David continue his story
"I remember one day," he said, his voice dropping, "a market woman called me 'worthless' because I couldn't afford a single egg. I was ten. I swore then that I would never let anyone have that power over me again. That my worth would come from my own two hands."
He looked at her then, his eyes honest and unguarded. "I see that same fire in you, Sonia. I see it in the way you work, in the way you carry yourself despite everything. You have been through a different storm, but we come from the same kind of soil. Hard, but strong. Able to grow something good."
In that moment, he wasn't just the cheerful hustler. He was a man who knew the taste of shame and the fuel of ambition. By sharing his vulnerability, he wasn't asking for her pity; he was offering her his truth as a gift. He was showing her that he understood her struggle not from the outside, but from a place deep within himself.
And for Sonia, listening to him, it felt like finally, after a lifetime of being alone, someone was speaking her language.
Their love became a secret fortress. In the stolen moments behind the canteen, David and Sonia built a world of their own, founded on shared stories and a mutual understanding of hardship. They were two wounded souls who had found a way to lean on each other without breaking.
But outside that fortress, the war at home continued. A new, particularly cruel pattern emerged. Claudius, perhaps trying to ease his own conscience in some small way, began to leave a small amount of money on the table before he went to work—a little something "for the house," meant to cover small daily expenses.
Sonia would see it, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest. Maybe today she could buy a snack at work, or save a few coins for her secret fund.
That hope was always short-lived.
As soon as her father was out the door, Amelia would swoop in and snatch the money. "What do you need it for?" she would sneer if Sonia ever dared to ask. "You are fed here, aren't you? Or are you running to your new man again?" The accusation was always laced with venom.
So, Sonia began to go to work not just tired, but hungry and penniless. There were days when the smell of food from the canteen would make her head spin, and she'd have to focus on the repetitive motion of chopping vegetables to distract herself from the gnawing in her stomach.
David noticed immediately. He saw the faint tremor in her hands during their breaks and the way her eyes would linger a little too long on the plates of food meant for customers.
He didn't make a grand speech. He simply started coming more often, always with a wrapped parcel of food—sometimes leftover from his mother's pot, sometimes bought with his hard-earned money.
"Here," he'd say, pressing it into her hands. "My mother made too much again. You'd be helping me out."
He knew it was a lie to save her pride, and she knew he knew. But in that simple, kind deception was a love more profound than any dramatic declaration. He wasn't just giving her food; he was giving her back her dignity, ensuring that the woman he loved would not be broken by the petty cruelties of her stepmother. In those moments, his love felt like a shield.
The weekends, once a time of dread in her father's silent, oppressive house, now became a sanctuary. David had proudly introduced Sonia to his entire, bustling family as his girlfriend. There were no suspicious glances, no whispered judgments about her past. In the chaotic, warm embrace of David's home, she was simply "Sonia," and she was welcome.
There were times when Sonia would arrive and David was still out, hustling—delivering goods or running an errand to make an extra coin. In the past, this might have felt like abandonment. But here, it felt different.
David's mother, the formidable akara seller, would welcome her with a wide, genuine smile. "He's making the money, my daughter," she'd say, her voice rich with pride and warmth. "Come, sit."
But Sonia was not one to just sit. Having found a place where her presence was a joy and not a burden, she wanted to earn her keep. She would see the basket of laundry and, without being asked, would take it to the back to wash. She scrubbed David's dusty trousers and his mother's fabric with a care that spoke of deep gratitude. This wasn't a chore demanded of her; it was a gift she could give, a way to say "thank you" for this feeling of belonging.
When David returned, his face would light up to see her there, a natural part of his home's landscape. Their trust had deepened into a practical partnership. Sonia, knowing her stepmother would seize any money she found, had begun entrusting her small earnings to David.
"Keep this for me," she would say, handing him the crumpled notes. He would take it without a word, adding it to his own savings, a growing fund for a future they were now building together.
And always, without fail, David's mother would press a warm, freshly fried bean cake into Sonia's hands. "Eat, my child, you are too thin." It was more than food; it was nourishment, acceptance, and a mother's love she had thought was lost to her forever.
In David's house, Sonia wasn't just loved by David; she was becoming part of a family. She was learning that love wasn't just a feeling; it was washing clothes for someone, safeguarding their dreams, and sharing a simple, warm bean cake.