Bittersweet 7


Everything went well until it was time for vacation.

The school compound buzzed with excitement. Suitcases were dragged, laughter rang out, and promises of reunion filled the air. Everyone was happy… except me.

While others counted down to freedom and fun, I counted down to bondage.

I had nothing to look forward to but the familiar slavery that awaited me in my uncle’s house. And so, while others laughed and waved goodbye, I cried. Silent, bitter tears rolled down my cheeks as they departed joyfully, unaware of the storm waiting for me.

In my uncle’s house, hope became my only companion.

I counted the days to resumption like a prisoner marking the wall of a cell. I counted while hawking soda soap under the scorching sun. I counted while scrubbing poultry pens thick with stench. I counted while washing pigsties, my hands trembling with fatigue and disgust. I counted while bending over endless rows of crops on his vast farmland, my small body working like that of a hired labourer.

And then… it was over.

School resumed.

This time, I was the one smiling. My heart leapt with joy while others returned with long, lazy faces, mourning the end of their holidays. I had escaped, at least for a while.

Then illness came.

One morning, I noticed dark red stains on my underwear.

Terror seized me like icy fingers around my throat. My heart pounded wildly. Blood? From me? Surely, I was dying.

The first day, I threw away one of the frilly imported panties my school mother had bought me. The second day, another. The third and fourth, I kept discarding them, my hands shaking, my soul drowning in fear and confusion. I walked around pale, quiet, and miserable, certain death was knocking at my door.

Until my school mother called me aside.

She looked at me closely, her eyes searching, gentle but firm. In a trembling voice, I told her I was going to die soon.

She gasped softly, pulled me into her warm bosom, and held me there. Then she smiled, a knowing, comforting smile, and explained that I had become a woman.

Ah!

She patiently taught me about menstruation, about cycles, about the mystery and miracle of the female body. With every word, the fear melted away. Life returned to my eyes. Death was not coming; womanhood had arrived.

She bought me fresh panties and sanitary towels. She showed me how to use them, how to calculate my cycle, how to care for myself.

Hmmmm… I was deeply grateful for such a knowledgeable, loving school mother.

Life continued in this gentle rhythm until I completed JS1.

Then tragedy struck.

It shook us all to the core.

Our favorite teacher, our French and Mathematics teacher, was involved in a ghastly motor accident. She died.

Died.

The word felt unreal, heavy, cruel.

Fun… no, fun does not even begin to describe what we shared. She played with us like one of us. In her classroom, there was no wall between teacher and pupil. Only laughter. Only warmth. Only joy.

She showered us with sweets and affection, and our hearts clung to her.

By Jove! How we loved Miss Nitahara!

Even Mathematics, once a mountain of fear, became a playground under her guidance. While joking, laughing, and playing with us, she unlocked its secrets. Numbers danced. Equations sang. A subject once dreaded became a beloved friend.

But alas… good things do not always last.

The cold hands of death snatched her from our open arms, arms that were always ready to welcome her in our Form One classroom.

At her burial, underneath our pristine white uniform, our hearts lay shattered. Tears streamed freely down our faces. Then the pastor said the dead in Christ would rise again.

Hope flickered.

We believed.

We thought she would rise like Jesus did on the third day.

So we waited.

We waited for the classroom door to burst open, for her to stride in with her usual electric presence, her engaging grin lighting up the room.

We waited.

But we waited in vain.

Miss Nitahara never came back from the grave.



To be continued…


Comments

  1. Costheta321January 19, 2026 at 8:48 AM

    Adetutu my beautiful sister, I enjoyed reading your publication of this piece.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Natural Health AfricaJanuary 19, 2026 at 10:45 AM

    Well written and neatly edited. The picture of a naive girl child in an unfavourable parenting environment is well sustained.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bittersweet 6

The lesions had virtually conquered my skin. They were relentless. I couldn’t help myself; the itch was a madness that demanded to be scratched. But the relief was short-lived. The scratching only broke the skin, releasing a clear liquid that spread across my body like a slow poison, birthing more lesions where it touched. I was a walking portrait of misery, pain, and despair. Eventually, the tide turned. Each day found me growing a little stronger. The angry sores dried up, leaving behind a map of scars on my skin—a testament to the battle I had survived. But survival came with a price. As soon as my uncle's wife saw that I was on my feet, my reprieve ended. The hawking continued immediately. In those days, I cannot say I was anything more than a beast of burden. I felt like a slave, I was worked like a slave, and in my tattered clothes, I looked like a slave. I continued hawking for three more years before my uncle decided I should resume my primary school education. When he told...
Read more

Bittersweet 4

 Bittersweet 4 Yes, I was finally at my uncle’s  place. The place I thought would be my salvation. Fate dealt me the cruellest card. My uncle and family lived in a face-me-I-face-you house, built by him. I stayed in a room with some other cousins I met there. I was 12 but due to the ill treatment and malnourishment, I had suffered at the hands of my mother,  I looked like an 8 year old. I was only ever given leftovers to eat, after they had had their fill, my mother and sister. Truly I was treated no better than a stray dog. I was dropped off by my mom with disdain, in the evening. We had taken the first bolekaja(a bus made of wood) leaving the village to the town where my uncle resided.  My uncle was a headmaster in a local school but he had a large farm and was into animal husbandry. I remember my mother telling my uncle’s wife that I was evil and nothing good would come out of me. I can never forget those cruel words, ever. Food did not appear to be a problem at m...
Read more

Bittersweet 5

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride... that was me. A girl full of hope, clutching to promises like lifelines, believing that a better life was just beyond the dusty path that led from my village. My uncle had said he would take care of me, send me to school, make me somebody. But reality was nothing like the dreams I had allowed myself to indulge in, in my young mind.   My days blurred into an endless grind. Sometimes my uncle’s wife would place hot bowls on a wide tray balanced on my head, beans pudding, corn pudding, things I had never dreamed I’d be selling on streets. The weight pressed down on my neck and my skull like punishment. I was still a child, scrawny, underfed, invisible, but I had no choice, no voice, no say. My pain meant nothing to anyone.   At night, when the house was quiet, I would cry into my thin pillow, careful not to let the sobs escape my throat. This was not the life I was promised. This was not the story I was told when he came smili...
Read more