Unbreakable

The Beginning of My Story It was a quiet Sunday morning in my small house. The sun was already shining brightly through the window, just like it always does in Lagos. Sundays are usually peaceful days for most people — a day to rest, go to church, and spend time with family. But for me, Sundays were never really days of rest. I woke up early that morning, as usual. Before the church bells could even begin to ring in the distance, I had already started my chores. I swept the compound, washed the plates from the night before, and began cooking food for the family. I always tried to finish everything early so I could sit down and relax for a little while before going to church. Most people say Sunday is a day when nobody should work. But in my life, Sunday was just another day of survival. My family was what people would call an average Nigerian family, but sometimes it felt like we were barely holding ourselves together. Life was never easy for us, and from a very young age, I understood that if we didn’t work, we wouldn’t eat. I worked as a salesgirl in a small baby shop not too far from where we lived. The shop was owned by a strict but hardworking woman who sold baby items. The shelves were always filled with tiny baby shoes, colorful clothes, soft blankets, baby soaps, diapers, and all kinds of things mothers needed for their newborn children. Every day I watched happy parents come into the shop, smiling as they bought things for their babies. Sometimes I would smile with them, but deep inside, I wondered what it must feel like to grow up in a family where life was easier. I was the middle child in my family, surrounded by many sisters. Our house was always full of noise — voices, arguments, laughter, crying, and sometimes silence when things were hard. Altogether, there were about ten of us living in the same household. Ten people under one roof. You can imagine how chaotic life could be. But despite everything we went through, one thing always amazed me about my parents: they loved each other deeply. Even after all the struggles, the poverty, the stress, and the long years of hardship, they remained together. Sometimes I wondered how they managed to hold on to that love. Our journey as a family had not always been in Lagos. Many years ago, we lived in Kaduna. Life there had its own challenges, but it was the place where many of our memories began. Later, circumstances forced us to move to Lagos in search of a better life. But Lagos has a way of testing people. Some survive it. Some get lost in it. And some people are forced to grow up faster than they should. When I was younger, people often described me as a stubborn girl. I behaved like a tomboy most of the time. I ran around with the boys in the neighborhood, climbed trees, and never really cared about acting like the “perfect girl” people expected. Funny enough, now when I think about those days, I actually miss them. Life was simpler then. Growing up in an average home was never really the problem. The real problem began when it was time for everyone to start contributing to the family’s survival. That was the moment you realized how heavy life could truly become. You suddenly understood what suffering meant. You saw it in the tired eyes of your parents. You felt it in the hunger that sometimes visited your stomach. And you heard it in the quiet conversations adults had late at night when they thought the children were asleep. My name is Omas. Well… that is the name I use now. The truth is, it is not my real name. I chose the name Omas because my real name carries memories that I do not want to relive. Some names remind you of pain, of moments you wish you could erase forever. So I decided to leave that name behind. Omas is who I am now. And that is the name I will continue to carry. My suffering began when I was only eleven years old. Eleven. An age when most children should be worrying about homework, playing games with friends, or dreaming about what they want to become in the future. But life does not always follow the plans we imagine. Sometimes life throws lemons at you before you even understand what is happening. And when that happens, you have only two choices. You can sit down and cry about the lemons… Or you can learn how to make something out of them. Something strong. Something sweet. Something that keeps you going. Just like lemonade. And that was exactly what I had to do.