Chapter 3: The Night Before
1286 Words
September 14th, 2024, 8:03pm — One room, Ngwa Road, Aba
The night before Ada left for ABSU, her parents called her into the room.
Not the compound. The _room_.
The one with the cracked ceiling and the mat that had seen 21 years of prayers, hunger, and *275*.
Mama closed the door. The sound was soft. Final. Like the last page of a book.
She sat on the mat. Crossed her legs. Her wrapper was the good one — the yellow one with small holes she only wore for church and trouble. Tonight was both.
She spoke first. Voice low. Steady. The voice she used to price tomatoes when traders tried to cheat her.
“Adaeze Obinna Fidelis,” she said. Full name. No nickname. That meant war. “Tomorrow you enter school. School is not village. School is mouth of lion.”
She took Ada’s hands. Rough. Cracked. The hands that fed her.
“Whatever you do inside there, put God first. Before food. Before friend. Before book. Pray. Even if you no get food, pray. Even if they laugh you, pray.”
Mama’s eyes were dry. But her jaw was tight. The way it got when debt collectors came.
“But most importantly,” she said, squeezing harder, “focus. School no be film. School no be boy. School is your one chance. You are carrying all of us on your head. Me. Your father. Chima. Chidi. Even the ones wey never born. You fall, we all fall.”
She let go. Touched Ada’s cheek. “Never forget where you come from. Ngwa Road. Stall 23. Garri and kerosene. So when you see soft life, you no go sell your soul.”
Papa cleared his throat.
He was on the stool. The one with three legs. The fourth was a stone. Like their life.
He didn’t stand. His knee. But his back was straight. Straighter than it had been in 6 months. *275* did that.
“My child,” he said. He used English. That meant he was serious. “You’ve heard what your mother said. I will not repeat it. I will add.”
He looked at the wall. At his _Best Physics Teacher, 1999_ certificate. The glass was cleaner tonight. Mama had wiped it.
“ABSU is big. Bigger than Aba. There will be girls with iPhone. Boys with car. Lecturers with promise. Parties with food you never see.”
He turned back. His eyes were water. But no drop fell.
“Always remember who you are. You are Ada Obinna Fidelis. Daughter of a teacher. Daughter of a market woman. Your worth is not in your pocket. It is in your head. Here.” He tapped his temple.
“Don’t let pleasure deceive you. Don’t let bad company color you. One day of shame can wipe 21 years of name.”
He leaned forward. His voice dropped. Igbo now. From the belly.
_“Nwa m, afuju ana. Be content with what you have. But work. Work like your life depend on am. Because e depend on am.”_
_My child, be content. Be content with what you have. But work. Work like your life depends on it. Because it depends on it._
Then they prayed.
Not the quick “in Jesus name” before food.
A real prayer. A village prayer. A _war_ prayer.
Mama started. “Chineke, you gave us this one. From nothing. From garri and water. You gave us 275. Now keep her. Cover her with your blood. When they offer her poison, let her see. When they call her to darkness, let her deaf.”
Papa followed. “Lord, I am a teacher. I failed my own life. Let her not fail hers. Give her wisdom. Give her favour. Before man. Before woman. Before system. If she must suffer, let it be for book, not for body. Amen.”
They laid hands on her head. Both of them. Heavy. Hot. Like they were transferring 21 years of hunger into her skull.
Ada cried. For the first time since the result.
“I promise,” she whispered. “I will not disappoint you. I will not bring shame. I will be a good girl. I will make you proud. I swear.”
They held her. All three of them. Chima and Chidi were peeking through the curtain, eyes shining. Chima gave a thumbs up. Chidi mouthed, _Bring me suya._
For one hour, they were not poor. They were a family with a doctor.
But 11pm came.
Ada lay on the mat. New wrapper Mama bought for school folded under her head like a pillow. It smelled like the market. Like home.
She was happy. Her chest was full. University. New people. New books. A library bigger than Papa’s entire school. A life outside Ngwa Road.
But she was sad too. A deep, gut sadness.
She would leave Mama’s 4am prayers.
She would leave Papa’s red biro and failed NECO scripts.
She would leave Chima’s patched uniform and Chidi’s broken sandal.
She would leave the mango tree. The neighbors. The tomatoes.
She would be alone.
Outside, Mama sat on the small bench. No wrapper now. Just her old nightgown. Hand on her jaw. The way she sat when she was calculating how to make ₦2,000 feed 5 people.
She looked at the moon. It was half. Like their money.
“Chineke,” she whispered. Not a prayer. A beg. “I don do my part. I born her. I train her. I give her 275. Now you own her. You protect my child for me. School no be our place. She no know anybody. If anything touch her…”
She didn’t finish. She couldn’t.
Inside, Ada turned. Faced the wall. The crack in the ceiling was still a question mark.
How will I survive?
The acceptance fee was paid. Barely. Mama sold her last two gold earrings. The ones Grandma gave her. Papa borrowed ₦50,000 from the cooperative. At 30% interest.
They had ₦7,200 left. For the whole semester.
*275* got her in.
*₦7,200* had to keep her there.
September 15th, 2024, 5:17am — Ngwa Motor Park, Aba
The bus was old. _Young Shall Grow_. The paint was peeling. The driver was shouting “Uturu! Uturu! Last one!”
Papa carried her Ghana-Must-Go. It had two wrappers, one pot, a stove, garri, and Gray’s Anatomy photocopy.
Mama held her hand until the last second. Her palm was cold.
“Remember,” she said. “Pray. Read. Call. Don’t eat from everybody.”
Chima hugged her legs. “Bring me phone, Aunty Doctor.”
Chidi cried openly. “Who go help me with homework?”
Ada climbed in. Window seat. She didn’t look back. If she did, she wouldn’t go.
The bus pulled out.
Then she looked.
Papa, standing straight, hand raised. Not waving. _Blessing_.
Mama, wrapper to her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Chima, running after the bus, holding his broken sandal.
Chidi, small, smaller, gone.
Ngwa Road disappeared.
The tomatoes. The mango tree. The one room.
All gone.
Ada pressed her face to the glass. The tears came. Hot. Fast.
She was going to university.
But she didn’t know that by 2pm, a black Prado with tinted windows would park at ABSU gate.
She didn’t know the man inside had her picture.
She didn’t know he’d read her JAMB slip.
She didn’t know he’d paid her acceptance fee two weeks ago, and ABSU just credited Mama’s lie.
She didn’t know that *“provisional”* meant _“we own you until you pay us back.”_
She didn’t know that *275* wasn’t just a score.
*It was a price tag.*
- Writer
