The first year after her mother's death, Amaka adjusted to life under her father's unrelenting structure. If the house was quiet before, it became completely silent now. The once-warm living room, where family meals and laughter echoed, now felt cold and lifeless. Her father's rules became the governing force in her life, and every part of her day was dictated.
"Amaka, I expect your bed to be made before 6:30 a.m.," her father would say sternly during breakfast.
"Yes, Daddy," she replied, her voice small, barely above a whisper.
She memorized his rules because forgetting wasn't an option. Forgotten tasks led to long, scolding lectures, and Amaka learned quickly that defiance wasn't tolerated. On one occasion, she failed to finish her homework before bedtime. Her father made her sit at the dining table until it was completed, even as her eyes drooped with sleep.
"Discipline builds character," he said sharply, pacing behind her.
While other children her age played outside after school, Amaka stayed indoors, completing chores or studying under her father's watchful gaze. The small bursts of joy she once found in simple things—playing with her doll or drawing in her sketchbook—faded as her father deemed them "unnecessary distractions."
One Saturday afternoon, she watched from her bedroom window as her neighbors' children laughed and ran across the street playing football. She longed to join them, her small hands pressed against the glass. Summoning courage, she approached her father in his study.
"Daddy, can I play outside with my friends?" she asked, her voice trembling.
He didn't look up from his newspaper. "What did I say about wasting time on such things?"
"But I've finished all my chores," she said softly, hopeful he might reconsider.
His eyes met hers, hard and unforgiving. "Amaka, the world out there is not safe. If you want to play, find something to do inside this house. Now, go."
Her heart sank as she walked back to her room, feeling like a bird trapped in a cage. That day, she promised herself she wouldn't ask again.
The rigidity of her father's rules extended even to her appearance. On her 10th birthday, she asked if she could wear one of her late mother's colorful scarves to school. It was something her mother used to let her do, a small token of her love for bright, cheerful things.
"No," her father said bluntly, folding his arms. "You're too young to draw unnecessary attention to yourself."
"It's just a scarf, Daddy," Amaka pleaded, her eyes wide with hope.
"I said no." His voice left no room for argument.
Amaka nodded, blinking back tears. She tucked the scarf back into her drawer, where it stayed hidden, untouched, like a relic of a life she could no longer reach.
By the time she turned 11, Amaka began to internalize her father's expectations. She learned to live within the confines of his rules, her own desires buried deep beneath the weight of his control. Her father's frequent warnings about the dangers of the world left her fearful of taking risks.
One evening, while they sat together at dinner, her father put down his fork and looked at her with a rare seriousness.
"Amaka, I'm strict with you because I want you to succeed. This world is not kind, especially to women. You must be disciplined if you want to survive," he said.
Amaka nodded, unsure how to respond. She wanted to tell him that she didn't just want to survive—she wanted to live. She wanted to run outside, laugh with friends, and feel the sun on her face without fear. But she didn't say any of that. Instead, she lowered her eyes and replied, "Yes, Daddy.
Despite the stifling rules, there were moments when Amaka caught glimpses of the man her father used to be. On her 12th birthday, he brought home a small cake, a rare indulgence in their somber household.
"I know you like chocolate," he said gruffly, placing it on the table.
Amaka's eyes lit up. "Thank you, Daddy!" she exclaimed, unable to hide her joy.
For a moment, she thought she saw a smile flicker across his face, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.
Though her father's love was buried beneath layers of discipline and grief, Amaka clung to these small gestures as proof that he cared. She didn't understand it yet, but his strictness came from a place of fear—fear of losing her, as he had lost her mother.
Still, the rules remained, shaping Amaka's childhood into a rigid framework of obedience. By the time she entered her teenage years, she had mastered the art of staying invisible, moving through life quietly and without complaint. But deep down, a small, rebellious part of her longed for freedom, for a chance to discover who she truly was outside the shadow of her father's rules.