THE TITLE: MY MOTHER'S DREAM. My mother's dream was for me to soar, to chase my passions and never look back.She sacrificed much

CHAPTER ONE THE SEED OF DREAM The morning sun broke through the thatched roof of their mud house, casting golden rays on the woven mat where Amaka knelt in prayer. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from hope."Chukwu, bless my daughter. Let her rise where I fell. Let her see light where I walked in shadows. Let her be more."Chinelo, barely eleven, stood at the doorway watching her mother. Her thin frame leaned against the wooden door, school bag clutched tightly. She had memorized that prayer. Her mother said it every morning — like a ritual, like breath.Amaka rose from her knees, brushing flour from her wrapper. “Nelo baby, come eat. You’ll be late for school.”Chinelo walked in, her eyes shining. “Mama, one day I will become a nurse and buy you a house. A big one. With a white gate.”Amaka smiled, her face softening despite the lines of struggle. “I don’t need a big house. I just need you to become someone. Someone the world will respect.”She watched her daughter eat quickly, her school uniform already patched at the elbows. Still, she looked at Chinelo with pride, as if she wore a queen’s robe.As Chinelo skipped off to school, Amaka sat back and whispered to herself, “My daughter will not end like me. That is my dream.The morning sun broke through the thatched roof of their mud house, casting golden rays on the woven mat where Amaka knelt in prayer. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from hope."Chukwu, bless my daughter. Let her rise where I fell. Let her see light where I walked in shadows. Let her be more."Chinelo, barely eleven, stood at the doorway watching her mother. Her thin frame leaned against the wooden door, school bag clutched tightly. She had memorized that prayer. Her mother said it every morning — like a ritual, like breath.Amaka rose from her knees, brushing flour from her wrapper. “Nelo baby, come eat. You’ll be late for school.”Chinelo walked in, her eyes shining. “Mama, one day I will become a nurse and buy you a house. A big one. With a white gate. ”Amaka smiled, her face softening despite the lines of struggle. “I don’t need a big house. I just need you to become someone. Someone the world will respect.”She watched her daughter eat quickly, her school uniform already patched at the elbows. Still, she looked at Chinelo with pride, as if she wore a queen’s robe.As Chinelo skipped off to school, Amaka sat back and whispered to herself, “My daughter will not end like me. That is my dream. CHAPTER TWO THE SACRIFICE The sun was not yet fully up, but Amaka was already at the village stream, her bare feet firmly planted on the wet, cold earth. A faded basin sat on her head, filled with freshly drawn water. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, but her heart was awake — always awake — burdened with the weight of a dream she carried for her daughter. After fetching water, she returned home, prepared pap with roasted groundnuts, and packed a small lunch of jollof rice into an old plastic bowl for Chinelo. Then she tied her wrapper tightly, grabbed her broom, and left for her first job of the day — sweeping the local primary school compound for a small token the headmaster sometimes offered. Her body ached from yesterday’s washing at Mama Okoye’s compound. They had a newborn, and Amaka had done everything from laundry to scrubbing floors. All for one thousand naira. But she never complained. As she swept leaves into a pile under the mango tree, a group of women passed by, their conversation loud. “Isn’t that Amaka?” one of them said. “Yes, still working like a slave for pennies. All for that daughter of hers,” another added, laughing. Amaka didn’t look up. She had long since trained her ears to hear mockery and ignore it. What they didn’t understand was that her daughter was her treasure — her greatest investment. Later that evening, Chinelo returned from school. Her uniform was dusty, and her face tired, but her spirit was lit with something new. “Mama! I got the highest score in class today! Teacher said I can represent our school in the inter-school quiz competition! Amaka dropped the pot she was scrubbing, wiped her wet hands on her wrapper, and pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. “I knew it. I knew you are meant for more.” Chinelo laughed. “But Mama, my sandals are torn. The sole is coming off.” Amaka’s smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful nod. That night, after Chinelo