chapter one : A childhood broken, A heart unbowed
it happened in Africa, at a time when survival itself was a daily prayer.
Chika was only eight years old when life broke him open.
The war was already swallowing the country in the 1960s guns, hunger, fear everywhere. His father went to fight, leaving behind a small compound, a tired wife, and four children. Chika was the first. Two girls followed, then a baby boy who still cried in the night for a father he barely knew.
One afternoon, his father came back from the war not as a hero, not with stories of victory, but sick, thin, and quiet. Within weeks, he was gone.
Death did not even knock twice.
Their mother didn't stay long after that. One morning, she tied her wrapper tightly, carried a small bag, and left. She did not look back. She married another man. She gave birth again. And Chika never forgot the sound of her footsteps fading away while his siblings slept on an empty stomach.
From that day, Chika became a father without growing up.
People laughed at them. Some pitied them loudly. Others mocked them quietly. Hunger followed them everywhere. Chika learned early that pride had no place in an empty house. He went from compound to compound, offering to sweep, fetch water, wash plates anything.
Sometimes he was paid with coins. Sometimes with leftovers. Sometimes with insults.
He always ate last.
School was not easy. Most days, Chika walked barefoot on hot ground, his school uniform faded and torn. But he loved school. Especially mathematics. Numbers made sense when life did not.
Then the bomb fell.
It landed too close. The sound was not loud to him. It was sudden, crushing, and then… silence. From that day, Chika could not hear properly again. Words came muffled. Voices felt far away. To speak to him, people had to shout.
Still, he refused to give up.
In class, he watched lips carefully. He copied notes slowly. When teachers spoke, and he couldn't hear, he memorised what he could see. At home, by lantern light, he opened his books and taught himself again.
His mathematics teacher noticed.
Chika solved problems other students feared. He finished first. He helped others quietly. The teacher watched him and shook his head in disbelief.
"This boy," he often said, "is different."
One evening, the teacher followed Chika home. He stood in the compound and spoke to the adults.
"This child is brilliant," he pleaded. "He must stay in school."
Some people laughed.
"Why waste money on a deaf boy?" "He can never use education." "Let him come and work for me instead."
Chika looked at the teacher's face and knew something painful was being said.
"What did they say?" he asked softly.
The teacher swallowed hard. "Nothing, Chika. Let's go back to school."
But that night, something unexpected happened.
The oldest man in the compound, bent with age, respected by all, called everyone together. His voice was calm but firm.
"Help this boy," he said. "Give him the money as a loan. Tomorrow is not promised. Let him try."
Silence followed.
Then, slowly, one by one, they agreed.
And that was how Chika's journey truly began on borrowed hope, wounded ears, hungry nights, and a heart that refused to die.
Chika threw himself into university life with the same determination that had carried him through every hardship of his childhood. He had seen poverty, hunger, and death; he had known loss more intimately than most could imagine. So when he saw students drinking, smoking, wasting their lives on nonsense, he only shook his head and prayed quietly. "God, don't let me forget where I come from. Don't let me stray. I am here for You, for Favour, for the life we have always dreamed of."
People began to notice him. Some laughed at him at first, mocking the boy who couldn't hear properly, the one who slept on the floor and sold new peppers to survive. But soon, those same people whispered in awe: "Look at him… he works harder than all of us… he studies harder than all of us… and he is succeeding." Chika became a symbol, a living proof that no matter how broken a life begins, it could rise.
Every day he woke before dawn. By 6:30 a.m., he was already in class, notebook in hand. By afternoon, he was in the market, selling peppers, small trinkets, anything he could, to make sure Favour had food and clothes. The death of John haunted him, and he swore he would never let Favour or anyone else he loved suffer again.
"God is doing it for me," he whispered one night, kneeling in the empty university courtyard, tears streaking his dirt-smudged face. "Look at where I am now. If not for You, Lord… if not for You…" His voice trailed off into a broken sob, his heart swelling with gratitude.
