AMINA
Chapter Five:
The morning Amina left for Lagos, the house was quieter than usual.
Her father had already gone out, leaving only his voice behind — rough and distant from the night before.
“If she wants to waste her time, let her go,” he had said. “But don’t come back here crying.”
Her mother said nothing then, but now, as she watched Amina pack her few belongings into a faded bag, her eyes filled with tears she tried to hide.
> “Amina,” she whispered, “I don’t have much to give you, but take this.”
She pressed a small nylon bag into Amina’s hand. Inside were a few cups of garri, some groundnuts, and a folded ₦1,000 note.
Amina wanted to speak, but her throat tightened.
She knew her mother’s health wasn’t strong — the cough that came and went, the way her hands trembled when she tried to sew — yet she still pushed herself to help.
> “Mama, I’ll make you proud,” Amina said quietly.
Her mother smiled faintly. “Just don’t forget who you are, my child.”
---
Lagos welcomed Amina with heat and chaos.
Everywhere she turned, people were rushing — shouting, selling, hustling.
She found Aisha waiting at the park, bright and confident, her phone glued to her ear.
> “Ah, Amina! You made it!” she said, hugging her quickly. “You’ll like it here. Lagos has no pity, but it has opportunity.”
They took a bus to Aisha’s area — a crowded street behind the university gate.
Aisha’s room was small, barely enough space for two people. The bed pressed against the wall, the ceiling fan creaked loudly, and the air smelled of body spray and fried food.
> “This is it,” Aisha said proudly. “It’s not big, but it’s mine.”
Amina smiled politely. “Thank you for letting me stay.”
“Don’t worry,” Aisha said. “Just make yourself useful. I don’t like dirt.”
Amina nodded. She unpacked quietly and placed her mother’s garri on the corner table, the only reminder of home.
---
Days turned into weeks.
Amina attended lectures, washed her clothes by hand, and often went to bed hungry.
She had no allowance, no foodstuffs, no new clothes. She survived on little.
Aisha, on the other hand, always seemed to have enough — new dresses, perfumes, even money to order food.
At first, Amina didn’t ask questions. But sometimes, she noticed how Aisha went out at night and returned early in the morning with tired eyes and a new hairstyle the next day.
Amina kept her distance.
She washed Aisha’s dishes, swept the room, and cooked whenever she could.
Aisha treated her kindly sometimes, but other times, like a burden.
> “Ah, Amina, you don’t do anything fast!” she’d complain. “Can’t you see I’m tired? At least wash the plates before I come back.”
Amina said nothing. She only whispered in her heart:
> “One day, I’ll have my own place.”
---
Her mother called once in a while, her voice weaker each time.
> “Amina, are you eating well?” she’d ask.
“Yes, Mama,” Amina would lie. “Aisha takes care of me.”
But her mother seemed to know the truth.
> “You’ll be fine,” she’d whisper. “Just keep your mind clean, no matter what the city shows you.”
Each time Amina ended the call, she’d sit on the bed, staring at her hands — rough from washing, dry from stress — and wonder if her mother would live long enough to see her graduate.
---
As the semester went on, Amina’s hunger grew sharper, but so did her resolve.
She refused to follow Aisha’s path.
Sometimes, when Aisha dressed up to go out at night, Amina would stay behind, reading under the weak bulb, her stomach empty but her heart burning with determination.
She didn’t have luxury, but she had purpose.
And even though Aisha’s laughter sometimes filled the room with stories of rich men and soft life, Amina kept reminding herself:
> “I didn’t come here for that. I came to change my story.”
To be continued.....
WRITTEN BY UMORU DANIELA JOHN
