Weeks turned into months, but in Anita's world, time felt frozen. Every day looked the same—gray skies, the smell of firewood smoke, and the sharp sting of Remilekun's words cutting through the air like a cane.
She had stopped counting how many times she'd eaten just once a day, how many mornings her fingers bled from scrubbing pots blackened by fire. Her small hands were always swollen. Her back ached constantly from carrying buckets too heavy for her frame. And her body, once full of life and laughter, now moved slowly, cautiously—like a bird trying not to stir the cat that watched it too closely.
The village children would pass her by on their way to school, their chatter floating on the wind like music. Anita watched them from behind the curtain, longing burning in her eyes.
She remembered her mother's lessons—the way she'd sit beside her with a piece of charcoal, drawing letters in the sand.
"A… for Apple," Mama Bisi would say, even though Anita had never seen a real apple before.
"B… for Book."
"C… for Come, my child, come and be great."
Anita had wanted to be a teacher someday. She had said it aloud once, early on, after Remilekun moved in. Just once.
And Remilekun had laughed.
"A teacher? You? Who will learn from a filthy house girl like you?"
That was the night Anita first got locked in the kitchen.
It was a tiny room, barely wide enough for her to lie down. The walls were stained with old smoke. Mice scurried across the floor at night, chewing at sacks of garri. Anita was shoved in there when Remilekun was angry, which was often. Sometimes for hours. Once, for two whole days.
She wasn't fed during those times. No one checked on her. Not even her father.
One Thursday morning, something happened that Anita would never forget.
She was sent to fetch water from the stream at the far end of the village. The bucket was twice her size, but she carried it anyway, step by careful step, wobbling over rocks and through tall grass.
As she made her way back, she heard voices.
Two women were talking near the path.
"You hear about that scholarship program at the church?" one asked. "They're looking for children from poor homes. Giving them a chance to go to school."
"I heard," the other said. "But it's for serious children o. Ones that can read or at least try."
Anita paused, her breath caught in her chest. She ducked behind a tree and listened harder.
"Pastor Jeremiah is the one handling it. They say the church is even buying uniforms and books."
The moment they were gone, Anita ran. She didn't care that the water spilled out of the bucket and soaked her wrapper. She didn't care that her legs hurt or that Remilekun would yell. All she could think about was that one word.
School.
That night, she waited until everyone had fallen asleep. Then, using a piece of old charcoal she'd hidden beneath her mat, she crept to the corner of the room—the same spot her mother used to sit in—and wrote shakily on the wall:
"Anita Bisi Adewale – Future Teacher"
Her hands trembled. Her heart thudded.
But something inside her lit up.
The next morning, she swept the compound with more energy than she'd had in weeks. Her mind was made up. She would find this Pastor Jeremiah. She would tell him she could read. That her mama had taught her.
She didn't know how yet—but somehow, she would escape the cage Remilekun had built around her life.
Just one chance. That was all she needed.