Pain had become normal to me. Hunger had become normal too.
But sickness was different.
Sickness made suffering slower.
I remember the morning it started. My body felt heavy, like someone had placed stones inside my chest. My head burned, but my hands were cold. When I tried to stand, the world spun around me.
Still, chores did not wait for sickness.
"Aunty… I don't feel well," I whispered.
Aunt Ezinne didn't even turn to look at me.
"Nobody asked you to feel well. Sweep the compound."
I picked up the broom. My hands shook so badly the broom kept falling. After a few minutes, my legs gave way, and I collapsed on the dusty ground.
Her children laughed from the veranda.
"See him! Lazy boy!"
She walked over and kicked my leg lightly.
"Stand up. Stop pretending."
But I couldn't stand.
My body refused.
That was when she realized something was wrong—not because she cared, but because I could no longer work.
She poured cold water on my head.
The shock made me gasp.
"If you can faint, you can wake up," she said.
The fever stayed.
All day, I lay on the floor inside the kitchen. No mat. No blanket. Just the hard cement pressing against my bones. The smell of pepper soup cooking filled the air, making my empty stomach twist painfully.
She did not give me medicine.
She did not give me food.
Only water—once.
By evening, my body was shaking uncontrollably. I remember calling for my mother without realizing it.
"Mama… Mama…"
My voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else.
That night felt endless.
Mosquitoes sang around my ears. My body burned like fire, yet I shivered like I was inside ice. I pressed my face to the floor, trying to cool the heat inside me.
At some point, I stopped crying.
I didn't have the strength.
The next morning, Mama Nkechi came again.
She saw me through the open kitchen door and gasped.
"This child is very sick!"
She rushed inside without permission and touched my forehead.
"He is burning!"
Aunt Ezinne clicked her tongue.
"It's just malaria. He will be fine."
Mama Nkechi left and returned with tablets and pap.
She knelt beside me and lifted my head gently.
"Drink this, nwam. Slowly."
The pap was warm. My body almost rejected it at first, but then hunger took over. I swallowed carefully, each sip giving me a little strength.
Aunt Ezinne watched silently.
Her face showed no gratitude.
Only annoyance.
"Don't spoil him," she said.
Mama Nkechi ignored her.
She stayed until I took the medicine.
That small kindness saved me.
For three days, I could not work properly. Each time I moved slowly, Aunt Ezinne insulted me.
"Useless boy."
"Burden."
"Bad luck."
But something changed inside me during that sickness.
When you come close to losing everything—even as a child—you begin to see life differently.
I realized something important while lying on that kitchen floor:
If I stayed in that house forever, I might not survive.
Not because of one big moment—
but because of many small ones.
The hunger.
The beatings.
The loneliness.
The sickness.
They were slowly finishing me.
One evening, as I sat outside watching other children play football in the street, I placed my hand on my chest and felt my heartbeat.
Slow. Weak. But still there.
For the first time, a thought entered my mind.
A dangerous thought.
Maybe one day… I will leave this place.
That thought scared me.
But it also warmed me in a strange way.
Because even a suffering child can still carry hope—
quiet, fragile, and hidden deep inside.
That was Chapter Thirteen.
The chapter where sickness almost took me… but hope refused to die.