NB: Currently, Nigeria's railway system is mostly internal — it links Nigerian cities and regions, but it doesn't really cross international borders in any practical, operational way right now. So, I'll use Ghana.
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I began to shed tears. Hunger was back—and fear too. My legs dragged as I walked deeper into this new land. Passersby gave me strange looks, their eyes full of suspicion. I was in a new country, surrounded by new people and a new culture. GHANA.
Honestly, I didn't even know where I was going. I just kept moving. The longer I walked, the more distressed I became. The streets seemed dangerous—towering buildings lined both sides like silent giants, throwing shadows that made the street feel darker than Lagos on a power outage night. The silence was loud. Rarely did I see a soul.
I decided to turn back. But as soon as I spun around, a group of rough-looking boys surrounded me. Gangs. Their hungry eyes scanned me like I was prey. I ignored them, tried to keep walking, but one of them grabbed my collar and landed a deafening slap across my face.
"Man! That hurts!" I yelled, clutching my cheek.
Another punch met my nose. Pain shot through my skull.
"Ouch! I'm sorry! What do you want?" I begged, my voice shaky, blood already dripping down my face.
"Everything!" their leader barked. "Boys, search 'im!"
They ripped open my luggage, ransacking it without mercy. My heart sank as they snatched Pa's things, my wallet with pictures of Titi and Emeka, and even my wristwatch—the one luxury I had left. Before leaving, one of them smashed a fist against my lips, splitting them open.
I collapsed to the ground, bloodied and humiliated. That was karma, I thought. Payback for all the things I'd stolen in the past, for all the times I'd taken Pa's belongings. Unfortunate me.
I gathered what was left of my scattered things and stumbled away, shame burning in my chest. My destination felt endless. I regretted everything—leaving home, dreaming of riches in a foreign land. I had been foolish.
Eventually, I found myself wandering around Bolgatanga. Hunger clawed at my stomach. My feet ached. I was about to give up when I noticed a bungalow, its entrance flanked by lush gardens. For some reason, it pulled me closer.
I walked to the door, lifted my hand to knock… then froze. What if they thought I was a burglar? Just as I turned to leave, a middle-aged woman appeared in the garden, her sharp eyes fixed on me.
My breath hitched.
"Yes, ma'am," I stuttered.
"Be afraid not. Come!" she said gently, motioning me forward.
I hesitated, but her calm voice disarmed me. Slowly, nervously, I followed her toward the house.
"Inside," she ordered as she opened the door.
I stepped into a lavishly furnished living room, stunned by its beauty. Richly decorated, cozy yet commanding. She studied me, head to toe, with a smile that felt both kind and curious.
"Your name?" she asked.
"Err… Adejoke."
"Complete name, please," she pressed, her voice firm.
"Sorry. Ade Chiemelie Francis Onuigbo," I muttered, uncomfortable. Too much info spilling out of me.
"Follow me," she said, leading me upstairs into another sitting room. She sank heavily onto a sofa, her laughter spilling out and shaking her chest like an earthquake.
"You're from Nigeria?"
"Yeah. Igbo and Yoruba," I said, easing a little.
"Ok. My name is Maya Amma Kowei," she introduced.
I clutched my luggage tightly, ready to leave.
"Come on, boy. This is my house. You can live with us for now—you look lost." She placed a warm hand on mine. "And these wounds… what happened?"
"I was beaten by some boys in the street," I answered, half-lying, half-truth.
"Don't call me ma'am. Call me Maya. Or better—call me Mother." She patted my shoulder.
Something in me softened. Soon, she brought me food and drink.
"You must be hungry, son. Eat up."
I devoured the food like a starving animal, hardly pausing to breathe. She smiled, collected the plates, and disappeared into the kitchen.
"How many kids do you have, Ma?" I asked when she returned.
"Three. Two girls and a boy."
"Where are they?"
"My first daughter will be back today—she went to Nigeria to visit her sister. My son's in school."
I nodded.
"How old are you, son?"
"Seventeen, going eighteen."
"Oh! Same age as my twins."
"You have twins?" My eyes widened.
"Yes. The two girls."
"Are they identical?"
"No," she chuckled.
"Then why call one first and the other second?"
"Because one came out of my womb before the other," she explained.
"Ohhh," I exclaimed, genuinely fascinated.
I was beginning to like Maya. She was warm, kind—nothing like my Ma back home, who only gave me abuse and tears.
"Would you take your bath? Because, honestly, you stink already!" She laughed heartily.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Yeah… sure."
She showed me the bathroom. I whistled, sang, even talked to myself while bathing, just to let her know I was occupied. Finished, I wrapped my towel around my waist and slung my sponge over my neck.
Then, jerking the door open—
I froze.
Standing there was her.
The same girl from the train. The one whose piercing stare had almost killed me. The one I'd given attitude to.
My chest tightened. Instinctively, I pressed the sponge against my bare chest, suddenly self-conscious.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Attitude?" she sneered.
"Err… I… well—why do you want to know? What are you doing here, huh?" I fired back, flustered.
"Mom! Mom! Mom!" she shouted, eyes wide with disbelief.
"What's he doing here?" she demanded.
Maya appeared quickly. "Son, this is my first daughter, Eva. Eva, this is Adejoke. He's from Nigeria—he got lost, so I took him in."
I forced a smile. "Nice to meet you."
"You too," she said curtly.
"Eva, would you mind showing him to the empty room?" Maya asked with a smile.
I felt at home already, a comfort I hadn't felt in years.
"This bandage will stink when it's wet," Eva remarked as we walked.
"Yeah, I'll take it off soon."
"This is your room," she said, opening the door.
"Ok. I'll get your bag," she added, disappearing briefly.
The room was huge—standing fan near the bed, a full-length mirror, and a wardrobe painted a deep blue. My lips curved into a smile.
Eva returned, dropping my bag on the floor. "Here, Mr. Arrogant."
"Thanks," I said softly.
After she left, I dried myself, applied some essential oil Ma had given me back in Nigeria, and slipped into my clothes. Sitting before the mirror, I finally breathed.
Maybe Ghana wasn't going to be so bad after all.
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