slept, Amaka opened her tiny savings box. Only three crumpled one-thousand-naira notes remained. She stared at them for a long time. The money was meant for garri and vegetables for the week. But in the morning, she would go to the market to buy sandals. She would fast if she had to. Her daughter must walk with pride. The next morning, as Chinelo laced her brand-new brown sandals, her eyes welled up with tears. “Mama… these are beautiful. But how…? Amaka knelt and adjusted the straps herself. “Don’t worry about how. Just walk tall. You’re walking into your future.” Chinelo nodded slowly, unsure why her heart fell heavy and grateful at the same time . From behind Amaka watched her daughter leave her own stomach empty, but her heart full, her sacrifice wasn't just on survival , it was for transformation. She believed as every mother should _ that a child given love and opportunity will shine, no matter how dark the night is. CHAPTER THREE CITY OF DREAM The day the admission letter arrived, the entire compound knew. Chinelo ran from the village post office, barefoot, waving the envelope in the air as she screamed, “Mama! Mama! I made it!” Amaka was in the backyard pounding cassava when her daughter burst in, breathless and smiling. “I got admission, Mama! University of Nigeria, Enugu campus! I’m going to study Nursing!” Amaka dropped the pestle. Her hands trembled as she reached for the letter, reading slowly through eyes clouded with tears. “You did it, my daughter,” she whispered, almost in disbelief. “You are going to become the woman I prayed for.” For the next two weeks, Amaka went from house to house offering laundry services, farm help, and kitchen labor — anything that could bring in a little extra. She even sold the goat her late husband had given her on their tenth wedding anniversary. Her neighbors shook their heads. “You’re wasting your energy,” they told her. “What if the girl goes to the city and forgets you?” But Amaka had no doubts. Chinelo would never forget her. Their bond was deeper than blood — it was made of purpose, prayer, and perseverance. The day Chinelo left for Enugu, the whole village seemed to gather at the motor park. Her small box of belongings sat beside her, wrapped in nylon. Amaka had packed the essentials — two wrappers, some garri, a tin of milk, dry fish, and a weathered Bible. “Don’t talk too much to people you don’t know,” Amaka warned, brushing Chinelo’s shoulders. “Don’t eat in strange places. Don’t forget your prayers.” “Mama, I’ll be fine,” Chinelo said, trying to be brave. But the truth was, her stomach fluttered with fear and excitement. Before she boarded the bus, Amaka pressed a small parcel into her hand. “This necklace belonged to your grandmother,” she said. “She gave it to me when I married your father. Now, it’s yours. Wear it and remember where you came from.” Chinelo held the necklace tightly, her voice cracking. “I will make you proud, Mama. I promise.” As the bus pulled away, Amaka stood at the roadside waving, her eyes burning with tears. She stood there long after the dust had settled, whispering to herself, “My daughter is on her way. My dream is on its journey.” Enugu buzzed with life — honking taxis, fast-paced students, hawkers shouting prices. Chinelo stepped out of the bus, her bag clutched to her chest. She had never seen so many people, buildings, or lights. The city pulsed with energy. It both thrilled and terrified her. At the university gates, she joined a queue of new students registering. Everyone seemed confident, stylish, and loud. Her old sandals and patched blouse made her feel invisible. But Chinelo remembered her mother’s words: “Walk tall. You’re walking into your future.” So she straightened her shoulders and smiled. By evening, she was settled in a room she would share with three other girls. It was cramped and noisy, but to Chinelo, it was a palace of opportunity. That night, as she lay on her mattress on the floor, she fingered the necklace around her neck and whispered, “Mama, I’m here. I will not disappoint you.” But as the days turned into weeks, the city began to whisper back — with its distractions, temptations, and the slow lure of another life. *CHAPTER FOUR* *TEMPTATION AND* *REALITY At first, Chinelo stayed focused. She woke up early, attended her lectures faithfully, and studied late into the night. Her grades were excellent. Her lecturers praised her for her discipline, and she quickly became known as the “village genius” among her classmates. Though some mocked her simplicity, most admired her determination. But city