Jake

At nine years old, I learned to hide food under my mattress because I never knew when I would eat again. The worst part was that the woman denying me food was my own aunt, and my mother believed I was living like a prince in her house. My name is Samuel. When I was eight, my mother travelled to another state to work as a nurse. She couldn't take me along, so she left me with her older sister, Auntie Rose. She promised to send money every month for my feeding, school fees and other needs. Before leaving, she knelt in front of me and held my shoulders. "Please behave yourself. Auntie will take care of you until I come back." I hugged her and cried. I had no idea how much I would miss her. For the first few weeks, everything seemed normal. Then my aunt started treating me differently. Her two children had breakfast before school. I had to wash the plates first. They watched television after school. I had to help in her provisions shop. They received new school uniforms. I continued wearing the ones my mother had bought before travelling. Whenever I asked for something, my aunt reminded me that I was not her biological child. "You should be grateful I agreed to keep you." My mother called every Sunday. Whenever she asked how I was doing, I said I was fine. My aunt always stood nearby during those calls. If I complained, she would collect the phone and tell my mother I was becoming stubborn. At school, things became worse. I was regularly sent home because my fees had not been paid. My mother was sending money, but somehow, the money never reached the school. One afternoon, my teacher called me aside. "Samuel, why haven't you brought your fees?" I told her I didn't know. She looked at me for a moment. "Does your mother know?" I shook my head. That evening, I asked my aunt about the money. She slapped me. "Are you now questioning how I spend my own money?" I never asked again. But there was something I started noticing. Whenever my mother called, my aunt would tell her that I was becoming expensive to maintain. And one Sunday, I overheard her telling someone on the phone: "Let that woman keep sending money. The boy is eating in my house, isn't he?" I stood behind the door, holding my schoolbag. Then I heard her say something that frightened me. "Very soon, I will make sure he doesn't go back to that school." – at Ikeja, Nigeria