Chapter 5: New City New Struggles.
When life gives you peace, even for a moment, hold it tight—but never forget where you came from.
Months passed.
Seasons changed.
Ezinne had begun to build something that looked a little like a life. A routine. A rhythm. Wake up. Boil water. Bathe Chibuikem. Rush to school. Teach. Feed. Pray. Sleep. Repeat.
Her world was small—but safe.
And in that small world, she had started to feel..... okay.
Not happy. Not healed.
But okay.
The children at the nursery school adored her. "Aunty Ezinne! Aunty Ezinne!" they'd shout each morning, arms outstretched, faces sticky with milk and innocence. Some days, their hugs gave her more warmth than her entire family ever had.
Chibuikem was growing fast. His first smile. His first steps. His first tooth—crooked, but perfect. Every little milestone made her heart ache with pride and fear.
One evening, as she sat outside her small room in her loose skirt, washing clothes, a man's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Good evening, sister."
She looked up.
He stood tall. Clean. Calm.
A calm kind of man that made her instinctively sit straighter. He had a plastic bag in his hand—bread and groundnut. Maybe milk too. His eyes were kind, but guarded. Like he was carrying his own stories.
"Good evening," she replied cautiously.
"You stay here?"
"Yes," she nodded, wringing water from a baby shirt.
"I just moved in. That room over there," he pointed to the far corner of the compound. "I'm Chike."
"Ezinne."
"Nice name."
She nodded, unsure why she suddenly felt nervous.
"Your baby?" he asked, gesturing toward the little boy asleep beside her on a wrapper.
"Yes."
"Cute."
"Thank you."
He smiled once more. "Alright. Let me not disturb. I just wanted to greet."
And just like that—he disappeared into his room.
But something about that brief moment lingered.
He began to show up more.
Not forcefully. Not loudly.
Just present.
He would greet her politely every morning. Offer to help carry her water gallon if she looked tired. Sometimes, he'd wave to Chibuikem and make the little boy giggle with funny faces.
He didn't ask questions.
He didn't judge.
And maybe that was why Ezinne began to relax around him.
They talked more. Nothing deep at first. Just simple things. The heat. The power supply. Rent. The price of tomatoes.
But little by little, those talks grew.
He told her he worked in a printing press. That he moved to Onitsha to "start afresh." He never said what he left behind.
She didn't ask.
She was too afraid someone might ask her the same.
One weekend, it rained heavily.
The type of rain that made the whole compound flood.
Her small roof began to leak. She tried to move her baby's mattress, struggling alone in the dark.
Then came a knock.
It was Chike, barefoot, shirtless, holding a bucket.
"Your water's coming in. I saw it from my window. Let me help."
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
He stepped in and moved fast. Shifted her bag. Lifted her baby carefully onto the dry side of the room. Found two empty tins to collect water dripping from the ceiling.
When they were done, she was out of breath. Her wrapper soaked. Her heart confused.
He didn't try to stay. Didn't cross any line.
He just looked at her—quiet, sincere.
"You're strong, Ezinne. But you don't have to do everything alone."
Then he left.
And that sentence stayed with her all night.
By the end of that month, people in the compound had begun to talk.
"You and that new man dey too close o," a neighbor teased one morning as Ezinne washed her child's clothes.
She laughed it off.
But the truth was.... she had started to feel something.
Not love not yet.
But a soft longing.
A craving for companionship.
To be held, even just once, by someone who didn't see her as a burden.
Chike never made a move. He never crossed a boundary. But sometimes, when he smiled at her baby or offered to buy her soap from the market, it made her chest feel full in a strange, unfamiliar way.
Maybe...
Just maybe...
She could try again.
Maybe not all men were like Somto.
Maybe Chike was different.
But then...
One Thursday evening, after she returned from school, she found an envelope tucked beneath her door.
It was addressed to "Miss Ezinne."
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a folded note.
One sentence. Scrawled in sharp handwriting.
"Be careful. That man is not who you think he is."
Her heart stopped.
She read it again. And again.
There was no name. No explanation. No hint.
Just a warning.
She stepped outside, the breeze cold against her arms.
Chike's window was shut.
The compound was quiet.
The world around her, suddenly unfamiliar.
She stood there for a long time.
The baby stirred in his sleep.
And in that silence, one question formed loud and clear in her mind:
Who exactly is this man I'm letting into my life?