Chapter One
Marked from Birth
The night I was born, the rain did not stop.
Thunder rolled like an angry beast in the distance, shaking the earth as my mother lay still, her breath ragged and weak. The thatched roof of the hut barely held against the pounding storm, and the wind howled through the cracks in the walls, as if the heavens themselves were mourning my arrival.
Inside, the air smelled of damp earth, sweat, and blood. My mother, Ireti, was alone. No midwife. No helping hands. Just her and the night, fighting to bring me into a world that did not want me.
She must have screamed, but the storm swallowed her cries. The pain must have been unbearable, but there was no one to hold her hand, no one to tell her to push, to breathe, to fight.
When I finally arrived, my wails pierced through the darkness—but there was no joy to greet me. Only silence. Only the weight of the storm pressing down on the tiny hut where my mother lay, barely clinging to life.
She was too weak to move. With trembling fingers, she wrapped me in the only piece of cloth she owned—a tattered wrapper that smelled of old sweat and rain-soaked dust. It was thin, barely enough to keep the cold away, but it was all she had to offer me.
She held me against her chest, her heartbeat slow and uneven.
And then, the whispers began.
By morning, the storm had passed, but the village was awake with hushed voices.
> "The mad woman has given birth."
"A girl? God help her."
They spoke as though I were a curse, an omen of misfortune. The women at the market clucked their tongues in pity, shaking their heads as if my fate had already been sealed.
> "She should not have been born."
"A child raised by madness can never be normal."
"That poor girl will walk the same path as her mother."
There were many versions of the story, but they all ended the same way—with my mother walking the streets alone, her hair unkempt, her eyes vacant, her dignity stripped away.
No husband. No family. No future.
And now, there was me.
I did not understand what made her different. I did not understand why people looked at her with such hatred, why they whispered behind her back as though she were less than human.
But I knew one thing—she was my mother. And because of that, I was already condemned.
---
The first days of my life were spent in silence. My mother had no one to help her, no friend to show her how to care for a newborn.
She did what she could, but hunger gnawed at both of us. She had nothing to eat, nothing to give me but the weak milk her body produced.
She sat by the roadside, cradling me in her arms, rocking me gently even as her own stomach twisted in pain. People passed, but no one stopped. No one asked if she needed help.
One afternoon, as the sun burned hot over the village, an old woman paused before her. Ireti looked up, her eyes empty, her lips cracked from thirst.
The woman shook her head and sighed.
> "You should not have kept the child," she murmured.
Ireti did not respond. She only held me closer, as if I were the last thing tethering her to this world.
---
Days turned to weeks, and the hunger did not stop.
My cries filled the night, weak and pitiful, but my mother never let me go. She wandered through the village, searching for scraps, drinking from muddy streams when there was no other choice.
One evening, as she sat in the marketplace, a man tossed a moldy piece of bread at her feet.
> "Feed your bastard," he spat.
Laughter erupted from the crowd. Someone kicked dust toward her, and another muttered a curse under their breath.
But my mother did not fight back. She only picked up the bread, brushed off the dirt, and tore off a tiny piece, pressing it into my mouth.
That was my first taste of kindness.
---
I grew up knowing hunger before I knew warmth. I learned to sleep through the cold before I knew the comfort of a blanket.
My mother and I lived in the spaces between the world—the alleys, the abandoned huts, the broken places where no one else dared to stay.
She would sing to me sometimes, soft lullabies with words I did not understand. Her voice was thin, like a whisper carried by the wind, but it was the only music I ever knew.
---
But the world did not stop being cruel.
Children threw stones at us when we passed. Women turned their faces away, gripping their own children's hands tighter, as if my mother's madness were contagious.
> "That girl will be just like her mother."
"She carries her blood."
"Madness runs in the family."
Even when I was too young to understand their words, I felt their hatred. It clung to me like a second skin.
But the worst part was that my mother never fought back.
She never shouted, never lifted her hands to defend herself. She only held my hand and walked away, her head bowed low, as if she had already accepted her place in their world.
I did not know what she had done to deserve such treatment. But I knew one thing—if the world hated her, then it would hate me too.
And so, from the very moment I took my first breath, I knew I was different.
I knew I was unwanted.
I knew I was marked.
Not by a name.
Not by a family.
Not by love.
I was marked by
the blood in my veins.
I was marked by the woman who bore me.
I was marked from birth.