life was louder than she had expected. Her roommates, Kamsi, Fola, and Jenny, were fashionable, bold, and always out and about. They wore the latest wigs, carried shiny phones, and had closets filled with trendy clothes. They often returned late at night, giggling about parties, “sponsors,” and expensive dinners in big hotels. At first, Chinelo kept to herself, focusing on her books. But curiosity is a slow and steady shadow. “Babe, come with us jare,” Kamsi said one Friday evening. “You can’t read your life away. This party is mad. Big boys, fine drinks, real fun!” “I don’t have clothes for that kind of place,” Chinelo said shyly. Fola rolled her eyes. “Leave that to me. I’ll fix you up.” That night, for the first time, Chinelo wore a fitted gown and makeup. When she looked in the mirror, she almost didn’t recognize herself. Her long neck held her grandmother’s necklace — the only reminder of home. The club was a different world — smoke, colored lights, pounding music. Men with gold chains and loud laughter circled like hawks. Chinelo danced, unsure at first, then more freely as the music washed over her fears. One man stood out. He called himself Chief Desmond. He was older, rich, and charismatic. He noticed Chinelo immediately. “You’re too fine to be broke,” he whispered, placing a cold drink in her hand. That night, she returned to her room with a new phone in her bag and twenty thousand naira stuffed into her purse. She lay awake long after the others had slept, staring at the ceiling, torn between guilt and excitement. The next day, she sent her mother ten thousand naira with a message: “Mama, I’m managing well. Please use this for your upkeep.” Amaka’s heart swelled. She knelt beside the small altar in their hut and wept. “Thank You, Lord. My daughter is rising.” But Chinelo was falling. Soon, her visits to church reduced. Her books gathered dust. She began to skip lectures. Chief Desmond bought her a new wardrobe, took her to restaurants, and whispered promises of more — if only she would trust him completely. “Let me take care of you,” he said one night, stroking her hair. “You don’t need to struggle. Just be my girl.” She smiled but inside, her conscience screamed. Each time she touched the necklace around her neck, her mother’s face floated before her eyes — strong, proud, hopeful. And guilt would squeeze her chest. But the city was louder than her mother’s voice. One afternoon, while applying makeup before a date, Jenny looked at Chinelo and asked, “Do your people know what you’ve become?” Chinelo flinched. She looked in the mirror — at the lashes, the gloss, the borrowed wig — and for a moment, she didn’t recognize the girl staring back. She whispered to herself, “I’m just trying to survive.” But somewhere deep inside, she knew she wasn’t just surviving. She was slipping. And the question echoed: At what cost will she keep living this new life? CHAPTER FIVE THE DRIFT: The shift was slow — so subtle that Chinelo didn’t notice how far she had drifted. Lectures became optional. Assignments were copied last-minute. Her once tidy notebook was now buried under bags of makeup and designer shoes. The fire that once drove her to succeed had been replaced by something else — a desire for comfort, ease, and the approval of Chief Desmond. Her room, once quiet with the rustle of pages and whispered prayers, now echoed with the sound of ringtone alerts, perfume sprays, and laughter from video calls. She was no longer the “village genius.” She was now Desmond’s girl — the one who wore expensive wigs, carried the newest iPhone, and ordered food instead of cooking noodles.Her roommates envied her luck. “Chine baby, you don hammer!” Fola teased. “You for even help us now.” She did. Sometimes. When the money came freely. Chief Desmond had moved her into a mini-flat off campus. She no longer shared a room. Her mother didn’t know. She still called Amaka once a week, her voice sweet, her stories clean, her heart quietly torn. Amaka, unaware of the undercurrents, beamed with pride. “My daughter is a nurse in the making,” she’d say to neighbors. “She even sends me money now. God is faithful.” But faith was the one thing Chinelo had stopped practicing. Then came the warning signs. Her phone rang one evening — an unknown number. It was her lecturer, Dr. Mbanefo. “Miss Chinelo, your attendance is dangerously low. If you miss two more classes, you’ll be disqualified from the semester exams.” Her heart dropped. She stammered an apology, promised to do better, then tossed the phone aside and resumed her makeup routine. She