Chapter Two: Bread and Tears
Samuel was three weeks old when hunger first taught Amaka how cruel the world could be.
The baby cried through the night, his small fists clenched, his voice thin and desperate. Amaka rocked him endlessly, humming songs her mother used to sing, but the truth pressed heavily on her chest—her breast milk was drying up. She had eaten nothing since the previous morning, and her body was beginning to protest.
"Please sleep," she begged softly, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Mama is trying."
At dawn, she tied Samuel to her back with a faded wrapper and stepped outside. The compound was already awake. Women swept the ground, children prepared for school, and neighbors whispered as she passed.
"That's her," one voice murmured.
"The one whose husband ran away," another replied.
"See how shame has reduced her."
Amaka kept her eyes on the ground. Shame had become familiar, like an unwanted shadow that followed her everywhere.
She walked to the roadside market and begged for work washing plates, peeling vegetables, anything. Most traders waved her away when they saw the baby.
"This is business, not daycare," one woman snapped.
By midday, her feet ached, her head throbbed, and Samuel's crying grew weaker. Panic clawed at her chest. Just when hope was slipping away, an elderly woman selling akara looked at her closely.
"Sit," the woman said, pointing to a wooden stool.
Amaka hesitated, then sat.
The woman handed her two balls of akara and a cup of pap. "Eat first. A hungry mother cannot raise a child."
Amaka broke down right there, sobbing over the food. She ate slowly, sharing small spoonfuls of pap with Samuel when her milk returned. It wasn't much, but it was life.
That day, the woman allowed Amaka to help fry akara in exchange for leftovers. It became her first job as a single mother—temporary, unstable, but necessary.
Weeks turned into months.
Amaka learned to survive on almost nothing. She woke before sunrise, worked until her arms burned, and returned home exhausted. Some nights, she ate only garri soaked in water. Other nights, nothing at all. But Samuel always ate. Always.
When he fell sick at six months, fever burning through his tiny body, Amaka carried him to the clinic and begged the nurse to treat him on credit.
"Come back when you have money," the nurse said coldly.
Amaka knelt on the clinic floor.
"I will pay," she cried. "Please don't let my son die."
Something in her voice cracked the nurse's hardness. Samuel was treated, and Amaka left with a debt and a gratitude that stayed with her forever.
As Samuel grew, he became her reason for everything. His laughter was her reward. His first steps felt like miracles. Even on days when life pushed her to the edge, she would look at him and remember why she endured.
But the world did not soften.
Landlords knocked impatiently for rent. Employers delayed payment. Men offered "help" with conditions she refused to accept. When she said no, opportunities vanished.
"You think you are better than others?" one man scoffed. "Single mothers should be grateful for attention."
Amaka walked away with her dignity intact and her stomach empty.
At night, when Samuel slept beside her on the thin mattress, she whispered prayers into the darkness.
"God, I don't need riches," she said. "Just give my son a future better than this."
By the time Samuel turned five, Amaka's hands were rough from work, her back permanently bent from carrying burdens too heavy for one person. But her eyes still held fire the kind that refused to go out.
Samuel watched everything.
He saw how his mother skipped meals.
He saw how she smiled through insults.
He saw how she cried silently at night and stood strong by morning.
Even as a child, something settled deep inside him a promise he never spoke aloud.
One day, he would lift her from this life.
But for now, the struggle was far from over.
And the hardest days were still ahead