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Shadow before sunrise

Shadow before sunrise

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5 Chapters
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Ezinne never planned to become invisible - until the night her mother vanished without a trace. In a small village outside Enugu, young Ezinne's world collapses when her mother disappears, and her father's silence turns violent. Left to survive in a home swallowed by grief and fear, Ezinne finds an unexpected refuge in books and storytelling - a secret world where she can speak, dream, and be heard. When a school writing contest offers her a small taste of recognition, it comes at a dangerous cost. Betrayed by the very man who should protect her, Ezinne makes a bold and terrifying decision: she runs away. In the sprawling chaos of Lagos, hungry and alone, Ezinne must learn to navigate a city that doesn't care who she is or what she's lost. But fate is watching. An unexpected encounter with a women's empowerment advocate gives her a second chance - and soon, her words start opening doors she never imagined. But shadows still haunt her - memories of home, the promise she made to her sister, and the unanswered question of what really happened to her mother. To truly rise, Ezinne must find the courage to face the past, own her voice, and become the woman she was always meant to be.

Contents

Chapter 1 The breaking silence

There's a kind of silence that doesn't beg to be noticed - it forces itself into your life and sits there like an uninvited guest. It fills the space between words, seeps into footsteps, and drowns out laughter. That was the silence that entered our home the day my mother disappeared.

I was nine years old, and the sky that morning looked like it hadn't decided whether to rain or shine. In Ajio, our small village outside Enugu, days often began with uncertainty - would there be light? Would water run? Would Baba come home sober?

The night before, Mama had braided my hair under the flickering glow of our kerosene lantern. Her fingers worked fast, her voice low as she hummed one of those Igbo lullabies that always made my sister Chika cry. I had begged her to tell me the story again - the one about the river spirit who stole a baby and raised her into a queen. She'd laughed, clicked her tongue, and said, "Ezinne, stories are for children who sleep on time." Then she kissed my forehead. That was the last time.

When I woke up, Mama's wrapper was still hanging on the hook behind the door. The cooking pot was untouched. The water in the clay pot hadn't been fetched. I waited for her footsteps, her voice, her humming - nothing came.

Baba arrived hours later, his shirt stained with palm wine, his eyes red. He didn't ask for her. He didn't seem to notice she was gone. He slumped onto the raffia mat and fell asleep, snoring like a broken generator.

By evening, the neighbors had started whispering. They always whispered first, before saying anything out loud. I overheard the woman from the next compound talking to Chika: "I heard there was trouble near the river last night. Police found a woman..." I didn't hear the rest. Chika's eyes had widened. Mine were already wet.

They never found Mama's body - at least, not one anyone identified as hers. No announcement, no burial, just her scent slowly fading from her wrapper, her shoes left untouched, her name never spoken again in that house. Baba forbade it. He silenced it like he silenced everything else - with his fists, his rage, his bitterness at the world.

Grief in our house had no space. It was as if we were expected to forget. But forgetting was impossible when every corner of the house reminded me of her - the way she folded laundry, the way she stirred her soup, even the way she tucked her Bible under the mattress like it was gold.

I used to dream of her return. In one dream, she came back, barefoot, soaked in river water, but smiling. She hugged me and said, "I couldn't stay gone. I had to see who you would become." I'd wake up clutching my chest, aching with hope.

But life does not wait for girls to dream.

Without Mama, everything changed. Baba drank more. Chika, though just twelve, took over the chores. I stopped speaking much at home. I stopped smiling. School became my only refuge.

Our school wasn't much - three classrooms, peeling walls, desks scarred with initials and secrets. But it had books. And those books were windows. In Eze Goes to School, I saw a boy fight to learn. In The Joys of Motherhood, I found women struggling to survive. I read stories about queens and rebels, girls who spoke and were heard. I wanted to be one of them.

I began to write.

At first, it was just sentences in the back of my math notebook. Then full pages. I wrote about a girl who found a talking mirror that showed her the future. I wrote about a boy who could hear the thoughts of animals. But one day, I wrote a story about a girl whose mother vanished by the river - and the dam in my chest cracked open.

My English teacher, Miss Remi, found the story. I was terrified when she asked me to stay behind. But she didn't scold me. She read the whole thing, then looked at me with something I hadn't seen in a long time - kindness.

"You have a voice," she said. "Don't ever let it be silenced again."

That was the moment I began to believe I might have something worth saying - something worth writing.

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