Chapter 2: School Days, Silent Tears.
Sometimes the only place Ezinne felt human was inside a classroom. School wasn't perfect—there were bullies, there were teachers who played favorites—but it was a world where she could breathe. It was the one place where her name meant something more than "mistake," "useless," or "maid." She was fifteen when she first stood in front of her class to represent them during a debate. Her palms were sweaty, her voice shaky at first, but when she started to speak, the words came from somewhere deep—like she had been waiting her whole life to be heard. Her classmates clapped, even the teachers smiled. And when her team won, someone shouted her name from the crowd, "Ezinne! Ezinne!" She smiled, a real one. It was the kind of moment she wished she could carry home, tuck under her pillow and sleep beside. But she knew better. When she got home that day, her mother didn't ask how it went. Instead, she handed her a list of chores. "Go and fetch water. And don't waste time. There's still food to cook." "I was picked as best speaker today in school," Ezinne said, her voice soft, hopeful. Her mother didn't even look at her. "Eh hen. Will that wash the clothes outside?" Ezinne said nothing. She just took the bucket and left. That was how every victory felt—like clapping for herself in an empty room. But she never let it stop her. She woke up earlier than anyone else in the house at 4:30 AM. She would sweep, boil water, prepare her siblings' school uniforms, then iron hers last, if there was light. Most times, her own shirt was squeezed. But she went anyway. Every day. She carried books like they were sacred. She wrote notes so neatly her classmates often borrowed them. She had no phone, no allowance, no packed lunch. Sometimes she shared one puff-puff with a classmate during break. Other days, she drank water and pretended not to be hungry. There was a girl in her class, Ifeoma, who once asked her, "Ezinne, why do you always stay back to help clean the class? Are you that free?" Ezinne smiled. "Not really. I just like it here." And she did. The classroom felt safe. The chairs didn't scream at her. The walls didn't compare her to Adaora or Chinedu. Nobody made her feel like a shadow. But pain always found its way back in. There was a term when her school fees were overdue. The principal called her out during assembly. "Ezinne Okoye, you're owing. See me after this assembly," he said, his voice echoing through the compound. The students turned to look at her. Some whispered. She swallowed hard, biting the inside of her cheek to hold back tears. That afternoon, she went to her mother with the notice. "They said I have to pay before exams start next week," she said, holding out the paper. Her mother scoffed. "Are you the only one going to school? Did you see money on the ground? If you don't have sense, you better go and find where to get it." Ezinne stood there, still, the paper shaking in her hand. Her mother added, "You're not the only child I have. Don't bother me with rubbish." So she borrowed. From a neighbour who sold provisions down the street. A kind woman who always asked her, "How are you doing, my dear?" She promised to pay her back when she saved up enough from helping people wash clothes on weekends. The woman nodded. "I see how you carry yourself, Ezinne. You're not like others. Don't worry. God will help you." Sometimes, those small moments of kindness were the only thing keeping her from collapsing. Ezinne passed that term. Third in her class. She got a small exercise book and wrapped it carefully, writing in neat cursive: My Dreams. On the first page, she wrote: Go to university. Become a teacher or a lawyer. Take care of my child (if I ever have one). Build a house for Mama—even if she never says thank you. That last line, she stared at for a long time. Then underlined it twice. One rainy evening, her English teacher, Mrs. Okoro, called her aside after class. "You're one of the brightest girls I've taught," she said. "What are your plans after SS3?" "I want to go to university," Ezinne answered quickly, as if saying it out loud might make it real. Mrs. Okoro nodded. "You can make it. But you have to start preparing now. JAMB, WAEC… you'll need money and support." Ezinne felt her chest tighten. Support? That word felt foreign. She didn't say anything, just nodded. She began tutoring younger students around her area, charging small fees. Fifty naira. Sometimes just snacks. Anything to save. Her mother didn't know. If she did, she would probably demand the money for soup ingredients. But there was one day—one long, bitter day—that changed everything. She came home late from a Saturday lesson, drenched from the rain, clutching her books to her chest. Her mother stood at the doorway, hands on her hips. "Where are you coming from?" "Lesson. The rain delayed me." "Liar. You're following boys up and down now, abi?" "No, Mama. I swear—" A slap cut her words in half. Her ears rang. Her books scattered to the ground. "I've been watching you. You think you're smart. Don't let me catch you pregnant like those useless girls on the street." Ezinne didn't speak. Her cheeks burned. Her heart burned even more. She bent down, picked her books in silence, and walked to her room. She cried that night. Not just for the slap, but because she realized no matter what she did, she would never be enough. Not for her mother. Not for her siblings. Maybe not even for herself. But she still showed up at school on Monday. Uniform ironed. Hair neatly plaited. Books dry and clean. Because if there was one thing Ezinne believed, it was this: She would write her own story. Even if nobody clapped. Even if no one believed in her. She would believe in herself. And that would be the beginning of everything.