with early heat and the scent of wet dust. I had no idea how far Agege was

y legs ached. My sandals wore thin. I ignored the okadas that hissed past me like insults.

e centre jus

he House of Voices: A Home for Healing and Hope. My throat tightened. Healing? Hope? I wasn'

as I entered. She had tight braids and wor

see Ifeoma,"

using at my worn clothes, then nodde

ooden bench next to a girl about my age, her feet swinging nerv

me?" she

odd

ey call me chatterbox he

ntly. I like

e looked different in a plain blue blouse, but he

me," sh

inside m

I whispered.

n she smiled. "Then you're str

s and a shelf filled with books. Real books - Toni M

ting across from me. "Where you came from.

m fell

ng contest and the envelope under the mattress. I told her about sle

without inter

, she asked, "W

p," I said. "And

tched. "And

aus

proud of," I said. "To write st

lk in here carrying more weight than food. But you

, I was gi

. A thin mattress. Sheets

- about how she'd run away from a forced marriage at fifteen, how she wante

laughed. "But better

out my past. She just welcomed me like I bel

ays, I learned the

sses - sewing, computer basics, business training. Ifeo

when we had expression sessions. Girls

wr

ken girls who stitched themselves back together. I wrote about Mama, though I never named her.

, I rea

me to. I stood, shaking, my f

e room was quiet. N

pped. Then anoth

back, nodding. Her

voice, Ezinne," she

ted. I was no longer the girl by t

by