The murmurs of the crowd grew louder as the woman's voice pierced through the hot afternoon air.
"You thought you could hide? Prostitute! Husband snatcher! Pig!" she spat. Each insult lashed out at me, clinging like poison to my skin. My knees weakened, shame burning through my veins.
And worst of all, she was doing this in front of the school library.
The library had always been the calmest place on campus, a sacred sanctuary of silence and learning. A place where the faint smell of paper and old wood mixed with the soft hum of ceiling fans, where students bent over books and whispered quietly. But now, with dozens of curious faces circling around, that sacred calm turned into a stage of humiliation.
I could feel the stares stabbing deeper than any blade ever could.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I noticed Victor. He had stepped back, hands buried in his pockets, his eyes glued to the ground as though it might swallow him whole. He looked indifferent, detached, silent, his silence louder than the woman's accusations.
"Say something," I wanted to scream. Defend me! Deny it! Tell them it's not true! But my lips betrayed me. No sound came.
The woman lunged forward again, this time grabbing my wrist tightly.
"Stay away from him or you will regret it! I'm a mad woman, go and ask!"
Her friend pulled her back, muttering, "Enough, calm down… please."
But the damage was done. My dignity lay scattered in the dirt, while whispers carried it away like dry leaves in the wind.
I broke free and ran. My chest heaved as tears blinded me. The world blurred until I collapsed in the quiet of my room. My phone buzzed endlessly ,calls from numbers I didn't recognize, messages I couldn't bear to open. I turned it off, curled into myself, and let the sobs shake me until there was nothing left but emptiness.
When the tears dried, anger rose, not just at Victor, but at myself. How had I fallen again for a story too sweet to be real? I had promised myself I would never repeat the cycle of trusting too early, yet here I was, another woman's entertainment. Another lesson in pain.
The next morning, a knock sounded at my door.
"Amara… please, open up. Let me explain," Victor's voice was low, almost pleading.
I froze, staring at the closed door. A part of me wanted to open it, to demand the truth, to ask why. But the bruised part of me knew some answers only deepen the wound further.
"Amara, I swear, it's not what it looks like," he continued, his voice cracking.
I pressed my palms against the door, trembling. My heart screamed to listen, but my pride whispered louder.
Finally, I found my voice. "Leave my house. Leave my life. And never, ever step your foot here again!" I yelled.
Silence followed. His footsteps faded, and I sank to the floor.
Victor had seemed like a good man, but wasn't that how most married men were? Deceptive. Now it all made sense ,the excuses, the uncompleted building he claimed he lived in, the constant avoidance of his family, the "fancy ring" he wore but never explained, the calls he always stepped aside to answer.
The signs had been there, flashing red, but I had been blinded by my ignorance, by my need for a rebound after David and Mike's betrayals.
David's words came back to me, haunting me: "Most men only come to get what they want. They don't want stability."
And maybe he was right.
My reality was bitter: I hadn't heard from David. Perhaps he had ghosted me. Perhaps he was gone forever.
All I had left was the same old cycle.
Loneliness.
Heartbreak.
And the haunting truth wasI was never lucky with men and maybe I will never be .My life was a mess and maybe that was my fate .
The last paper was submitted with trembling fingers. Relief washed over the hall as pens dropped and chairs screeched, students rushing out to celebrate the end of the semester. Laughter and chatter fill the air ,roar of relief was everywhere. Some students throw their pens in the air , others hugged their friends , and a few burst into songs of thanksgiving.
For the final year students ,it was a time to go wild , spraying powder ,drinking ,blasting music and some poured water and drinks on people . For some it was an emotional moment because they may not see each other . There were tight hugs, tears, promises of "we must keep in touch " and at the back of my mind I wished I was a final year student never coming back because it had been a long year.
But then the reminder of home and everything waiting at home was my reality .
I packed my bag in silence and boarded a rickety bus to the nearby city where my mother lived. The roads stretched endlessly, dust rising with every bump. By the time I arrived, the familiar sight of our old compound stood before me—paint peeling, the gate hanging loosely as though tired of its duty.
"Mama…" I whispered as I stepped in.
