“I raised their children like my own, but when I got sick, they threw me out like garbage.” My name is Nneoma. I was barely 17 when I left my village in Ebonyi with a nylon backpack and more fear than future. My mother cried when she said goodbye, but we knew there was no other option. The land was no longer giving and our stomachs were growling. Mama Chike, a family friend, had promised me something better: “A good family in Lagos needs help. They pay well. They’ll treat you like a daughter.” It was a lie. But I didn’t know it yet. The house had automatic gates, security cameras, and a constant scent of artificial lavender. Everything sparkled. Except me. I was given a windowless room and a chore list that started at 4:30 a.m. I bathed the children. I made breakfast. I washed, cooked, ironed, cleaned. I sang lullabies until I fell asleep on the floor. The children called me “Aunty Nne.” Her parents simply called me “the girl.” For 12 years, I was invisible and essential at the same time. I never asked for a raise. I never took a vacation. Not even when my mother died. They just told me, “This isn’t a good time. You can cry in your free time.” I cried that night, clutching a wet towel to keep quiet. But I stayed. Because I still believed loyalty had value. Everything changed the day I collapsed in the kitchen. I’d been coughing for weeks. Dizziness. Weight loss. Fever. The diagnosis: tuberculosis. The doctor was clear: “You need rest. Isolation. Medication. Fresh air.” I expected sympathy. Instead, the woman said, “We can’t risk it. There are children here. It’s best if you return to your village.” She didn’t ask if I had anywhere else to go. They just packed me into a taxi with ₦10,000 and a cardboard box. The maid who raised her children as her own… Thrown out like trash. That night, I slept in a church compound. Coughing under a mango tree. I thought I would die there. Until someone approached me in the darkness… A thin figure. Silent. With a flashlight. “Nneoma?” he whispered. I looked up. The breath caught in my throat. It was one of the boys I had raised… but he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was 17. Taller. Stronger. And his eyes were blazing… with rage. “I was looking for you,” he said, his voice shaking. “My mother lied to us. She threw you out… but you didn’t do anything wrong.” And then he dropped the bombshell. “Nneoma… I am not her son. I am yours.”

30 August 2025 News Daily 0

Part 1: “I raised their children like my own, but when I got sick, they threw me out like garbage.” My name is Nneoma. I […]