was going to meet Desmond at a hotel in town. He had promised her a surprise. But the surprise wasn’t what she expected. “I’ve been thinking,” Desmond said that night, handing her a jewelry box. “You’re special. But you need to learn how this" game works. She opened the box — it was a delicate gold anklet with tiny hearts. “You belong to me now. No other man. No games. You understand?” He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were firm. Chinelo nodded slowly. It was the beginning of something darker — control, possessiveness, and emotional manipulation disguised as love. Desmond began to monitor her movements. He dictated what she wore, where she went, and who she talked to. “You’re mine, Chinelo. If I catch you disobeying me, you’ll regret it.” Fear crept into her heart like smoke under a door. She began to lie more. She stopped calling her mother. Whenever Amaka called, she’d pretend she was in a lecture hall or hospital ward. The shame was a heavy weight she carried silently. Then came the final blow. She missed her end-of-semester exams. Desmond had taken her on a three-day getaway to Abuja. She told herself she could write makeup exams later. But when she returned, the university board had already finalized the list. Her name was not among the promoted students. She had failed the semester. She stared at the notice board, her heart pounding in her chest. How did I get here? What happened to Mama’s dream? That night, she sat alone in her flat, staring at her reflection. No makeup. No lights. Just silence. She touched her grandmother’s necklace — the only piece of her past still clinging to her. And for the first time in months, she cried. *CHAPTER SIX* *A MOTHER 'S WARNING* Back in the village, Amaka had not slept well for weeks. Though Chinelo still sent occasional messages, something in her spirit was uneasy. Her daughter’s voice lacked its usual fire. Her stories were too polished — too perfect. And a mother knows when her child is pretending. One Sunday afternoon, after church, Amaka sat beneath the udala tree with her Bible in her lap and prayed. “Lord, if my daughter is walking into danger, send her a sign. Stir her heart. Wake her up before it’s too late.” That night, Amaka had a dream. She saw Chinelo standing at the edge of a high cliff, dressed in gold, surrounded by smoke and loud music. Her hands were full of expensive things — but her eyes were empty. Below her, the ground cracked open, flames reaching for her feet. And Amaka, barefoot, ran toward her screaming, “Come back! Come back!” She woke up trembling. “No,” she said aloud. “I cannot sit still. I will go and find my child.” Back in Enugu, Chinelo had not left her flat in three days. Her phone was off. Her grades were ruined. Desmond was angry — he had shouted at her the last time she tried to explain why she wanted to return to campus. “You think I’m wasting money so you can run around like a child?” he barked. “You don’t need school. Just stay here and enjoy life. I’ll take care of you.” “But… I want more,” she whispered. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Now she sat in the silence, staring at her unopened textbooks and old photos of herself in school uniform — bright-eyed, determined, full of dreams. Then came the knock on the door. Soft. Familiar. She stood up slowly, her heart beating fast. When she opened it, she froze. “Mama…?” Amaka stood there, wrapped in her old brown shawl, her eyes wide with pain and disappointment. She looked around the flat — the lush furniture, the designer bags, the heavy perfume in the air. “Is this your lecture hall?” she asked. Chinelo dropped to her knees instantly, bursting into tears. “Mama, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to disappoint you. Everything happened so fast… I thought I could handle it. I just wanted to help you… to be better… to survive.” Amaka walked in, sat down slowly, and pulled her daughter into her lap like she was a little girl again. “My daughter, I didn’t send you to the city to survive with shame. I sent you to shine with honor. I would rather eat leaves in the village and know my daughter is living right than receive stolen comfort.” Chinelo wept harder. Amaka held her tighter. “The world will try to buy you, my child. But remember — your value is not in what you wear or who gives you gifts. It’s in your heart. In your purpose. In your dreams.” That night, mother and daughter knelt beside the bed and prayed. Chinelo removed the gold anklet and placed it in Amaka’s hand. “I don’t want it anymore.” Amaka nodded. “Good. We’ll