‘Kpa, Kpa, Kpa..,’ Aunty Egondu’s blows rained on me, like the punches of a crazed man. I had broken the lantern glass globe again. Hell was let loose. The maid had offended the gods again!

With this daily dose of beating, my body should have thickened to her blows, adjusted to the melody of her rage. But trust Aunty Egondu to invent new ways of destroying my odeshi. She would apply raw pepper on the cane, borrow koboko from our gateman or even use the little wooden kitchen stool on me: anything to appease her thunderous rage. That was the plight of the maid in her hand.

I was only 12years. A victim of circumstances. My father may not have been lucky in wealth creation, but he was well blessed in procreation. We were 11 in our family, our parents and 9 of us.
Mother, however hardworking, she may be, her hoe could not produce enough food to feed our mouths. Therefore, some of us had to be sent off to distant lands, like seeds scattered in the field. I was among the unlucky few.

So, when my honey-tongued Aunty Egondu came, all her juicy and colorful stories of Calabar could not lift my fallen spirit. My premonition was hardly ever wrong. This woman would skin me alive.

Four years in her home and I was exposed to a world of absolute cruelty. I would lay awake all night, catering for her new-born twins, while she slept blissfully. I would rise still, at the break of dawn to grind the beans for bean balls, which she calls Okara.
I would cook, clean and still bear the burden of her rage. My spine was breaking.

Life was unbearable. I sought death. I sought freedom. I sought peace.
I endured and endured, until I broke every possible limits of endurance.
No longer will I be enslaved. No longer will I be abused.
Tonight, I shall run away. Tonight, the maid shall be free….

To be continued…..

With Love!