Her Name Was Imade
When people in the small town of Ekpoma talk about pain, they mention one name — Imade.
She was just eight years old when her life changed forever.
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Imade was a small, bright-eyed girl who loved drawing flowers on the sand. She would carefully sketch each petal with a stick, imagining that her drawings could bloom into real life. Her laughter was the kind that made neighbors smile, even on hard days.
Her mother, Mama Joy, was a widow who sold vegetables by the roadside. She worked from dawn till dusk just to keep food on the table. Often, when she returned home, her feet were sore, her back aching, but she would still sit with Imade, comb her hair, and listen to her talk about school, friends, or the flowers she had drawn that day.
Mama Joy knew life was hard. She had already buried her husband and now carried the weight of both roles — mother and father — alone. She did everything she could to shield her daughter from the harshness of their world.
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When the struggle became too heavy, a distant relative named Uncle Matthew offered to take Imade to live with him in Benin City. He promised to enroll her in a good school and take care of her "like his own daughter."
Mama Joy hesitated. She had heard rumors about people who took children under the guise of kindness, but poverty has a way of forcing impossible choices. She believed him — trusted that family would not harm family.
So one Monday morning, with tears in her eyes and a small nylon bag of clothes, Imade left home. She hugged her mother tightly, whispering, "I will be good, Mummy. I will write every week."
Mama Joy nodded, forcing a smile, even though her heart felt like it had been split in two.
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At first, things seemed fine. Uncle Matthew's house was big, with tiles that reflected sunlight and electricity that never went off. Imade was amazed by everything. He bought her a new school uniform, notebooks, and even slippers with pink flowers. For a moment, she felt hope — that maybe this change could be a blessing.
She wrote her mother letters every week, telling her she was happy, that school was fun, that she had made friends. Mama Joy treasured each letter, reading them over and over, imagining Imade smiling in her new home.
But gradually, the letters stopped coming. Weeks went by without a single word. Mama Joy called, wrote letters, even asked neighbors in Benin City to check on her daughter, but Uncle Matthew always had an excuse.
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No one in the neighborhood knew what happened inside that house. From the outside, everything looked normal — a hardworking man, a quiet little girl. But behind the closed doors, something evil lived.
Imade began to change. She became quiet, fearful. The once lively girl now walked with her eyes fixed on the floor. Sometimes, neighbors saw her limping slightly. When they asked, she would smile weakly and say, "I fell down."
But children don't fall down every week. And those who do not cry out for help are often suffering in silence.
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Years passed. Mama Joy tried visiting, but Uncle Matthew always found excuses — "She's busy with school," "She went to lessons," "She's sleeping." He sent some money once in a while, enough to convince Mama Joy that her daughter was safe.
She told herself, "At least she's in school." She convinced herself, even as nights were long and empty.
She didn't know that her daughter cried herself to sleep most nights, praying to be rescued. She didn't know that her daughter's small heart carried a weight no child should bear.
By the time Imade turned twelve, the light in her eyes was gone. She was no longer a child — not because she had grown up, but because something had been taken from her that could never be returned.
Her health began to fail. She would bleed sometimes, faint during chores, and cry from pain she couldn't explain. But Uncle Matthew warned her never to speak. "If you tell anyone," he said, "no one will believe you. They'll say you're a bad girl." And she believed him.
Fear became her shadow. It followed her to school, to church, to the quiet corners of her own mind. It whispered that no one could help her, that no one would ever care.
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At school, teachers noticed the changes. Imade, once bright and curious, now avoided friends and walked slowly, as if carrying invisible chains. She no longer joined games or raised her hand in class. Some of the older girls whispered about her, calling her strange. Imade stayed silent. Silence had become her defense, her shield.
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One day, she collapsed at school. The teacher rushed her to the clinic. The nurses were shocked by what they discovered — injuries, infections, signs of repeated trauma no child should ever face.
They called the police. They called Mama Joy.
When Mama Joy arrived at the hospital and saw her daughter lying weak on the bed, tubes attached to her, she fell to the floor and wailed. "My pikin! Who did you do this thing?"
But Imade was too weak to answer. She just stared at the ceiling, tears rolling down her face. That night, the doctors tried to stabilize her. The damage had been too deep, too long ignored. Uncle Matthew was arrested, but no punishment could undo what he had done.
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For the next year, Imade lived in and out of the hospital. Her body was frail, but her heart still longed for peace. She had moments of laughter when a nurse played a silly game, or when her mother combed her hair gently. But the nights were the hardest. She would whisper, "Mummy, do you think God still loves me?"
Mama Joy would hold her close, crying silently. "Yes, my baby. God loves you. He never stopped."
But deep down, she knew her daughter was slipping away.
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On a quiet Sunday morning, the nurses noticed that Imade was unusually still. Her breathing was shallow, her tiny fingers cold.
Mama Joy rushed to her side, whispering, "Imade, my sunshine, stay with me."
But Imade only smiled faintly and said, "Mummy, I'm tired."
Then she closed her eyes — and didn't wake up again.
She was thirteen.
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The hospital ward was silent that morning. Even the nurses who had seen countless tragedies wept. The news spread quickly through the community. People gathered outside Mama Joy's house, whispering prayers, some in anger, some in guilt.
Everyone had an opinion — "Why didn't the mother check earlier?" "Why did she send her child away?" "How could a man do such a thing?"
But their questions came too late.
Imade's small coffin was carried by men who couldn't stop shaking their heads. The pastor spoke of heaven, of angels, of forgiveness. But Mama Joy couldn't hear him. She just stared at the coffin, her eyes empty.
"How can I forgive what the world allowed?" she whispered.
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After the burial, Mama Joy stopped talking for weeks. The vegetable table at the roadside remained empty. The house was quiet — too quiet.
She spent her days going through Imade's things, remembering her small hands, her drawings, her laughter. One day, she gathered the few clothes Imade had left at the hospital and placed them in a small box. On top, she placed a drawing her daughter had made at age seven — flowers with smiling faces and a sun in the corner.
She whispered, "You'll always be my sunshine, even in the dark."
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Months later, something unexpected happened. The story of Imade began to spread. A journalist wrote an article titled "The Child We Failed." It went viral across Nigeria. People started talking — about child abuse, about trust, about silence.
A local NGO reached out to Mama Joy, offering support and counseling. With time, she began to speak again — this time not just for her daughter, but for every child who couldn't.
She started visiting schools and churches, telling Imade's story with tears in her eyes and strength in her voice. "Protect your children," she would say. "Don't send them away with anyone. Don't trust silence."
Her pain became her purpose.
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One year later, on what would have been Imade's fourteenth birthday, Mama Joy organized a small gathering at the primary school where her daughter once studied. They planted flowers and named the garden "Imade's Corner."
Every year since, children have gathered there to sing, draw, and talk about their dreams — things Imade never got to do.
Mama Joy sits among them, smiling sadly, watching as laughter fills the air again. She often says, "Maybe my child's life was short, but her story will live long enough to save others."
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The years have passed, but people still remember her. Some remember the little girl who loved to draw flowers. Others remember the headlines and the outrage.
But for Mama Joy, Imade isn't just a memory — she's a promise. A reminder that silence kills and truth heals.
She often visits her grave with fresh flowers, whispering, "You didn't die for nothing, my child. Your voice will speak forever."
Her name was Imade.
She was eight when her innocence was stolen.
She was thirteen when her body gave up.
But her story — her cry — still echoes in the hearts of those who heard it.
And maybe, just maybe, because of her, another child will be saved.