start again. From scratch, if we must. But this time, with your head held high.” Chinelo slept that night for the first time in peace — not because her problems had vanished, but because her mother had come. Her dream had come. And dreams, when watered by love and truth, can bloom again. *CHAPTER SEVEN* *A NEW PATH* Morning sunlight poured through the curtain as Chinelo stirred awake, her head resting on her mother’s lap. Amaka had been awake for hours, quietly stroking her daughter’s hair, whispering prayers into her future. When Chinelo opened her eyes, the shame she once felt was now mixed with something new — hope. “Mama,” she said softly, sitting up, “do you think it’s too late for me?” Amaka smiled, her eyes still tired but bright with certainty. “A tree may bend in the storm, my daughter, but as long as its roots are not broken, it can grow again.” Chinelo nodded slowly. “Then I want to grow again.” The first step was hard. Chinelo went back to campus. Her classmates stared. Some whispered. Her name had been removed from the promotion list. She had to repeat the semester. She swallowed her pride. She met with the course advisor, explained her situation, and requested to retake her classes. The woman looked at her long and hard. “You were one of the best students,” she said. “What happened?” “I lost focus,” Chinelo replied. “But I’ve found it again. I want to try.” She was granted permission to retake her courses the following session — on the condition that she kept a clean record. That night, Chinelo and Amaka knelt in the flat and prayed again. They didn’t ask for riches. They asked for strength, discipline, and direction. Amaka didn’t return to the village immediately. She stayed a few more days, cooking, cleaning, reminding Chinelo what home tasted like. “You are not too far gone,” she’d say. “But don’t look back. Walk straight. Walk proud.” Desmond came back. He appeared unannounced, knocking on the door with a forced smile and a bag full of gifts. “I’ve missed you, Chine baby,” he said. “Let’s forget the past. Come back.” Chinelo stood tall. She wore her old jeans and a plain blouse. No makeup. No borrowed glamour. Just her mother’s presence behind her like a shield. “I’m done,” she said. “What?” His voice darkened. “You used me. You almost destroyed me. I let you. But no more.” Desmond scoffed. “You think anyone else will want a girl like you? You’re nothing without me.” Chinelo stepped back. “Then I’ll be nothing. But I’ll be free.” And she shut the door. Behind her, Amaka exhaled and embraced her tightly. “You are becoming who I dreamed you would be.” Weeks turned into months. Chinelo began to rebuild. She read harder, woke up earlier, volunteered at the campus clinic, and even joined the women’s fellowship. Her confidence slowly returned. Her professors noticed. “Miss Chinelo,” one said after class, “you’re a shining example of restoration.” She smiled. “I’m walking my mother’s dream.” She no longer chased luxury. She chased purpose. She joined a peer mentorship group and began sharing her story — anonymously at first. She told of how easy it was to fall, and how brave one had to be to rise again. Amaka returned to the village, this time with peace. She resumed her small provisions stall and told every woman who listened: “A girl child is not a burden. She is a builder. But we must water her roots with love and truth.” Her eyes shone when she said, “My Chinelo fell… but she stood again. That is strength.” *CHAPTER EIGHT* *THE LIGHT WITHIN* Chinelo was no longer the same girl who had once chased after glamor. Now, she walked the campus with her shoulders square and her head held high—not out of pride, but from purpose. Her style was simple, yet graceful. Her smile was softer, her eyes wiser. She no longer needed loud validation. Her strength had grown silent and deep. Her flat became a sanctuary. No longer a place for glittery distractions or painful silence, but for prayer, study, and growth. She decorated her space with sticky notes that carried her favorite verses and daily affirmations: “I am enough.” “I am not my past.” “My mother’s dream lives in me.” She spent weekends volunteering at the clinic, helping women from rural areas who came for health education and screenings. Most were older, tired, and unsure — just like her mother once was. One day, while assisting with a seminar, she stood before a group of teenage girls from the nearby community. Their eyes followed her every move. Some giggled nervously. Others sat wide-eyed. “Do you know who you are?” Chinelo asked them. “Not