THE LIFE SHE OWED HERSELF

THE LIFE SHE OWED HERSELF Written by Aurelia Vale CHAPTER ONE The Home She Had to Leave Zina was eight months old when her mother died. She was too young to remember her mother’s arms, her laughter, or the voice that might have called her name at night. She was too young to understand death or know that some absences could shape a person’s life. By the time she could ask about her mother, the woman had become a collection of stories. Sometimes, Zina heard those stories while adults sat outside in the evening. Someone would say her mother had been beautiful. Someone else would remember her kindness, gentle nature, or the way she carried herself. Zina would sit nearby, pretending to play while listening carefully. “What did she like to eat?” “Did she sing?” “Did she look like me?” The questions often stayed inside her. She feared that asking too many would make the adults uncomfortable, or that the answers would make her miss someone she had never known even more. Occasionally, someone mentioned a small detail that made her look up. Perhaps her mother had laughed loudly, tied her wrapper in a certain way, or kept her hair neatly arranged. Zina collected these details as though they were beads she could string together into a picture. But stories were not memories. A story could tell Zina what her mother looked like. It could not tell her what it felt like to be held by her. A photograph could preserve a smile, but it could not explain the love behind it. Sometimes, Zina traced her mother’s face through the glass and wondered whether that face would have smiled at her. She wondered whether her mother would have known the sound of her footsteps. In the quiet corners of childhood, Zina grew up with an emptiness she could not always describe. It lived in the questions nobody answered, the space beside her when other children gathered around their mothers, and the moments when she watched women comforting their daughters before looking away. Still, she was not alone. Her father raised her alongside her siblings, doing what he could to give them a home. Their house was not always quiet. Voices called from room to room, sandals scraped across the floor, pots clattered in the kitchen, and arguments ended as quickly as they began. Her brothers and sisters became the familiar faces of her world. They knew which games she liked, could tell when she was about to cry, and sometimes made her laugh when she was trying to stay angry. Their presence made ordinary days less lonely. There were conversations, disagreements, laughter, and routines that made the house feel like home. Zina knew which sounds meant the day had begun: people getting ready, doors opening, and chairs scraping across the floor. At night, she knew the quieter sounds—the murmur of voices, footsteps, and everyone settling into sleep. It was not a perfect life, but it was the life she knew. She knew where her belongings were kept, whom to look for when she needed something, and which corners offered privacy. She knew the sounds of home well enough to recognise when something was out of place. She did not know that one day, she would be asked to leave it. ⸻ Zina was about six when the decision was made. She did not hear the first conversation. She only noticed that the adults began speaking in lowered voices. When she entered a room, someone would pause, or a sentence would end before she heard the rest. She watched their faces, trying to decide whether the news was good or bad. Her elder brother, her father’s first son, believed that taking her to Abuja would give her a better future. Perhaps there would be more opportunities, better care, and a life that offered more than the one she had known. The adults had their reasons. To them, it was a decision made out of hope. To Zina, it was a change she was too young to understand. Nobody asked what leaving home meant to a child her age. Nobody asked whether she was ready to exchange familiar faces for strangers, or whether the promise of a better life could make leaving easier. She was six. At that age, a child did not measure life in opportunities or future prospects. She measured it in the people who tucked her into bed, the voices she recognised, and the places where she could be herself. A better life meant favourite food, siblings waiting outside, and knowing where to go when rain began to fall. And now, she was going somewhere else. When the journey to Abuja came, Zina carried her belongings in a small bag that felt heavier than it looked. She checked it more than once to make sure everything was still there: a few clothes and small personal things that suddenly seemed important because they were hers. Before leaving, she looked around the house as though trying to memorise it. The doorway. The walls. The places where people usually sat. She wondered whether everything would look the same when she returned. Outside, the air was warm. Dust clung to the road, and the smell of cooking drifted from somewhere nearby. Zina stayed close to the adults as they prepared to leave, holding tightly to her bag. She wanted to ask how long they would be gone and whether she should say goodbye properly. Instead, she watched familiar surroundings give way to unfamiliar roads, new buildings, and places whose names meant nothing to her. Through the window, she saw shops, bright