As the weeks blurred into months, Mummy Vero's Hair Salon became the only place where Grace felt she could truly breathe. The shop was a chaotic symphony of buzzing clippers, the sweet, heavy scent of hair relaxer, and the endless, melodic chatter of Port Harcourt women. Slowly, the high walls Grace had built around her heart began to crumble. She found herself opening up to Mummy Vero, a woman whose kindness was as steady as her hands were at braiding.
Mummy Vero was a mother of three who carried the weight of her world on her shoulders without complaining. Her husband was a diabetic man who spent more time in hospital wards than in his own bed, making Mummy Vero the sole provider and the backbone of her home. Despite her own exhaustion, she had enough love left over for Grace. She became the mother figure Grace had lost in the wreckage of that June afternoon, offering a kind word or a soft smile when Grace's hands shook while holding a comb.
Through Mummy Vero's kindness—and the frequent use of her mobile phone—Grace finally reconnected with Gift. Those brief, whispered phone calls were Grace's lifeline. Hearing her sister's voice reminded her that she was still a daughter of a loving home, a sister to three siblings, and not just a nameless servant in a hostile house.
At the shop, Grace found a true friend in Mummy Vero's daughter, Veronica. They were the same age, two fourteen-year-old girls navigating vastly different worlds. Veronica had inherited her mother's humble and accommodating spirit. Whenever the shop was quiet and the customers were few, they would huddle together on plastic stools to talk about school. Grace's heart would ache with a dull, throbbing pain as Veronica described her lessons. Port Harcourt was a vast, confusing maze of flyovers and crowded streets to Grace; without a way to explore or money for transport, she felt like a bird with clipped wings, unable to even go out and search for a school she could afford.
Still, Grace refused to let the customers see the darkness she carried. She became the life of the salon, her "Gang Leader" charisma naturally bubbling to the surface. She made the shop lively, her quick wit and bright laugh making every customer feel at home. Women began to ask for her by name, drawn to her company and the stories she told. But as the clock struck 4:00 PM every day, the light in Grace's eyes would vanish.
The reality at her aunt's house was a sharp, jagged contrast to the warmth of the salon. The woman Grace lived with was a shadow of the aunt she used to know. This wasn't the woman who used to bring her treats and fancy clothes during Christmas holidays in Etche; this was a stranger who treated Grace like a burden. The aunt's jealousy was a living thing, fueled by Grace's height, her beauty, and the "Gang Leader" spirit that refused to be broken. She used starvation as a weapon, leaving Grace to go to bed with a stomach that growled in protest whenever she made the slightest mistake.
Grace would often sit in the dark, her mind spinning with questions. "Is it because my parents are gone?" she would whisper to the shadows. "Why did she change? Is it because she doesn't want me to be better than her own children? Or am I just a burden she never wanted to carry?" She remembered the community school in Etche where education was free. If money was the problem, surely a community school in Port Harcourt would be the answer.
Determined to find a way back to her books, Grace waited for her aunt to return from work one evening. She rushed to the door, took her heavy bags, and served her a hot meal with trembling hands. She waited patiently, standing in the corner while her aunt ate, hoping a full stomach would bring a moment of mercy.
As soon as the last piece of chicken was gone, the aunt turned to Grace, who was staring deeply, lost in thought.
"You for just drag the meat commot from my mouth!" the aunt snapped, her voice cutting through the quiet. "Commot from here now before I slap you!"
Grace took a deep breath. "Aunty, please. There is something I want to tell you before you go inside. I will use English because it is about my school. I felt that the reason you are not saying anything about me resuming SS1 in September is because the bills might be too much. But I can go to a community school around here. You won't have to pay plenty money to register me there."
The aunt's face hardened into a mask of pure spite. "Is this why you stopped me from having a good rest after my stressful day? You are not going to school! Focus and learn that trade so you can be making my hair and your cousins' hair. When you come home, you clean this house and cook. Leave school for people who have parents to train them. Now, leave my side!"
The words "parents to train them" felt like a physical blow to Grace's chest. She ran to her corner and cried until her chest ached. These weren't the tears of a girl who had lost faith; they were the tears of a leader who was frustrated by a cage she couldn't break.
The only person who understood was Melody, the aunt's eleven-year-old daughter. Melody was in JSS1, and she had a heart that her mother's bitterness hadn't touched. She hated the way Grace was treated. When Melody tried to speak up, her mother would beat Grace even harder, claiming Grace was a "witch" using juju to turn her daughter against her.
"Please, Melody, stop," Grace begged after a particularly bad night. "Don't defend me. It only makes her angrier."
Melody listened, but she didn't stop helping. She began to do the heavy cleaning and the washing in secret while Grace was at the shop, easing the workload so Grace could finish her chores before the strict 4:00 PM deadline.
One evening, Grace walked into the kitchen to find Melody struggling with a heavy basin of wet clothes, her small arms shaking under the weight. Panicked, Grace rushed over and took the basin from her, her eyes darting toward the hallway to see if her aunt's shadow was lurking nearby.