what the world says… but what your heart knows?” A bold girl raised her hand. “My aunt says I’m a burden. That no one will marry me unless I stop school.” Chinelo knelt before her, holding her gaze. “You are not a burden. You are a seed. Your value is not in your bride price, or your clothes, or your hips. It’s in your mind, your dreams, your light.” The girls clapped. Some even cried. Chinelo walked away with tears in her own eyes — not from sadness, but from purpose igniting. That evening, she wrote in her journal: “Mama, I now understand why you fought so hard. Why you prayed. Why you starved so I could eat. You didn’t just want me to live — you wanted me to shine.” Meanwhile, in the village, Amaka had become something of a mentor. Young mothers came to her for advice. Women whose daughters were struggling with identity sought her prayers. She told Chinelo’s story in riddles, protecting her daughter’s privacy, but always ending with this truth: “Let your child walk with her head up. Teach her the truth early. If you pour love into her spirit, even when the world tries to twist her, she will rise.” She started a small evening class for girls who couldn’t afford school. She taught them to read, to write, and most importantly, to dream. One late evening, as Chinelo sat on her bed reviewing anatomy notes, her phone rang. It was her mother. “My daughter,” Amaka said gently, “how is your spirit today?” Chinelo smiled, her eyes warm. “Steady, Mama. My light is growing again.” They both stayed on the line, not saying much after that, just breathing into each other’s peace. Because sometimes, dreams do not shout — they whisper. And sometimes, the brightest lights are born from the darkest falls. *CHAPTER NINE:* *FACES FROM THE PAST* It was a humid Thursday morning when Chinelo saw him again. She had just stepped out of the clinic, holding a folder of patient reports, her mind focused on a community outreach she was helping organize. She didn’t notice the black Prado SUV parked beside the faculty block. Not until she heard her name. “Chinelo.” Her heart stilled. She turned slowly — and there stood Desmond. Still dressed in luxury. Still arrogant. But his eyes… they no longer held the same control. There was a glimmer of frustration, even desperation. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, walking closer. “You changed your number.” “Yes,” she replied calmly, her eyes steady. “I moved on.” Desmond tried to smile, that same crooked smile that once pulled her in. “I made mistakes. I know. But I’ve changed. Let’s talk. I miss you.” Chinelo clutched the folder tighter. She could feel her knees weaken slightly — not from desire, but from the ghost of who she used to be. She drew a deep breath and said: “I don’t miss you, Desmond. And I don’t want to talk. My life now has no room for secrets or chains.” “You think you’re better than me now?” he snapped. “No. I know I’m better than who I used to be. That’s enough for me.” She turned and walked away, her steps firm. She didn’t look back. Not once. Later that night, she told Amaka everything. Her mother didn’t flinch. She simply said, “The devil always returns when he sees light. But you, my daughter, are now fireproof.” As the months passed, Chinese story continued to blossom. Her lecturers nominated her to represent the school in a national medical youth conference. Her mentorship program expanded to include other recovering students. Even her flat became a safe space for quiet girls battling inner demons. But with success came tests. One evening, while tutoring a junior nursing student named Adaugo, Chinelo was asked a simple, piercing question: “Sister Chinelo… did you ever… you know… give yourself to someone who didn’t deserve you?” Chinelo paused. Her heart trembled. It was the question she’d avoided answering aloud. Then she nodded. “Yes. I did. And I thought it had ruined me. But I learned something—shame only has power when we let it stay hidden. Once we speak, once we choose healing, it loses its grip.” Adaugo’s eyes welled with tears. “Then maybe I can heal too.” Chinelo held her hand. “You already have. You just need to believe it.” She wrote in her journal that night: “The past doesn’t define me anymore. I wear it as a scar—not a wound. I am not who I was. I am who I’ve become.” And far away, in the quiet village of Umueze, Amaka knelt beside her bed and whispered, “Lord, thank You. My daughter is becoming my dream.” *CHAPTER TEN:* *WHEN DREAMS REAL* It a was graduation day. Chinelo Amala Eze_ Bachelor of science, Nursing with Distinction.