My mother prefers my younger sister to me because she brings money home.

The annoying part is that she will never agree that she loves any of us differently. Anytime I, or any of my siblings, try to point out that her partial treatment will not benefit this family, she becomes defensive.

Especially when it has to do with me.

You will just hear her start,

“God in heaven knows that I love my children all equally. I don’t know why you people are always jealous of your sister, Chizaram. Right from when she was small, you have always been jealousing her.”

She will add that small Engli-Igbo touch that makes her sound even more serious.

“And by the way, if you are jealous because of how I’m treating her, then start doing what she is doing.”

I just smile.

I don’t say anything again.

Within a few seconds, to my greatest surprise, my mum calls out again,

“Bia Amaka, Nke Nwaanyi (Come Amaka, woman), I noticed there is no fuel in the generator, and the light has been gone for some time. If we don’t do something, all the soup and meat Chizaram gave money for that we prepared will turn sour, and I wouldn’t want that. Ana eji agbata atufuo, agba ogaranya (you don’t use getting money and throwing it away to become rich).

So go and buy fuel, let’s on the generator.”

I still go.

I buy the fuel.

But by the time I return, I hear her murmuring to my younger siblings.

“If Chizaram is here now, will I need to beg her to buy fuel? That girl is too smart. Once the light goes off like this, she will bring out money immediately. Ya nwata but talk na do (that child talks and does). But Amaka? She will see something and pretend she didn’t see it. If it spoils, let it spoil. After all, does she know how the money came about? Onwere ihe gbasara ya? (Does it concern her?)”

I overhear my younger brother telling her,

“But mum, forget. Aunty Amaka is trying. She may be struggling to get a job now, but this house is clean because of her. Your clothes are washed because of her. Even the good food we eat in this house, she cooks it. And when she gets small change, she doesn’t hoard it. Instead of always comparing her to Chizaram, why not encourage her?”

Immediately she snaps.

“Come on, mechipu onu ure gi (come on shut your dirty mouth). If you talk anyhow again, I will tell Chizaram my daughter not to pay your school fees, since you choose to be blind.”

Vincent, my brother, quickly interjects,

“I’m sorry mum. Please don’t tell her that. I want to go back to school soon.”

I am standing there listening, and I am livid.

How can a mother be this wicked?

I wait to hear what she will say next.

And what comes out of her mouth shocks me.

“Vi vi, my boy, go to your Aunty broke Amaka that keeps the house clean and get your money. Hahaha. You think it is by keeping the house clean and cooking in the kitchen? Keep eating the food and see if you can go to school. Nonesensacable!”

I don’t even realize she is stepping out.

I am still standing at the door, boiling with anger, when suddenly she opens it and sees me.

Without hesitation, she pushes me hard.

I stagger.

“My friend, go and on the generator for me and stop standing at my door like a ghost. If this door breaks now, shishi to fix it will not fall out from your body. You think I don’t know it is Chizaram, my daughter, who gave you the small money you used in rushing to buy the fuel? That is why I sent you. Let me see if you will still have money left. Since you don’t want to hustle.

You think I didn’t see her giving you money before she left to go and hustle? Chizaram bu nwa mara ihe, obu nwa na agba mgbo (Chizaram is an intelligent child, she is a hardworking child).

Biko charam n’uzo, ifere eme (please leave the road, you have no shame).”

I stand there speechless.

Tears begin to trickle down my face.

She still doesn’t stop. Even as she walks away, I can still hear her muttering.

“Don’t go and hustle. Stay there and let your younger sister be giving you money. Soon she will marry and leave you behind. Ebe imaghi ihe (since you don’t know anything).”

Something holy and fierce rises inside me.

I drop the fuel outside the door and walk into the room.

Vincent already looks broken.

Our last born, Ifeoma, doesn’t even seem to care. She is busy eating the pringles my sister bought for her. She gives me a cold stare that clearly says, Better go and hustle.

Vincent looks at me gently.

“Aunty mi, sorry. Please don’t take it to heart.”

I don’t utter a word.

I walk into the room.

And something inside me shifts.

Not anger.

Not pain.

Something colder.

I begin to fold my clothes carefully. Not in a rush. Not in panic. Just quiet resolve. If I stay one more night in this house, I might lose my mind or lose myself completely.

After all, I am a graduate.

Am I going to die scrubbing plates in a house where I am treated like borrowed property?

No.

I zip my bag.

Vincent watches me from the corner, his eyes already red.

“Aunty mi… you’re really going?”

I pause.

If I look at him too long, I might not leave.

“I’ll be fine,” I whisper.

But honestly, I don’t even know where the fine will come from.

As I step into the sitting room, to my surprise, mum is just walking in. The moment she sees my bag, she bursts into laughter.

“So you are finally leaving my husband’s house? Better don’t come back here with pregnancy oh!”

Her laughter follows me outside like something dark.

I don’t respond.

Not this time.

I step outside the gate and inhale deeply. For the first time in years, the air feels heavy but free.

I begin to trek. The little money on me has to take me to Lagos, to my friend’s house. I keep telling myself,

“Just get there. Just survive today.”

That is when I hear it.

An engine roar.

Loud.

Reckless.

Too close.

I turn.

A black Mercedes is speeding down the road like the driver has lost his mind. The car swerves left, then right. People begin to shout.

“Jesu!”

“Driver!”

“Brake! Brake!”

My heart starts pounding violently.

Instinctively, I move closer to a small roadside shop and press myself against the wall.

Let it pass.

Just let it pass.

But the car is not slowing down.

It is heading straight toward us.

Time slows.

For a split second, I see the driver’s face.

Panic.

Pure panic.

The tyres screech loudly against the tar.

The woman beside me screams and runs.

I try to move.

My legs refuse.

The car loses control.

It swerves off the road.

Straight toward the shop.

Straight toward me.

I open my mouth to scream.

No sound comes out.

Then

GBOASH!!!

Metal crashes into wood.

Glass shatters everywhere.

My body lifts off the ground.

And everything goes dark.

Part 1