"Melody, stop! What are you doing?" Grace whispered, her voice thick with fear.
"I wanted to help you, Grace," the younger girl replied, wiping sweat from her forehead. "If I do the laundry, you can rest for just thirty minutes before you start dinner."
Grace felt a wave of love for her cousin, but it was quickly drowned out by terror. She gripped Melody's shoulders, looking her straight in the eyes. "Please, Melody, listen to me. You must never let your mother see you doing this work. Never."
Melody frowned, confused. "But I'm just helping—"
"No," Grace interrupted, her voice urgent. "She won't see it as help. She will assume I'm making you do it. She'll think I'm forcing my chores onto her daughter because I'm lazy or because I'm 'bewitching' you. I don't want any more trouble, Melody. I can't take another beating, and I don't want her to turn on you too."
Grace took a deep breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Please, be careful. If you want to help me, do it only when she is far away, and keep your ears open for her footsteps. This has to be our secret. Only ours."
Melody nodded solemnly, seeing the genuine fear in Grace's eyes. For the first time, Grace felt she had a sister in that house—someone who saw the truth.
By December, the first Christmas without her parents arrived. In the past, December meant the whole family gathering in Etche, the smell of firewood, and the taste of fresh palm wine. But because her aunt's husband was an Okrika man, they stayed in Port Harcourt. Grace felt the distance between her and her siblings like an open wound. She was so close to them in the same city, yet they felt a thousand miles away.
To escape the suffocating atmosphere of the house, Grace made a plan. She begged Mummy Vero to call her aunt and tell a lie: "I have too many customers for the holidays, and I need Grace to stay late to assist me." It was her only escape. In the salon, surrounded by festive music and the sound of people celebrating, Grace would huddle in the back with Mummy Vero's phone. Listening to Gift's voice was the only Christmas present she needed. She wasn't back in school yet, and she was still in a cage, but as she listened to her sister, Grace knew one thing for certain: she was still a leader, and she was just getting started.
As the year wound down toward the end of December, the atmosphere in the house shifted. Grace's aunt announced that they would be traveling to her husband's hometown in Okrika to ring in the New Year. The house became a whirlwind of packing—heavy bags stuffed with clothes, food, and gifts. But when Grace heard they would be traveling by boat, her heart skipped a beat. She had grown up with the solid red earth of Etche beneath her feet; the thought of the deep, dark water surrounding a small wooden hull terrified her.
The journey was a blur of anxiety. As soon as they stepped onto the boat, the smell of salt and diesel fumes filled the air. To cope with the fear, Grace squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to sleep. She drifted into a restless slumber, the rocking of the waves feeling like a bad dream, until she was jolted awake by a stinging slap on her back.
"Wake up! You think say you come here come sleep?" her aunt hissed.
The arrival in Okrika provided a brief, bittersweet relief. Because the house was filled with elders and extended family, the aunt had to hide her claws. She couldn't openly maltreat Grace without drawing the judgmental eyes of the older women. For a few days, Grace enjoyed the luxury of being treated like a human being, though the ache for her own family never left her.
One afternoon, Grace gathered the courage to approach one of the older girls in the compound. With a humble smile, she begged to borrow a phone. Her hands shook as she dialed Gift's number. Hearing Gift's voice—full of the exciting stories of their grandmother's house and the small celebrations in Etche brought a wave of joy that nearly made Grace cry. But that joy was a double-edged sword. As soon as the call ended, a hollow feeling settled in her stomach. She was listening to a life she was no longer allowed to live.
The pain returned whenever the local children gathered to talk. They sat in circles, comparing stories about their teachers, their favorite subjects, and their plans for the next term. When the question finally turned to her—"Grace, what class are you in now?"—the "Gang Leader" felt herself shrink.
She couldn't bring herself to say, "I am a dropout."
Instead, she would swallow the lump in her throat and pivot. "Classes are fine," she'd say vaguely, "but have any of you ever thought about learning a trade? I've been learning hairdressing, and you won't believe the styles I can do." She turned the conversation into a lecture on the skill of braiding, using her charisma to hide her shame. Inside, she was screaming. I wish my parents were here. I wish I was holding a pen instead of a comb.
Then came the night of December 31st.
As the clock ticked toward midnight, the village exploded into life. Fireworks streaked across the Okrika sky, and everyone poured into the streets holding lit candles, their flames dancing in the harmattan breeze. Cries of "Happy New Year!" rang out, echoing off the water.
Grace stood among the shouting crowd, her own candle flickering in her hand. But while others saw a fresh start, Grace saw a deadline. It was now January 1st, 2018. She was still a minor. She was still an orphan. And she was still stuck in a house that felt more like a prison every day. As the fireworks faded and the smoke cleared, Grace looked up at the stars and made a silent promise to the parents she lost: this year would not end the way it started.