Chapter 1------
The rain fell gently against the rusted rooftops of Enugu that evening, carrying with it the smell of wet earth and forgotten dreams. Inside a quiet room, dimly lit by the golden glow of a kerosene lamp, Amara sat in front of her easel. Her brush moved hesitantly across the canvas, as though her heart was afraid to speak too loudly.
Her strokes were soft, uncertain, but her eyes told another story. They held an ocean of emotions—longing, fear, and a fragile hope she never dared to voice.
Amara had always lived in silence.
Not because she couldn't speak, but because her voice was buried beneath the weight of expectations. Her mother, stern and unyielding, believed that a girl's future wasn't hers to decide. "A woman's honor is in her obedience," Mama often said. And Amara obeyed. Always.
But tonight, her heart whispered louder than her fears.
Her painting took shape, a young girl standing at the edge of a cliff, arms wide open, facing the endless sky. It was the kind of freedom Amara had never known.
"Amara!" Her mother's sharp voice cut through the silence.
Startled, Amara dropped her brush. The paint splattered across the canvas, a crimson line cutting through the image she had carefully built. Her chest tightened.
"Yes, Mama!" she replied quickly, hiding the canvas behind an old cloth.
Mama entered, her eyes scanning the room. "Still wasting time with these drawings?" she scoffed, shaking her head. "Art cannot feed you. Tomorrow, Ugo will visit. He is a good man, wealthy, respectable. You will not embarrass me."
Ugo.
The name alone made Amara's stomach twist. Everyone in the neighborhood called him the perfect suitor. Handsome, rich, and ambitious. But to Amara, he was a cage made of gold.
"Yes, Mama," Amara whispered, lowering her gaze.
Her mother nodded with finality and left, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. The silence returned, but this time, it was heavy, suffocating.
Amara pressed her hands against her chest, as if trying to quiet the pounding of her heart. She wanted to scream, to tell her mother she couldn't breathe in this life that had been chosen for her. But fear held her tongue.
Instead, she returned to her painting. Her trembling fingers brushed against the canvas, smudging the crimson streak. Tears welled in her eyes.
Why can't I fight back? Why can't I choose for myself?
She didn't know that fate was already weaving threads in the dark. That outside the walls of her home, a force she couldn't explain was preparing to challenge everything she feared.
And that soon, a stranger with eyes like fire would see her—not as the obedient daughter, not as the silent girl, but as the woman she was too afraid to become.
For the first time in years, Amara whispered into the night.
"I just want to be free…"
And the night, as though it were listening, seemed to whisper back.