first piece of that plan.
Not a full escape. Not a complete solution. But a sliver of light in the suffocating dark.
She closed her eyes that night, listening to the hum of the street outside, the faint dripping of rain, the occasional groan from her father’s room.
And for the first time in years, she let herself think:
Tomorrow… I might not be as afraid.
Tomorrow… maybe I won’t be alone.
And in the quiet, a single thought settled in her heart:
Maybe home doesn’t have to be safe for me to start finding safety elsewhere.
- Writer