Three years later, while he was deep in preparation for final exams, a letter arrived from Favour. She wrote carefully, her words delicate but determined: "My beloved brother, I have decided to leave the village and seek a better life in the city. I cannot stay here any longer, waiting for nothing."
Chika's heart sank for a moment, but then he smiled through his tears. "Go, my sister. Go and find what life has for you. You deserve more than this place could ever give."
Favour left for the city, and it wasn't long before Chika saw the transformation. She returned one holiday, not as the fragile village girl he remembered, but as a vision of grace and beauty. Her skin glowed, her lips were red and full, her height and poise remarkable. Chika could hardly believe she was his sister.
It wasn't long before men noticed her, drawn to her elegance, her intelligence, and the quiet strength that mirrored Chika's own. She met a man, a young man with ambition and charm, and they fell in love. Soon, he asked for her hand, and she married him. Chika could not stop smiling, tears of pride running down his face. "Look at what she has become… my little sister… my Favour… God has done this for us."
Meanwhile, Flora remained distant. She had married for wealth and comfort, leaving the past behind as though it had never touched her. She never called, never visited. Chika thought of her sometimes, but his heart no longer ached. He had learned that people leave, but life must continue.
University life continued to challenge Chika, but he faced every trial with resilience. Nights of exhaustion were soothed by the thought of Favour thriving in the city, by the knowledge that John's memory lived in his every struggle, and by the quiet whisper in his heart that God had never abandoned him.
Chika slept on the floor sometimes, yes. He sold what he could. He endured insults and mockery. Yet, every morning, he rose with purpose, reminded that he was more than his circumstances. Every exam passed, every lecture absorbed, every coin earned, was a small victory for the boy who had once cried alone in a tiny room with nothing but hope to hold onto.
And so, Chika's life unfolded like a quiet miracle. From the echoes of war, abandonment, and loss, a man had emerged brave, determined, unbroken, and deeply human. People began to see him not as the boy who could barely hear, not as the village orphan, but as a symbol of endurance, faith, and love that refused to die.
The story of Chika was not yet finished. It was still being written in the quiet sweat of his days, in the courage of his nights, and in the unwavering hope that even the smallest, most broken lives could rise to greatness.
During the final semester of his university life, Chika's days were filled with lectures, endless revision, and the familiar rhythm of selling peppers in the mornings to support himself and Favour. But one morning, as he walked along a dusty road, his eyes caught a young woman bent over the soil, working in the farm with her mother. There was something in the way she moved, the quiet strength in her hands, the determination etched on her face it stopped Chika in his tracks.
His heart skipped. He had seen many faces in his life, but this one… there was a spark, a warmth, a life that called to him in a way he could not explain. For several moments, he simply watched, unable to look away. Then he muttered to himself, softly, as if confessing a secret to God, "This… this will be my wife one day."
Curiosity and hope mingled with his determination. He approached some of the neighbors and asked carefully, "Please, can you tell me… who is this young woman? Is she married? I would like to meet her properly… I feel… I feel she is meant to be in my life."
The villagers whispered among themselves, some amused by the small man who asked so earnestly about a stranger. "Ah, that's Amaka," one finally said. "She helps her mother with the farm every day. No, she is not married. She is humble, hard-working. She doesn't talk much with strangers."
Chika's heart swelled with something he had not felt in years hope, anticipation, and a quiet certainty. He watched her for a few more days, learning her rhythm, the gentle way she laughed with children who passed by, the way she never complained even when the sun burned her back. There was humility, yes, but also a quiet fire, the same fire he had seen in himself all his life.
Finally, summoning all the courage that had carried him through hunger, loss, ridicule, and rejection, Chika approached her one evening as the sky turned gold with the setting sun. His heart pounded. "Hello," he said softly. "I… I have seen you working here many times, and I cannot stop thinking… may I speak with you? My name is Chika."
Amaka looked up, surprised at first, cautious, but there was something honest in his eyes that made her nod. She wiped her hands on her apron. "Yes… you may speak. What do you want to say?"
