Chapter 4: Alone, Again
The most painful kind of loneliness is the one you feel while holding a child in your arms.
The bus to Onitsha was crowded, hot, and smelled of old fuel, sweat, and dust. Ezinne sat by the window, her baby pressed tightly to her chest, wrapped in one faded wrapper. He was barely three months old. Tiny. Quiet. Sleeping.
She hadn't slept all night.
She hadn't slept for days.
The last time she ate was the night before—two slices of bread and lukewarm pap she had begged from a neighbor. Her mother had made it very clear: "You made your bed. Lie on it. Don't come begging me for anything."
So she didn't beg.
She packed her few belongings: two wrapper cloths, a small bottle of baby powder, her worn-out notebooks, and a feeding bottle someone had gifted her. That was it.
No send-off.
No goodbye.
No blessings.
Just shame and silence.
She didn't even know where exactly she was going. All she knew was that she had to go.
She needed a fresh start.
Somewhere her name didn't taste like disgrace in people's mouths.
Somewhere her son wouldn't grow up being called "bastard" or "mistake."
She stared out the window as the bus sped past familiar streets. Her childhood. Her pain. Her prison.
She didn't cry.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because she was all out of tears.
Onitsha welcomed her with noise and chaos.
The bus park was filled with shouting conductors, grinding engines, street hawkers selling everything from recharge cards to boiled eggs. She clutched her bag tighter, heart racing.
She had no plan.
No job waiting.
No family to run to.
All she had was her baby and her will to survive.
She walked for what felt like hours. Her feet ached. Her back hurt from carrying Chibuikem. Every few minutes, she'd pause to rock him gently when he whimpered. She asked questions carefully—"Please ma, do you know where I can find a cheap room for rent?" Most people ignored her. Some looked at her with pity. One woman pointed her to a distant area called Odoakpu.
That night, Ezinne slept on a cement floor in a small kiosk behind a local shop. The owner, an elderly woman who sold bread and groundnut, took one look at her tired face and said, "You can sleep here till you find your feet."
Ezinne bowed her head in gratitude.
"Thank you, ma. God bless you."
"No worry, my daughter. God go help you."
It wasn't much. But for the first time in months, she slept without fear of being insulted or beaten.
And that was enough.
The next few weeks were a blur.
She asked around for work. Any work.
Washing clothes. Cleaning shops. Helping women fry akara at dawn.
No job was too small.
She tied her baby on her back and swept compounds under the hot sun. She fetched water for five naira per gallon. She carried loads for market women.
Every night, she returned to the small wooden room she later rented for 1,200 naira per month—a space barely big enough to stretch her legs. But it was hers.
Some nights, Chibuikem cried for hours. Fever. Hunger. Gas.
She'd press his belly with her warm palm, whisper prayers into his ears.
"Don't cry, my baby. Mummy is here. Mummy is trying."
And she was.
Trying with everything in her.
She couldn't afford baby food, so she mashed soft rice and added breast milk. She tore pieces of her old wrapper to make diapers. She boiled water in used tins, sterilized bottles with firewood. She fought every day not for a dream anymore, but for survival.
One day, while sweeping in front of a small private school, the headmistress came out and watched her.
"Young lady," the woman said, "Can you teach?"
Ezinne stood straight. Her back ached. Her palms were red. She nodded slowly.
"Yes ma. I finished secondary school."
"What was your grade in English?"
"I made a B. I still have my WAEC result, ma."
The woman nodded. "Come tomorrow morning. We need an assistant teacher for the nursery class. It's not much—₦15,000 monthly. But you can bring your baby."
Tears filled Ezinne's eyes.
She wanted to fall to the ground and cry.
But she only smiled. "Thank you ma. Thank you so much."
That night, she held Chibuikem tighter than usual. She kissed his forehead.
"We have a job now, baby. Your mummy is becoming somebody."
The work was hard, but she did it with love.
She sang songs to children who reminded her of the life she never had.
She taught alphabets while her baby lay in a corner wrapped in a shawl.
She cleaned, taught, fetched water, cooked for the pupils sometimes.
But she was happy.
Not because she had everything, but because for once, her life had meaning.
She used ₦5,000 from her salary to feed and care for her baby. Saved ₦2,000 monthly. Sent ₦1,000 home every few months, even when her mother never said thank you.
The remaining ₦7,000? Rent. Soap. Pampers. Crayons. Second-hand clothes.
Not enough.
But enough.
Because she had purpose.
And when she looked in the mirror every morning—tired eyes, rough hands, stretched belly, cracked lips—she still whispered:
"I'm proud of you, Ezinne."
Even if nobody else was.