I was only eight when my mother died, and with her went the warmth of our little home in Edo State. Life on the farm settlement had been simple but steady. I remembered the smell of freshly tilled earth, the chickens running in the yard, and my mother's laughter echoing through the small house. But all that changed the day she passed.
The doctors' words still echo in my mind: "There's nothing more we can do." I didn't cry at first. How could I cry when the one person I depended on was gone forever? My five siblings looked up to me, innocent and trusting, and I knew I had to be strong for them.
Home became a place of shadows. My father, unable to bear the loss of his wife, sank into drinking. His sorrow turned into anger. He barely spoke, and when he did, it was harsh. Food was scarce. Accidents and mistakes seemed to happen constantly, and no one was there to shield us. I was suddenly not just a child—I was the one who had to hold everyone together.
Before long, my father decided we would leave our home in Edo State and move to his hometown in Agbor, Delta State. I didn't understand it at first. Why leave the only home I had ever known? Why move into a place so unfamiliar, where nothing felt safe? The journey was long and exhausting. I held my youngest sibling's hand, while my older brothers carried our few belongings. Every step felt like carrying the weight of the world, yet I kept going.
Arriving in Agbor, the reality hit me harder than ever. Every morning, I would pass my mother's grave, and the sight would tighten my chest. My father continued to drink, leaving us to fend for ourselves. My 5-year-old sister and I would go to the farms of our uncles, hoping they would give us something to eat. Sometimes we came home with a small portion of yam or rice, barely enough to fill our stomachs for the day.
School was no longer simple. I would often arrive at nine in the morning, tired, hungry, and anxious. My older brothers had to drop out of the army training they had been pursuing because there was no money for their school fees. Life was relentless, a daily struggle against hunger, responsibility, and grief. Yet I kept pushing.
Every day I cooked, cleaned, soothed cries, and tried to be both mother and sister. Some nights, I would cry silently in my room, my body shaking from exhaustion. But when morning came, I had to be brave. I whispered to myself: "I have to survive. I will protect them. I will make it through."
That night, as I tucked my siblings into bed, I realized that growing up wasn't something that happened slowly. It had been forced upon me, harshly and unfairly. And yet, even in the hardest moments, I felt a small spark of hope. Life had changed forever, but I would not let it break me. I had five siblings depending on me, and I would rise to the challenge.