Chika swallowed hard, fighting the nerves that threatened to betray him. "I know this may sound strange," he began, "but I believe God has shown me that you are meant to be in my life. I… I would like to know you, to learn from you… and, if it pleases God and you agree, I would like you to be my wife one day."
Amaka's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and something else curiosity, perhaps even hope. She said nothing at first, only studied him in silence, and Chika felt the weight of the moment settle like a prayer between them.
From that day on, Chika returned to the farm whenever he could, helping where he could, carrying her water, laughing softly when she smiled. They spoke more, shared stories of hardship, of dreams, of what life had thrown at them. Slowly, trust grew. Slowly, love began to root itself quietly, like a seed planted in the fertile soil of patience and faith.
Chika thought of every hardship he had endured John's death, Flora's abandonment, Favour's struggles, the poverty, the hunger, the nights sleeping on the floor and he realized that every tear, every prayer, every struggle had been preparing him for this moment.
And as he walked home that evening, watching Amaka tending the farm under the soft light of dusk, he whispered again, softly, almost to himself, "God, thank You for this. Thank You for showing me that even in the hardest roads, You have beauty waiting. This is my future. My wife… my home… my blessing."
Chika and Amaka married under the soft glow of the evening sun, surrounded by the few friends and neighbors who had come to see the boy who had once slept on the floor finally find his joy. Life was not perfect, but it was theirs and it was beautiful. Every morning, Chika woke beside her, watching the sunrise spill gold across her face, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to God for guiding him through every hardship to this moment.
After graduating from university, Chika secured a job. Even though he could not hear very well, his intelligence, honesty, and determination drew the admiration of everyone around him. Women admired him, of course, but none could touch the heart that had already been claimed by Amaka. His focus was on building a life worthy of her love, a life worthy of the sacrifices that had carried him this far.
Together, they worked on completing the house that his father had only managed to start before passing. Every brick they laid, every nail driven, every stroke of paint—it was a labor of love, of resilience, of survival. The house was no longer just a structure; it was a monument to Chika's journey, to the trials he had endured, to the hope that had never left him.
But Chika's devotion did not stop there. He remembered the life Amaka had once led, the hard labor in the farm, the limited opportunities, and he refused to let her struggle as he had struggled. With the same determination that had carried him through school, he approached friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike, begging, pleading, and persuading them to give Amaka the chance to work. Slowly, doors opened. A place in a clinic became available. He worked tirelessly to ensure she had every opportunity to succeed.
When Amaka expressed a dream of studying further, Chika did not hesitate. He begged on her behalf to anyone who would listen, saved his earnings, and arranged for her enrollment in the university's School of Nursing. Watching her walk into the lecture hall for the first time, carrying her books with a determined smile, Chika felt his heart swell with pride. "This is your life now," he whispered softly. "You will shine because you deserve it, Amaka. God never forgot you, and I never will either."
Life was not without its struggles. There were days when money was tight, when the responsibilities of work, school, and home pressed heavily on them both. But they faced every challenge together. Each hardship became a lesson, each small victory a celebration. Chika often remembered his past the nights sleeping on cold floors, the hunger, the mockery, the loss of John, the betrayal of Flora, the abandonment by their mother and he realized how far they had come.
Amaka's laughter filled their home, her joy became the medicine for Chika's weary soul. And when he saw her in the university, learning, growing, building her dreams, he understood something profound: life had tested them, but love, determination, and faith had brought them through.
The house they finished together was more than walls and a roof. It was a home built from struggle, resilience, and hope. Every corner held memories of the past, lessons of survival, and prayers whispered in quiet moments of gratitude. And Chika knew, without doubt, that he had given Amaka the life she deserved and in doing so, he had completed the journey he had started as a small, determined boy who refused to give up.
Chika's people couldn't believe their eyes when they saw him walking down the street, arm in arm with Amaka. "Is this not the Chika we used to know?" they whispered to each other. "Look at him now… he even has a wife! Who would have thought?" Some rubbed their eyes, unsure if what they were seeing was real. The boy who once begged for food, who slept on cold floors and carried the weight of his siblings' lives on his shoulders, had become a man that everyone admired, respected, and even envied.
