-BROKEN NEST ---Ep _4
By Tiana
I would rather die than forgive my father.
For the wounds he left on my body.
For the cracks he placed in my mind.
For the silence he forced into my throat whenever I wanted to scream.
For everything he did to me and my brothers—for robbing us of a childhood.
I don't care if he dies. He deserves it. He deserves every bit of pain, every curse that comes with the life he lived.
But my mind wasn't on him at that moment.
It was on that beast of a man who had forced himself on me—the one I stupidly trusted, the one who pretended to care. I wanted revenge, and I wanted it swift.
That night, I called him. My voice was calm, sweet even.
"I'm coming over," I told him. "This time, I'll satisfy you the way you want."
He laughed, all cocky and smug. "I knew it," he said. "I knew you'd come around after that one round."
I sneered silently, fists clenched. If only he knew tonight would be his last. If only he knew he had just confirmed his own execution.
I dressed quietly and was just about to leave the hostel when one of my roommates bumped into me in the hallway. Her sharp elbow hit my ribs, and her foot stepped on mine.
"Are you mad? Can't you see?" I yelled, venom in my voice. "You hopeless thing!"
She flared. "Can't you see as well? You oversized bull!"
That word—bull—echoed and settled in my head like thunder. My eyes blacked out. Before I could think, my hand slapped her face with such force that her body spun and hit the floor.
She staggered, tried to fight back, but I shoved her again with one hand—hard. Her back hit the wall, then the floor, like a deflated sack. Someone had gone to alert the hostel wardens.
The next morning, after a quick hearing, I was blamed. Of course, I was. Even when people provoke you, it's always the stronger one who gets punished.
My hostel bed was seized. They said it was "disciplinary action." What nonsense. Let them have it. I'd buy another. Their silly punishment was the least of my concerns.
As soon as the coast was clear, I left. My mission for the night was still on course.
On the road, at a bus stop not far from school, I bumped into a petite woman—books scattered from her arms. Tired, angry, and overwhelmed, I snapped again.
"Can't you see?!"
But instead of reacting like others would, the woman gave me a soft smile and whispered, "I'm sorry."
I walked off without saying a word, not even looking back. But the calmness in her voice—it was strange. It felt like water on fire.
Still, I didn't have time to dwell on it. I was heading to that monster's house to finish what he started. But when I got close, my phone rang.
"I've waited long enough," he said. "You're clearly not coming, so I went out with some friends."
I stood frozen, staring at the phone like it had betrayed me. The rage that surged in me was almost volcanic. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something.
So this fool wasted my entire evening? I had prepared emotionally for this. I had buried my fear and guilt. And now, nothing?
The street was quiet. The night was heavy. I realized I had nowhere to go. The hostel would be locked by now. And I didn't have any friends in this city. Not real ones.
So, I thought of my brother Sam.
He stayed in a rough boys' lodge—shared space, tiny mattress, noisy fans, little privacy. I hated going there. I hated being vulnerable. But I had no choice.
I turned to leave the street and—
There she was again.
The same petite woman from earlier.
She looked up at me and smiled. That same calm, unsettling, healing smile.
She stepped closer and said gently, "We bump into each other again. I don't believe in coincidence. My name is Jane Bassey."
She extended her hand toward me. Her palm was soft, warm. Something about her made me pause. I took her hand—not because I wanted to, but because I couldn't resist.
That was the beginning of everything.
Jane was a doctor. Married with two beautiful children. Gentle, intelligent, polished. She dressed smartly—not like the Christians I was used to. She was beautiful, radiant even. Sharp. Classy.
Yet she was a Christian?
Impossible.
But she followed up. She found me the next week and asked how I was doing. She offered small gifts—a pen, a note, once even a lunch box. She'd say, "You crossed my mind," or "I saw this and thought of you."
I avoided her at first. Ignored her. But she didn't stop.
She didn't push, but she was always present. Dropping tiny pieces of light in my dark places.
Three weeks later, I broke.
I cried like a child in front of her. Told her everything. The pain. The betrayal. The rage. The shame. The hatred. My father. The beatings. My virginity. The man. The manipulation. The fear.
And she listened—every single word. She didn't interrupt or judge. She just listened.
And then she prayed.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't long. She simply held my hand and said, "Lord, heal your daughter."
Then she looked at me and said, "Now, go and see your father."
My entire body went cold.
"What?" I stood up abruptly. "Did you not hear a thing I just told you? That man nearly destroyed us. He doesn't deserve my pity. I would rather die than forgive Colonel Bassey!"
She didn't argue. She didn't try to convince me. She just said softly, "Peace comes when we release the weight we carry."
I left.
I returned to school and found my results: a few carryovers. Two missing scripts. I didn't even feel bad. That's life. I'll fix it later.
But I had no peace. I kept seeing Jane's eyes. That gentle command ringing in my head like a bell: Go and see your father.
Weeks passed. I finally gave in.
Not for him—but for me.
I went to the hospital. Walked in like a warrior. My back was straight. My face was blank.
And there he was—Colonel Bassey. That beast of a man, now frail and helpless. His stomach was swollen, his skin pale. He looked like death had been calling him by name for months.
The nurse said it was liver failure and kidney inflammation. Terminal.
When he saw me, his eyes filled with tears. Real ones. But I didn't flinch. I folded my arms and looked him dead in the eye.
He said, "Thank you for coming, Nana."
I didn't respond. My silence was my weapon.
He told me his story. How his father died when he was just four. How his mother left him barely a teenager. How the military gave him armor but not healing. How he became the monster he once feared.
I didn't care.
I had heard enough stories. Nothing justified what he did to us.
Then he said what boiled my blood.
"Please forgive me... so I can die in peace, my Nana."
I laughed bitterly. "You? Peace? You don't deserve peace! You deserve every bit of hell you created for others!"
He began to cry again. "Please…"
I turned to the door. His voice followed me.
"Nana… give me peace."
I paused.
For a moment, I saw him—just a broken old man, drowning in regret. But then I remembered everything. And the hate returned like a wave.
I looked back at him and said, "Die with your sins."
And I walked out.
But as the door shut behind me, the weight on my chest grew heavier than ever before.
To be continued…
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