“And Amaka?”
“She is still sleeping.”
His jaw tightened.
“Give me the basin.”
“No, Papa.”
“Give it to me.”
She obeyed.
Obinna carried the basin himself and filled it. Adaeze watched him with a strange expression.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.
“Because no one usually helps me.”
The words pierced him.
When they returned, Chiniere saw him carrying the basin.
“You did not need to do that,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Adaeze is used to it.”
Adaeze is used to it.
As if habit made cruelty acceptable.
All morning, Obinna observed. Adaeze swept, washed dishes, peeled vegetables, fed chickens, and washed the family’s clothes. No one helped her.
Around noon, he asked, “Where are Adaeze’s schoolbooks?”
A strange silence fell.
Chiniere slowly put down her spoon.
“She no longer goes to school.”
Obinna’s stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“She stopped two years ago.”
“Two years?”
“She had poor results,” Chiniere said. “And we had to make choices. We could not pay for everyone.”
“I sent money.”
“Not enough. Do you think life is easy here?”
Obinna held back his anger.
He called Adaeze.
“Do you want to go back to school?”
She clasped her hands nervously.
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Did you like school before?”
A faint smile crossed her face.
“Yes.”
“Then why did you stop?”
She glanced at Chiniere.
That glance told Obinna everything.
“Answer me,” he said gently.
“Aunt Chiniere said I had to help at home. Uche had to go to secondary school. Amaka too.”
“And you?”
She shrugged.
“For me, it did not matter.”
Obinna walked outside to hide his anger.
That afternoon, neighbors came to greet him. They smiled and asked about Gabon. But every time Adaeze passed with a basin or tray, he saw discomfort in their eyes.
An old neighbor named Mama Sade stopped and watched Adaeze crossing the yard with wet clothes.
Then she looked at Obinna.
“You came back at the right time,” she said softly.
The next morning, Obinna went to Mama Sade’s house.
“I want to understand what happened,” he said.
The old woman was silent for a moment.
“When you first left, Adaeze still went to school. She laughed sometimes. She played. But after a year, Chiniere began giving her more work. First small things. Fetching water. Washing plates. Feeding chickens. Then it became the whole house.”
“And no one told me?”
“People thought you would come back soon.”
He closed his eyes.
But he had not come back soon.
“She stopped school because Chiniere said there was no money,” Mama Sade continued. “But Uche and Amaka had new uniforms, books, and private school fees. Everyone knew you were sending money.”
“Where did it go?”
Mama Sade lowered her voice.
“Private school. A new television. Roof repairs. A motorcycle for Emeka.”
Every word struck him like a blow.
While he slept in his truck and skipped meals to save money, they had used his money for themselves.
And Adaeze slept near the kitchen.
“Your daughter never spoke badly of them,” Mama Sade said. “Even when she cried, she said, ‘My father works far away. I do not want to give him more worries.’”
Something inside Obinna broke.
Mama Sade touched his arm.
“Do not let anger speak before your heart. If you want to save her, first she must believe she can still have another life.”
When he returned, Adaeze was washing clothes under the sun. Uche sat under the mango tree laughing. Amaka tried on new shoes inside.
Obinna crossed the yard and took the cloth from Adaeze’s hands.
“Enough.”
Uche frowned.
“What?”
“I said enough.”
Uche shrugged.
“She is the one who washes clothes.”
“Why?” Obinna asked. “Why is it never you? Why is it never Amaka?”
“Because she has always done it.”
Always.
As if time could make injustice normal.
Chiniere came out.
“What is happening?”
“What is happening,” Obinna said, “is that my daughter works while everyone else lives comfortably.”
“Do not start,” Chiniere snapped