She sat on a wooden chair under the mango tree, her wrapper tied tightly around her thin frame. The sickness had carved lines into her face, stealing the glow she once carried. Yet when she saw me, her eyes lit up.
"Amara, my daughter! You are home." She struggled to rise, coughing into the edge of her wrapper.
I rushed to her side. "Mama, don't stand, please."
She smiled weakly. "I cannot just sit when my precious daughter returns."
Inside, the house was dim, smelling faintly of kerosene and dust. The walls carried memories of a man I barely remembered ,my father. He had died too early, leaving Mama to raise us with little but her strength and stubborn hope. Since then, life had been a battle of survival.
"And maybe because i had no father figure my life is a mess " I thought loudly .
"Mama, you've lost more weight," I said softly, unpacking the small food items I brought from school.
Her eyes dropped. "Medicine is expensive, Amara. I cannot buy all of them. I just take the ones I can afford."
My chest tightened. Even here, even at home, life is another battlefield.
That night, I lay on the mattress in my old room, listening to the hum of mosquitoes and my mother's coughing in the next room. I thought of how different things would have been if Papa was still alive. Maybe Mama wouldn't have to bend her back selling petty goods just to put food on the table. Maybe my siblings wouldn't have dropped out of school one after the other.
And maybe… just maybe… I wouldn't feel this crushing loneliness.
I turned on my side, staring at the cracked ceiling. My phone lay beside me, switched off. I had sworn not to think of David again, yet in moments like this, when the world felt too heavy, I missed him. Not his love, not his kisses, but the way his voice made me believe I wasn't fighting alone.
But now, it was just me. Me and Mama. And survival.
The next morning, Mama woke me before sunrise. Her frail hands shook me gently.
"Amara, stand up. Market does not wait for anyone."
I rubbed my eyes, still heavy with sleep. "Mama, you should rest. Let me go alone today."
She shook her head stubbornly "Let us go together."
We packed her goods, small baskets of vegetables, tomatoes, pepper, and some fruits. into a wheelbarrow a neighbor lent us. The streets were already alive with voices, horns, and hawkers dragging their wares into position.
At the market square, we squeezed into a narrow spot by the roadside. Mama spread out her goods, arranging them carefully. I watched the way her hands trembled slightly but her eyes remained sharp, scanning for customers.
"Tomato fine, pepper fresh!" Mama called out with surprising strength.
I joined in, raising my voice. "Buy your vegetables here! Very fresh, very cheap!"
A woman stopped to bargain, picking up two tomatoes and frowning. "They are too small. I'll pay fifty naira."
Mama smiled politely. "Sister, add just twenty more. Things are costly now."
The woman shook her head and began to walk away. Without thinking, I grabbed her arm. "Please, take them. Mama has been sick; we really need this money."
The woman turned, surprised. After a pause, she sighed, dropped the money, and took the tomatoes.
Mama gave me a sharp look. "Amara! Don't beg customers like that again. We may be poor, but we still have dignity."
Her words stung, but I understood. She had carried this family on her back for years, and pride was the only wealth she still held.
As the sun rose higher, sweat drenched my back. My stomach growled, but we kept shouting until our voices turned hoarse. At one point, Mama leaned against the wall, coughing hard. I rushed to her side.
"Mama, please, let's go home. You need to rest."
She shook her head, breathless. "We cannot go home with unsold goods. That is money for food tomorrow."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. This was our life, survival measured in baskets of tomatoes and peppers.
And all my efforts to run away from this life has always backfired.
By evening, our basket was half-empty. We packed the little money we had made, just enough for garri and small medicine. On the way home, Mama tried to encourage me.
"Amara, don't worry. One day, all this suffering will end. Your education is the key. When you graduate, things will change."
I smiled faintly, but inside my heart was heavy. What if she didn't live long enough to see me graduate? What if I failed her like Papa failed us by leaving too soon?
That night, as I lay on the mat again, exhausted from the day, I scrolled through my phone. Unread messages, missed calls some from unknown numbers, some from familiar ones. My thumb hovered over David's contact.
I sighed, locked the phone, and set it aside.
"Mama is my priority now," I whispered to myself.
But even as I closed my eyes, memories of David's laughter and the strength in his voice slipped into my dreams.