WANDERER’S FATE

The Price Of Survival

The first bite burned.

I froze, my tongue instantly set ablaze by the overwhelming heat. My throat clenched, my stomach twisted, but I forced myself to chew. My sister had cooked, and I was starving. I had to eat.

But the pepper—God, the pepper.

It felt like fire licking the inside of my mouth, each bite worse than the last. My eyes watered, my lips tingled, and my entire body tensed as if trying to fight off an attack. I reached for water, gulping it down desperately, but it barely helped. The heat clung to me, searing its way down my throat and into my stomach.

I stared at the plate, half-full but untouched now. I wasn’t satisfied, yet I couldn’t take another bite.

My sister loved pepper, even though she had an ulcer. She never cared about the pain, never let it stop her. Maybe she had grown used to it, learned to live with it. But I hadn’t.

I sat there, mouth open, trying to cool the burn, hoping—praying—it would subside. But the heat wasn’t just in the food. It was everywhere. In my chest, in my mind, in the weight of everything I carried but never spoke about.

And for the first time in a long time, I wondered—was this how my life would always feel?

Burning. Unbearable. But impossible to escape.

As soon as the ordeal with the pepper ended, a sharp, searing pain shot through my right shoulder—so intense it stole the breath from my lungs.

It wasn’t new. It was the same pain I had carried for as long as I could remember, a ghost of my birth story. They told me my shoulder had broken when I was born, that they had done everything to fix it—prescriptions, bone creams, endless pills. And yet, the pain always returned, lurking beneath my skin, waiting for moments like this to remind me that I could never truly escape it.

I reached for my medication, my hands trembling as I swallowed the pills, the bitterness settling in my throat like a reminder of how long I had been doing this—taking drugs, applying creams, enduring, surviving. I waited for the relief to seep in, for the pain to dull to something bearable. It always did. For a while.

At school, I carried my medication with me, tucking it away like a secret. I never expected sympathy, but I never thought it would turn into something cruel either. Whispers turned to laughter, laughter turned to names—“Sickly.” “Disease.” They spoke as if my pain was something dirty, something contagious, something to fear. They never asked why. They never wanted to know.

I sat there, the weight of their words pressing down on me, heavier than my own body. My mind drifted back to the handouts I couldn’t afford, the lectures I struggled to keep up with, the endless hunger gnawing at my stomach. It was always something. Always another battle.

For the first time, I let the questions come—the ones I had buried deep, the ones I never dared to ask.

“Why me?”

“Why does every bad thing find its way to me?”

“ What did I ever do to deserve this?”

I didn’t cry. I never cried. Tears were like a luxury I couldn’t afford, always just out of reach. But in that moment, I felt something deeper, something more terrifying than sadness.

For the first time, I questioned my entire existence.

For the first time, I questioned my own existence. Not just in passing, but in a way that made my chest tighten, as if the universe itself was pressing down on me, demanding an answer I didn’t have. I swallowed the thought, buried it deep, and told myself I was fine. I had to be.

Five weeks had passed. My father had promised to pay my tuition, and for a fleeting moment, I thought he had kept his word. I told my sister, and she suggested we call him—just to remind him, just in case he had already started forgetting.

At home, we never received money for food. No groceries, no allowance—just the occasional ₦3,000 to ₦5,000 a week, and some weeks, nothing at all. Hunger sat with us like an unwelcome guest, growing heavier with each passing day. We called him using my sister’s phone. He didn’t answer.

“Maybe tomorrow,” we told ourselves. But tomorrow was always uncertain.

Some days, my sister would slip me money for transport if she had it. Other days, she would pack food for me or hand me a few naira for snacks. She cared for me in a way that made my stomach twist—not just from hunger, but from guilt. I felt like I didn’t deserve it, like every act of kindness was a debt I needed to repay.

Growing up with little love had taught me that nothing came for free.

I knew she couldn’t afford my tuition, even though she had covered for me before. She was kind—too kind—but kindness didn’t change reality.

I started thinking of ways to make money. A part-time job? A side hustle? But I knew that working while in school would drain me. And I wanted to make it through college. I wanted to be rich. Back then, I still believed a degree alone would secure my future. Life hadn’t hit me that hard yet.

So, I held onto hope.

“Dad will pay,” I told myself.

My sister returned from class that evening, saying he had called but she hadn’t heard him. We called him back.

This time, he answered.

His voice was sharp, irritated. “Why are you calling me?”

We reminded him about my tuition.

“Wo, wo, wo! Mi ò tí ní!” he snapped. “Ìjọ tí mo bá tí ní, ma send é. Ẹ má disturb mi mo!”

My heart clenched. I knew that tone. I knew what it meant. He was going back on his word.

But I still chose to believe him.

Days passed. Then a week.

My sister could no longer provide food. I don’t know how she had managed before—maybe her boyfriend was helping—but now, there was nothing. For a week straight, we survived on water, forcing our stomachs to accept the emptiness.

I still went to class.

On the eighth day, my body gave up.

Weakness crept through my limbs, making every step feel like a battle. My head throbbed, my vision blurred. Hunger sharpened my mind in a cruel way, forcing me to see my reality with unbearable clarity.

“This has to stop,” I told myself.

I needed a job.

I started asking around, reaching out to anyone who might help. Eventually, I submitted my CV wherever I could—hoping, praying—that I would find something that wouldn’t interfere with my classes.

Then, I got a call.

I had been hired.

The job? A kitchen cook at a local bar. I would make noodles, catfish pepper soup, chicken and chips, barbecue chicken, barbecue fish, assorted meats, goat meat—anything the customers wanted.

I started work at 4 PM and closed at midnight.

I slept at work because I couldn’t risk walking at night—not with my night blindness, not with the memories that made flashlights in the dark feel like an unbearable terror.

By 5 AM, I would drag myself home, shower, and head to class.

And I did this every day.

Some nights, customers would tip me—₦4,000 on slow days, ₦10,000 on busy nights. Some days, they frustrated me, tested my patience. But I smiled through it all. I had learned that in this world, a smile could be a weapon, a shield, a survival tactic. People liked me because I made them feel important.

I liked my job because it gave me something more than my ₦12,000 monthly salary—it gave me control over my own survival.

I thought, maybe, I was finally catching a break.

But the universe always has a way of reminding you that you’re never truly safe.

My boss started giving me afternoon meals—not as an employee benefit, not as an act of kindness, but as something else. Something unspoken.

A bad feeling crawled under my skin, whispering warnings I couldn’t ignore.

Something told me this was only the beginning.

I had no idea how much worse it was about to get.