CHAPTER 2: SCARS THAT DON'T FADE

Morning broke softly over the city, the sunlight slipping through thin curtains into Nneka’s one-bedroom apartment. The walls were pale cream, the air smelled faintly of soap and warm dust. Somewhere outside, a radio blared an old highlife song, blending with the rhythmic cries of hawkers and the sputtering engines of keke drivers. But inside her room, everything felt still — too still.Morning broke softly over the city, the sunlight slipping through thin curtains into Nneka’s one-bedroom apartment. The walls were pale cream, the air smelled faintly of soap and warm dust. Somewhere outside, a radio blared an old highlife song, blending with the rhythmic cries of hawkers and the sputtering engines of keke drivers. But inside her room, everything felt still — too still.

Nneka sat at the edge of her bed, her elbows resting on her knees, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long turned cold. She had been awake long before dawn, staring at the ceiling, tracing faint lines on the wall with her eyes. Sleep had become something she borrowed, not owned.Nneka sat at the edge of her bed, her elbows resting on her knees, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long turned cold. She had been awake long before dawn, staring at the ceiling, tracing faint lines on the wall with her eyes. Sleep had become something she borrowed, not owned.

Her mind had travelled again — back to that night. The shouting. The crash of plates. Her mother’s trembling hands shielding her face. Her father’s voice, thick with anger and liquor, echoing through the small house. Nneka was only ten, but the memory was so sharp it could still slice her open. That was the night she learned love could break bones and spirits alike.Her mind had travelled again — back to that night. The shouting. The crash of plates. Her mother’s trembling hands shielding her face. Her father’s voice, thick with anger and liquor, echoing through the small house. Nneka was only ten, but the memory was so sharp it could still slice her open. That was the night she learned love could break bones and spirits alike.

Since then, she had built her life like a fortress — firm, quiet, and unreachable.Since then, she had built her life like a fortress — firm, quiet, and unreachable.

Her phone buzzed on the dresser, dragging her back to the present. The name on the screen softened her face. Mama. She exhaled, picking up the call.Her phone buzzed on the dresser, dragging her back to the present. The name on the screen softened her face. Mama. She exhaled, picking up the call.

“Good morning, Mama,” she said gently.“Good morning, Mama,” she said gently.

“My daughter,” came the warm but weary voice from the other end. “I didn’t hear from you yesterday. Are you eating at all?”“My daughter,” came the warm but weary voice from the other end. “I didn’t hear from you yesterday. Are you eating at all?”

Nneka smiled faintly. “Yes, Mama. I just came home late. You know how work can be.”Nneka smiled faintly. “Yes, Mama. I just came home late. You know how work can be.”

Her mother’s voice carried the comfort of old habits. “Don’t overwork yourself, Nneka. The world won’t end if you rest.”Her mother’s voice carried the comfort of old habits. “Don’t overwork yourself, Nneka. The world won’t end if you rest.”

“I’m fine, Mama,” she lied, tucking a stray braid behind her ear.“I’m fine, Mama,” she lied, tucking a stray braid behind her ear.

There was a pause. “It’s been quiet here,” her mother murmured.There was a pause. “It’s been quiet here,” her mother murmured.

Nneka swallowed. “Quiet is good, isn’t it?”Nneka swallowed. “Quiet is good, isn’t it?”

“Yes… but sometimes, quiet can be too loud.”“Yes… but sometimes, quiet can be too loud.”

The silence that followed was heavy. They both knew what lingered between them — years of bruised memories and unspoken apologies.The silence that followed was heavy. They both knew what lingered between them — years of bruised memories and unspoken apologies.

Nneka finally asked, her voice small, “Do you ever regret staying with him?”Nneka finally asked, her voice small, “Do you ever regret staying with him?”

Her mother hesitated, then sighed. “Sometimes I do. But I stayed because of you.”Her mother hesitated, then sighed. “Sometimes I do. But I stayed because of you.”

Tears gathered at the corners of Nneka’s eyes. “You didn’t deserve what he did to you.”Tears gathered at the corners of Nneka’s eyes. “You didn’t deserve what he did to you.”

A tired chuckle came through the speaker. “Maybe. But pain teaches patience. Don’t carry it forever, my child.”A tired chuckle came through the speaker. “Maybe. But pain teaches patience. Don’t carry it forever, my child.”

The call ended with a soft click, leaving Nneka staring at her reflection in the dark phone screen. Don’t carry it forever. The words looped in her head like an unfinished song.The call ended with a soft click, leaving Nneka staring at her reflection in the dark phone screen. Don’t carry it forever. The words looped in her head like an unfinished song.

She set the phone down and walked to the mirror. Her reflection looked back — eyes deep, skin smooth but pale from long nights, expression firm but not unkind. She touched the small scar above her brow, a reminder from childhood chaos, and whispered, “I’m fine,” as if saying it enough times might make it true.She set the phone down and walked to the mirror. Her reflection looked back — eyes deep, skin smooth but pale from long nights, expression firm but not unkind. She touched the small scar above her brow, a reminder from childhood chaos, and whispered, “I’m fine,” as if saying it enough times might make it true.

Minutes later, she dressed for work — navy blouse, gray skirt, simple earrings. The routine steadied her. She locked the door and stepped into the buzzing street.Minutes later, she dressed for work — navy blouse, gray skirt, simple earrings. The routine steadied her. She locked the door and stepped into the buzzing street.

At the junction, she passed a young couple laughing over roasted corn. The boy wiped a speck from the girl’s cheek, and she smiled in that open, careless way lovers do. Nneka looked away. Love, to her, was too fragile, too dangerous — like fire: beautiful from afar but deadly up close.At the junction, she passed a young couple laughing over roasted corn. The boy wiped a speck from the girl’s cheek, and she smiled in that open, careless way lovers do. Nneka looked away. Love, to her, was too fragile, too dangerous — like fire: beautiful from afar but deadly up close.

A horn blared, snapping her out of thought. She waved down a taxi and slid into the back seat. As it rolled forward, she watched people hurry along the roadside — sellers, students, dreamers — all chasing something.A horn blared, snapping her out of thought. She waved down a taxi and slid into the back seat. As it rolled forward, she watched people hurry along the roadside — sellers, students, dreamers — all chasing something.

She pressed her head against the glass, eyes half-closed. Life was moving fast, but she was still standing where her pain had left her.She pressed her head against the glass, eyes half-closed. Life was moving fast, but she was still standing where her pain had left her.

Unbeknownst to her, the world was quietly shifting — and the vow she made long ago was about to be tested in ways she never imagined.Unbeknownst to her, the world was quietly shifting — and the vow she made long ago was about to be tested in ways she never imagined.