Hunger is not silent.
It growls softly at first, like a warning.
Then it tightens, sharp and angry, until it becomes a sound only you can hear—
a hollow echo inside your chest.
That sound followed me everywhere in Aunt Ezinne's house.
By the time Chapter Eleven of my life began, hunger had become my closest companion.
That morning, I woke up before everyone else. My stomach was already aching. I had gone to bed the night before with nothing but water. Even that water had tasted bitter, like it knew I didn't deserve comfort.
I swept the compound quietly, hoping—just hoping—that if I finished all my chores early, she might give me food.
I washed plates stacked from the night before.
I fetched water twice.
I cleaned the sitting room until my knees hurt.
When Aunt Ezinne finally came out, she didn't even look at me.
"Aunty," I said softly, my voice shaking, "may I eat something?"
She paused and turned slowly.
"Eat?" she repeated, as if the word offended her.
"What did you do to deserve food?"
I didn't answer. I didn't know what the right answer was anymore.
She entered the kitchen and locked the door behind her.
I sat on the floor outside, listening.
I heard plates clatter.
I heard spoons scrape.
I heard laughter—her children's laughter.
Each sound pierced me.
When they finished eating, she brought out the plates and dropped them on the floor in front of me.
"Wash these," she said.
I stared at the plates.
There were crumbs.
Smears of soup.
Bits of rice stuck to the edges.
My hands shook.
She noticed and sneered.
"What? Are you not hungry?"
She walked away.
I waited until she was gone. Then I bent low, my heart pounding like a thief's. I scraped the leftover rice with my finger and put it into my mouth quickly, afraid someone would see.
It tasted cold.
It tasted dirty.
But it tasted like survival.
Tears rolled down my face as I chewed.
That was the first time I ate leftovers from another person's plate.
It wouldn't be the last.
Later that day, she sent me to the market. The sun burned my skin, my head spun, and my legs felt weak. Halfway there, I sat by the roadside, my vision blurring.
A woman passing by stopped.
"Small boy, what is wrong with you?"
I tried to answer, but no words came out. My lips were dry.
She gave me a sachet of water and a piece of bread.
I held it like treasure.
Before I could finish eating, my aunt's voice cut through the air.
"So this is what you're doing? Begging?"
She dragged me up by the arm, slapped me in front of everyone, and collected the bread.
"You want to disgrace me?"
That night, she punished me by denying me food completely.
Rain fell again.
She ordered me outside.
I curled up near the wall, shivering, listening to thunder roar above me. Each drop of rain felt like it was washing away the little strength I had left.
I thought of my mother.
How she used to warm my food.
How she used to save the last piece of meat for me.
How she would never allow me sleep hungry.
I pressed my face into my knees and cried silently.
Not loudly—
because loud crying only brought more pain.
As I lay there, cold and empty, I understood something terrifying:
Hunger was no longer just about food.
It was about being unwanted.
Unseen.
Unloved.
And in that moment, soaked to the bone, my stomach screaming, my heart breaking, I realized—
This house was not my home.
It was a place where a child slowly learned how it feels to fade away.
That was Chapter Eleven.
Where hunger found a voice… and it never stopped speaking. 💔