I sent my daughter of 14yrs a mèssage to rush to the nearest shop to buy stockfish of 2k for the ogbono soup I was cooking. She obediently collected the money and left.

It was already getting close to 4 p.m., and I knew that if I didn’t prepare something on time, my husband wouldn’t be pleased. The only food left was the rice we all shared that morning before I left for work, and that couldn’t carry us through the evening.

I waited patiently in the kitchen, staring at the pot, listening to the ticking clock. Ten minutes passed… still no sign of Dorcas. My mood was already on edge. I wasn’t just hungry—I was weighed down. That same day, the woman who had owed me money for clothes I sewed over a year ago spoke to me in a way that cut deep. The things she said, the tone she used—it left me shaken, embarrassed, and angry. I had laboured with my hands, to support my husband to feed my family with the little I earned. And yet, instead of gratitude or even an apology, I got insults.

So there I stood—tired, hurt, and doing everything I could to keep my emotions in check. The kitchen felt unbearably hot, not because of the gas cooker, but because of everything boiling inside me—anger, worry, frustration. An hour and thirty minutes had passed. Still, no sign of Dorcas. My heart started to pound with unease. Something didn’t feel right. The longer she stayed out, the louder the thoughts in my head grew—each one darker than the last. Time seemed to blur.

The soup was still on the fire, bubbling softly, and it had reached the stage where I needed to add the stockfish. But there was none. My daughter had never stayed that long. At least ten minutes she was supposed to be back. I knew something wasn’t adding up. Out of growing worry and mounting irritation, I turned off the gas cooker slipped into something decent, and stormed out of the house.

I found my daughter with body stained with dust outside sitting by the corner of the fence very close to the gutter, her head burièd between her knees. The sight of her there—calm, still, like nothing mattered—ignited something fierce inside me.. I became so so engrossed in pain. “A girl I sent mèssage was busy sitting down there relaxing?” Pain and anger took over me. Without thinking, I grabbed a short 2-by-2 pièce of wôod lying nearby and began hîtting her, as though she wasn’t mine. She tried to speak.

“Mummy, I…”

“Mummy, plèase, I didn’t do… Mummy, I—”

But I didn’t let her finish. I was too consumed by rage to hear anything she had to say. Her pleading only seemed to pour fuel on the fire burning in my chest. I continued even whèn her voice was fading.

Then I saw it—dried traces of blóod between her thighs. My heart dropped. Gently, I lifted the edge of her skirt and froze. The bloód had trailed down from her private area—some stains were faint and dry, while others were darker, thicker, with lines that spoke of something more than a scrape or a fall.

My hands froze mid-air. The stick slipped from my grip and hit the ground with a dull thud. The sight of the blóod snapped me out of my fury, replacing it with confusion, fear, and a deep, sudden guilt.

“What… what is going on?” I whispered, more to myself than to anyone else.

Quickly, I reached for Dorcas, positioning her gently as she was cry1ng. My hands trembled as I removed her belt and skirt, pulled down her pants. There, tucked between her legs, was a dirty handkerchief—soaked through and clearly meant to absorb the blèeding.

My eyes widened in disbelief. I rubbed them over and over, praying I was imagining things. But I wasn’t. Reality hit me like a sláp: my little girl was bleeding, and I had beaten her without knowing what she was going through. I went to draw the attention of people.

Dorcas was brèathing like someone running for her life in a nightmare. Her body was limp, lifeless in my arms. She couldn’t speak but when I called her name, she’d move her shoulder just a little… as if to say, Mama, I’m still here. I put a spoon between her teeth, praying it would stop her from biting her tongue or slipping further away. My hands were trembling. I kept telling her to hold on, that help was coming, that her mother was right here.

When we got to the hospital, they said she needed oxygen first. But there was none. No oxygen. They told us to wait—that it would take a few hours to arrive.

I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t watch my child fade away. We rushed to another hospital, desperate to find oxygen, to find help.

But Dorcas dièd on the way.

She dièd in the back seat, in my arms.

If not for my anger… maybe she would still be alîve. Maybe I would’ve waited. Maybe I would’ve bègged a little longer. Maybe I would’ve tried hearing from her before judging. But I was just a mother just trying to save my child by any means. No tráces of the person that violated her up till today.

Credit: Nicholas Stephen