signs, people walking, and vehicles pushing past one another. The city seemed too large to understand. At first, she tried to keep track of the turns. Then the roads began to look alike. She wondered when she would see her family again and what awaited her at the end of the journey. Nobody knew all the answers. The people taking her there believed they were doing something good. They believed she would adjust with time. Perhaps they imagined that a child would forget the discomfort of change once she became used to her new surroundings. But children notice more than adults realise. They notice when they are no longer the centre of anyone’s attention. They notice when the rules change and nobody explains why. They notice when they must learn how to function in a place where everyone else already knows their position. Zina noticed the way adults spoke to one another but not to her. She noticed how often she had to wait before asking for something. She noticed that nobody knew which things frightened her, which foods she disliked, or what she did when she could not sleep. By the time she arrived in Abuja, she had entered a world unlike the one she had left. The air felt different. The roads were busier. There were more vehicles, voices, and unfamiliar faces. Even the evening sounds were strange: engines in the distance, people calling to one another, and doors opening and closing in houses she did not know. Her elder brother lived there with his wife. Other relatives from his wife’s family also moved through the household, making it a place filled with different personalities, relationships, and expectations. There were people to greet, instructions to follow, and routines to learn. Zina tried her best. When someone spoke to her, she answered politely. When shown where to put her things, she nodded. She watched the adults carefully, copying their greetings and learning which rooms she could enter freely. She was a child, and children often learn to adapt before they learn to explain their feelings. She listened for footsteps, recognised voices, and learned when to stay quiet or make herself useful. If she was unsure, she watched someone else first. She wanted her brother to be happy he had brought her to Abuja. She wanted his wife to accept her and the adults to see her as a good child who deserved to be there. She did not want to become a burden. So she tried not to ask for too much. She did not complain when the unfamiliarity became difficult. She swallowed the questions that rose in her throat. But no matter how hard she tried, the house never felt like home. Home was where a child could relax without thinking about every move. It was where she could speak freely, ask questions, and trust that the people responsible for her would protect her. In Abuja, Zina was still trying to discover her place. At the end of the day, she sometimes sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap and imagined the house she had left. She pictured the rooms, the faces, and the ordinary sounds. She wondered whether anyone was thinking about her. The question of when she would return often rose inside her, but she held it back, afraid she might be called ungrateful for wanting to go home. After all, hadn’t she been brought there for a better life? How could she explain that something could be better in the eyes of adults and still feel wrong to a child? Among the relatives in the household was a boy named Victor. He was connected to her brother’s wife’s family, and he was one of the people Zina did not feel comfortable around. She could not explain her discomfort. At her age, she did not have the words for every feeling. She only knew that she preferred to keep her distance from him. When Victor entered a room, Zina became more aware of where she was standing. If she sat near the doorway, she might move closer to someone else. If she was playing, she became quieter. She did not always know what she feared, only that her body seemed to notice him before her mind could explain why. But children are not always taught to trust their feelings. They are told to greet people, respect elders, obey instructions, and avoid being rude. They are taught that adults know better, even when something inside them is asking questions they cannot express. Zina was still learning those rules. She did not know how important it was to have someone listen when she felt uncomfortable. She did not know that a child should never have to ignore her instincts to keep someone else happy. Somewhere inside that household, a part of her childhood was about to change in ways no child should experience. The people who brought Zina to Abuja believed they were giving her a better beginning. They could not see that a better beginning required more than a new city and a roof. It required care, attention, and adults who understood that a child entrusted to them was not simply another person to accommodate, but a life they had a duty to protect. Zina was too young to understand this. She wanted to be loved without earning it. She wanted to live in a place where she did not have to make herself smaller to fit into someone else’s world. For now, she was a little girl in a city that was supposed to offer her more, trying to understand why so much of what she knew had been taken away. And the hardest part of her story was only beginning.