Meanwhile, Flora's world began to crumble. Her husband, Kennedy, grew sick. Chika had long since forgiven her in his heart, but he did not interfere he knew some lessons life had to teach on their own. Flora had spent so long running from the past, trying to build a life of comfort for herself and her children, but illness does not spare anyone. They spent every penny they had, millions, traveling to hospitals, consulting doctors, praying for a miracle but Kennedy's body could not fight anymore. One quiet morning, he passed away, leaving Flora alone, scared, and unsure of how to care for her four children.
The children suffered, hungry for the love and guidance they had never known. No one provided them with the support they needed. Their mother tried, but she could not stretch herself far enough. She sent messages for help, but even relatives looked away. And deep inside, Flora felt a gnawing guilt she could not escape. She remembered her brother, Chika, and everything he had done for the family she abandoned. She knew in her heart she had hurt him, had left him to fight the world alone while she pursued her comfort.
She wanted to go back, to ask for forgiveness, to seek help but fear rooted her in place. What if he does not forgive me? What if he hates me still? she whispered to herself late at night, rocking her youngest child in her arms. Every laugh she heard from her children felt hollow because she knew the truth: she had caused so much pain. And while she provided for them as best she could, she could not replace what they had lost, what Chika had lost, and what they all endured in those long, hungry years.
Chika, meanwhile, continued his life with quiet dignity. He never spoke ill of Flora; he never let bitterness rule his heart. But every night, when the house grew still, he would remember the nights sleeping on the cold floor, John's passing, Flora's absence, and the long, lonely days of begging for help that had defined his childhood. He prayed for her children, prayed that they would find strength in spite of her choices, prayed that they would grow to understand the sacrifices that had built the life they now inherited.
He looked at Amaka, at their home filled with warmth and love, and whispered, "Lord, help me carry what I could not save before. Help me be a father to those who have none, a guide to those who wander. Let no child feel hunger as I did. Let no heart know the loneliness I knew."
Even in the face of all the pain, the losses, and the betrayals, Chika's spirit remained unbroken. He had walked through fire and come out stronger, and though tears came often, they were no longer tears of despair they were tears of understanding, of compassion, and of hope.
And somewhere far away, Flora watched her children sleep, remembering the brother she had once abandoned, praying silently that one day, they would understand what he had done for all of them.
Years passed, quiet and heavy, the kind of years that carry unspoken regrets. Flora's life, once full of noise and escape, slowly folded into silence. The sickness started small a lump she ignored, pain she explained away. She was afraid. Afraid of hospitals. Afraid of bad news. Afraid of facing life again after losing Kennedy. So she endured it quietly, until her body could no longer hide the truth.
By the time she accepted it, the cancer had already taken too much.
Weak, thin, and exhausted, Flora asked around for one thing only Chika's number. Many people hesitated. Some shook their heads. "After all these years?" But she insisted. "Please," she whispered, tears burning her eyes, "I just want to hear my brother's voice even though he doesn't hear.
And her hands where trembled while texting chika.
"Hello… Chika?" It's your sister flora .
The moment he saw the text message , something inside him broke. He couldn't speak. His chest tightened, and tears fell freely, like they had been waiting all those years.
"My sister…" he cried like a little boy. "Flora… it is over. Not yesterday over fifteen years ago.
They texted each other
I have asked about you so many times. People said you were fine. Thank God I have finally connected with my brother ."
Flora couldn't hold it anymore. She sobbed so hard she struggled to breathe.
"I am not fine, Chika," she said between tears. "I have cancer. I am dying. Kennedy is gone too. I didn't want to call you because I was ashamed. I hurt you. I left you when you needed me. Please… please forgive me."
Chika cried louder, covering his mouth, his shoulders shaking. "You are my sister," he said softly. "There is nothing to fo