Part 1 – The early morning sun cast golden rays over the hills of Nsukka, painting the red earth with warmth. Birds sang in the mango trees, children’s laughter echoed from nearby compounds, and life seemed bright for everyone—except for Amara. Her name meant grace, but her life was far from graceful. When Amara was just eight, tragedy struck like a storm. Her mother, Nneka, a woman known for her gentle spirit and melodious laughter, passed away after a sudden illness. The once joyful compound of Chief Obidike fell into silence. The little girl, clinging to her mother’s wrapper, felt her world crumble. Her father, a respected palm oil merchant, did not remain single for long. People whispered that he remarried too quickly, but Chief Obidike insisted it was for Amara’s sake—that a child needed a woman’s hand to guide her. And so, Ngozi entered their lives. At first, her beauty fooled everyone. She carried herself like royalty, with skin smooth as velvet and a voice as sweet as honey when guests were around. But the moment the compound gates closed, Ngozi’s smile hardened into something cruel. One night, as Amara sat in the corner of the kitchen, clutching her mother’s old wrapper, Ngozi leaned close, her eyes glinting like a snake’s. “Listen to me, little girl,” she whispered, her voice sharp as a blade. “In this house, you are nothing but a servant. Do not think your father’s love will save you.” From that day, Amara’s life became a burden she carried alone. --- Every dawn, before the cocks crowed, Ngozi’s voice rang out: “Amara! Wake up and fetch water before the sun rises!” Barefoot, Amara would walk the long, dusty path to the stream, balancing a clay pot almost bigger than herself. By the time she returned, her shoulders ached and her arms trembled. Yet there was no rest. She would gather firewood, wash the soot-stained pots, and pound yam until her palms blistered. While Chika and Ifunanya, Ngozi’s children, ate warm rice with thick stew, Amara was given watery soup with no meat. If she dared complain, Ngozi’s eyes would flash with fury. “Ungrateful girl!” she would shout. “You should thank me for feeding you at all.” The neighbors noticed. Sometimes, Mama Ebele, the kind old woman from the next compound, would sneak Amara meat pies after Sunday service. “My child,” she would whisper, pressing the warm parcel into Amara’s hands, “you must eat. God sees your tears.” But Amara had learned to hide her pain. She forced smiles, even when her heart ached. --- Her father never truly saw what was happening. When Amara tried once to tell him, tears streaming down her cheeks, he frowned and waved her off. “Amara, stop exaggerating. Ngozi is your mother now. Respect her. I will not hear this stubbornness again.” Those words cut deeper than a knife. After that, Amara spoke no more of her suffering. She swallowed her pain like bitter medicine and carried on in silence. Years rolled by, and the little girl grew into a young woman. Despite her hardships, she blossomed with a beauty that shone even through old clothes and weary eyes. Her skin was smooth like polished bronze, her eyes deep pools of quiet strength. Even the market women would sometimes pause and say, “Eh, this girl will break hearts one day.” But beauty only fueled Ngozi’s hatred. She feared that suitors would come for Amara instead of her daughter Ifunanya. So she denied her fine clothes, kept her busy with endless chores, and made sure she never looked presentable. One evening, as Amara folded laundry by the firelight, Ngozi hissed, “If any rich man enters this compound, it is my daughter he will see—not you. You, Amara, will remain nothing.” Amara said nothing. But deep inside, a small flame of hope refused to die. She believed—somehow, someday—life would change.