Do you believe in love? Because I never did. I heard the words "I love you" tossed around like candy—sweet, sticky, and meaningless. Men whispered it to naive girls to lower their guards, to make them vulnerable, to take whatever they wanted, and leave them destroyed. Women said it too, soft and strategic, to win rich men's hearts and empty their pockets. Love was a story, told on television by people with perfect smiles and flawless lines, a story meant to fool you into believing in something that didn't exist. I had never seen it. Never felt it. And why would I believe in it, when all I had witnessed was its opposite? Pain. Fear. Betrayal. Love was a lie, a myth. Until I met Jared.
My name is Evans, I am thirteen years old. And this is my story.
Three years ago…
"Useless woman! Come here!!" my dad bellowed, sitting at the dining table, rotating his soup plate like a man navigating treacherous seas.
My mother ran into the dining room, face tense, fingers curled, body trembling with fear.
"What is this rubbish you served me?" he thundered.
"It's okra soup, sir," she whispered softly.
"Okra soup? Did I tell you to cook okra soup? Where is the meat? Where is the cowtail you usually cook?"
"I could only buy fish. The money you gave me wasn't enough, so I—"
Before she could finish, a loud crack split the room. My sister and I froze. That wasn't thunder—it was the sound of my father's palm connecting with my mother's face.
"Jesus!!" my mother screamed, clutching her cheek.
I had seen his anger before, but nothing like this. I felt my stomach twist, a mix of fear and helpless rage. Why did he have to do this? Why her? Why us?
"Foolish woman! I gave you two thousand Naira to cook, and you serve me this rubbish? Do you think it's easy to make money? All you do is stay at home doing nothing from morning till night, and now you have the audacity to tell me the money wasn't enough?"
We watched, frozen. My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. I wanted to make it stop. But I couldn't.
He grabbed the hot soup from the table and threw it across her face.
"Jesus! My eyes! My eyes!" she wailed.
I wanted to scream at him, to hit him, to do anything—but I was just ten years old. I could do nothing.
My eyes my mother kept screaming, trying to find her to the kitchen.
Where are you going?, he sneered dragging her back
Please let me wash my face, I can't see, she pleaded
Wash what? Oh so you want to waste the soup you cooked with my hard earned money.
Please she pleaded, please, am sorry, my eyes, I can't see. She wailed, her body trembling.
But her pleading fell on deaf ears, the more she pleaded, the more he slapped or punched her depending on his mood.
When my sister started crying, I pressed my hand over her mouth. If my father heard her, he would beat her too. Quietly, I dragged her into our room and held her until she cried herself to sleep. The sounds of my parents' fighting faded into the background, but the image of my mother's face, burning from the hot soup, haunted me.
I crept back to the kitchen. My mother was there, eyes swollen and red, face covered in handprints, her clothes torn. She was using cold water from the freezer to soothe her eyes.
"Let me help you, Mama," I whispered.
She jerked back, fear in her eyes.
"You shouldn't be here, Evans. Your father might see you. I can bear the beating, but watching him hit you… that would kill me. Go to bed. I'm fine."
"You are not fine, Mama. Stop lying. I saw what he did to you."
"Evans," she hissed urgently, "stop! He might hear you!"
"He can't," I said, taking the cold towel from her hands. "I saw him drive out before I came in."
She apologized quietly. "You're just a kid. You shouldn't witness this."
"I'm not a kid, Mother. I'm ten years old."
She gave me a sad smile. The kettle whistled, and she stood to pour hot water into a basin, dipping a towel and wringing it out. I helped her apply it to her bruises. She stayed silent, even though I knew she was in pain.
When I finished, I rubbed ointment on her wounds. She smiled weakly, kissed my head, and whispered, "Go to bed."
That night, I couldn't sleep. The fight played over and over in my mind, an endless loop of fear, anger, and helplessness.