Barrister Ada

Chapter 3: The weekend

Chapter 3: The Weekend

I didn’t go home for four days.

At Aunty Ngozi’s shelter, the world felt like it had been muted. I didn’t speak a single word on the first day. My throat felt thick, swollen with unshed tears and the lingering terror of Saturday night. Aunty Ngozi didn't push. She simply set plates of hot jollof rice and steaming tea beside me. No rapid-fire questions. No demands.

“Rest,” she told me, her voice a soft hum in the quiet room. “You’re safe.”

So, I stayed. For four days of the midterm holiday, I hid from the world in that tiny room, wrapped in a borrowed blanket.

But reality eventually caught up. On the fifth morning, Aunty Ngozi sat at the edge of the bed with a serious look in her kind eyes. “Holiday is over, Ada,” she said gently. “You have to go back to the hostel.”

She was right. If I missed resumption day, the school authorities would immediately call my father. The thought of him coming to the school gates made my stomach twist into painful knots.

She gave me a set of plain clothes to wear—donated, but smelling fresh and clean. “Wear this to travel,” she instructed, handing me a small transport fare. “Change into your uniform when you get to the hostel. Act like everything is normal.”

I arrived at school early Monday morning. Resumption day was a chaotic blur of dragging boxes, loud greetings, and the smell of floor polish. The noise was overwhelming. I slipped into my dormitory unnoticed, quickly changing into my real uniform in the cramped space behind my metal hostel box. Thankfully, no teacher asked where I had come from.

But my relief was short-lived.

The moment I stepped into the SS2 classroom, my friend Tolu grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with panic. “Ada! Where have you been? Your dad came here last week Tuesday, right in the middle of the holiday. He was pacing the admin block, shouting at the security: ‘Where is my daughter? She ran away!’”

The pen I was holding slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the concrete floor. A cold sweat broke out across my neck.

The rest of the week dragged by in a haze of terrifying anticipation. I went to the dining hall, but the food tasted like dry dust in my mouth. By Friday, my uniform skirt was hanging loose around my waist. My hands shook so badly during physics class that I couldn't even copy the notes from the chalkboard. Every time I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway, I thought: What if he comes to the hostel now?

By Saturday, my supplies were completely depleted. The hostel mistress stood at the block entrance, clapping her hands. “SS2, you can go to the market. Buy your provisions and necessities. Make sure you are back before 4 p.m. sharp.”

I desperately needed washing soap, toothpaste, and sanitary pads. So, I forced myself to walk out of the school gates.

The market was a roaring ocean of sound. Hawkers yelled, wheelbarrows rattled over the uneven ground, and the afternoon sun beat down relentlessly. I kept my head down, navigating the crowded stalls, just wanting to buy my things and disappear back into my shell.

And then, cutting through the noise, I heard my name.

“Ada?”

I froze, snapping my head up.

It was Aunty Ngozi. She was standing near a vegetable stall, carrying a heavy nylon bag. She looked incredibly tired, the lines around her eyes deeper than I remembered.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered, glancing around nervously.

“I came to see if you were okay,” she said, stepping out of the crush of people. “Can we sit somewhere quiet?”

We found a worn wooden bench outside a small chemist shop, the sharp smell of methylated spirit hanging in the air. She didn’t ask about my classes or my friends. She just looked at me, her expression heavy with a sorrow I didn't understand yet.

“Ada...” her voice was dangerously soft. “Someone came to the shelter this morning. A woman from your area.”

My chest suddenly grew tight. The air felt too thin to breathe.

“Your mother...”

I couldn’t inhale. My fingers gripped the edge of the wooden bench until my knuckles turned white.

“She collapsed that night, after you left,” Aunty Ngozi said, her voice breaking slightly. “They took her to the clinic. The hospital said it was a mix of extreme stress and malnutrition. Ada... she didn’t make it.”

The roaring noise of the market simply vanished. It went far away, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

So that was it. I had run into the darkness, terrified and barefoot, to get help for her. And I was too late.

“What about my father?” I asked, the words feeling like glass in my throat.

Aunty Ngozi looked down at her hands. “He told the neighbors that you’re the reason he has problems. He said you brought a curse on the house. He said he’s done, and he won’t come looking for you again.”

The reality of the words crashed over me like a physical blow. Mother was gone. Father had abandoned me.

Tears fell before I could stop them, hot and fast, soaking the collar of my uniform. Aunty Ngozi didn’t try to touch me or offer empty comforts. She just sat solidly beside me on that bench, a silent guardian, until the violent shaking in my shoulders finally stopped.

“You don’t have to go back to that house,” she said firmly, her eyes fierce. “Not ever.”

“Where will I go?” I whispered, staring blindly at the dusty ground.

“Back to school for now,” she said. “And when you need me, my door is always open.”

That evening, I walked back to the hostel in absolute silence. The loud chatter of the other girls washed over me, but I was completely alone.

The girl who ran to save her mother... now had no mother.

And the man who was supposed to be her father... had completely abandoned her.