Introduction
On March 23, 1996, under the shadowed skies of Jos, Plateau State, a baby girl came into the world—a fighter from the moment she took her first breath. Born into a modest family of four, she was their first daughter, a tiny, fragile being whose life seemed to hang by a thread. In her first weeks, life tested her resilience in unimaginable ways. First, a tumor emerged when she was just a week old, threatening to steal her away before she could even open her eyes to the world. Barely surviving that battle, another struck at two weeks old, a cruel reminder that life would not be kind to her.
Her parents fought to save her, sacrificing what little they had, but the scars of those early days lingered—not just on her body, but in the way she would see the world. For as much as they loved her, it seemed the weight of survival hardened their hearts. She grew up surrounded by unspoken struggles, an invisible wall separating her from the warmth she so desperately craved.
By the time she was seven, the streets of Jos had become her second home. Hawking goods for her mother under the unforgiving sun, she learned quickly that her childhood would not be one of play and laughter. The chores were endless, and the praise was rare. Her younger siblings looked up to her, but even they didn't see how often she cried herself to sleep.
At 12, her family left Jos for Kaduna State, hoping to find better opportunities. But for her, the move felt like trading one hardship for another. Life in Kaduna wasn't easier; it was harsher in ways she didn't expect. The weight of being the firstborn daughter bore down on her shoulders—cooking, cleaning, hawking—while silently battling the loneliness of feeling unseen.
Her parents, consumed by their own struggles, didn't notice the cracks forming in her spirit. They didn't see the way she longed for affection, for words of reassurance that she was more than just a worker in their household. And so, she learned to search for love elsewhere—in fleeting glances, in stolen moments, in the promises of boys who said all the right things but meant none of them.
But love, she would soon learn, wasn't as simple as she hoped.
Chapter One: The Weight of Love
The warm sun bathed the quiet streets of Jos, Plateau State, in a golden glow. Inside a modest two-room home, cries of a newborn baby pierced the air, each wail a declaration of life, of survival. Her name was Shelong—a name her parents chose as a prayer, a hope for peace in a world that offered them little of it.
But peace was hard to come by. At just a week old, Shelong's cries turned to weak, strangled gasps. Her tiny body, no bigger than her father's hand, fought a battle no child should ever face. The first tumor came without warning, a cruel visitor that demanded everything her parents had to give. They scraped together money for doctors, prayed through sleepless nights, and hoped against hope.
When the second tumor appeared just days later, her mother's strength began to crack. Shelong's father stood outside the hospital, staring at the sky, unable to pray anymore.
"She's so small," her mother whispered one night, cradling Shelong as if holding her too tightly would break her. "How much can she bear?"
But Shelong bore it. She survived.
Her parents called it a miracle, but miracles, Shalom would later learn, came with a cost.
By the time she was old enough to understand, Shalom saw the world through the lens of duty. Life was a series of tasks: hawking goods on dusty streets, scrubbing pots until her hands ached, and carrying buckets of water that seemed heavier with each step. Being the first daughter came with expectations, and she met them all without complaint—not because she wanted to, but because there was no one else to do it.
Her siblings, younger and carefree, played in the narrow alleyways while she cooked, cleaned, and folded their clothes. She envied them sometimes, their laughter echoing like a distant melody she couldn't quite reach.
Her mother's voice was always sharp, not cruel but never soft. "Shelong, the firewood is running low."
"Shelong, take these to the market."
"Shelong , why are you standing there? There's work to be done."
Her father barely spoke at all, his silence filling the room like an unspoken accusation.
"Do they even see me?" Shelong wondered often.
At twelve, the family packed their belongings and left Jos for Kaduna State. The decision had been her father's—a promise of greener pastures and better opportunities. Shalom didn't argue. She didn't cry when they said goodbye to the only home she'd ever known. She was used to silence by then.
Kaduna, with its bustling streets and unfamiliar faces, felt like a different world. The house was smaller, the responsibilities heavier. Shelong's routine remained the same—chores, hawking, endless demands. But in Kaduna, she noticed something new: the boys.
They stood in groups on street corners, their eyes lingering a little too long as she passed. At first, she ignored them. But one day, a boy with a crooked smile and confident swagger called out to her.
"Hey, fine girl," he said, his voice smooth as honey. "What's your name?"
Shelong hesitated, unsure what to say. No one had ever called her "fine" before. Her heart fluttered, a strange, unfamiliar feeling.
"Shelong," she finally mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.
He grinned. "A name as beautiful as the girl who owns it."
For the first time in her life, Shelong felt seen.
It wasn't long before she started sneaking out to meet him, her heart racing with every stolen moment. He told her she was special, that he cared for her in a way no one else ever could. She believed him because she wanted to. Because it was the first time anyone had made her feel like she mattered.
But even then, in the quiet corners where they met, Shelong couldn't shake the weight of love. She wanted to believe it was real, but doubt lingered, heavy and unrelenting.
Deep down, she knew she was searching for something bigger than his words—a love that would fill the empty spaces inside her, a love that didn't feel so .
Chapter Two: Shadows of Kaduna
Kaduna was nothing like Jos. The streets buzzed with restless energy, the air thick with the scent of roasted corn and diesel. Everywhere Shelong turned, there were signs of life—women balancing trays of goods on their heads, children weaving between cars to sell sachets of water, and the endless hum of voices. For her parents, it was a land of promise, a chance to rebuild. For Shelong, it was just another place to survive.
At thirteen, she had grown accustomed to the rhythm of sacrifice. Each morning, she tied a faded scarf around her head and carried a tray stacked with goods through the busy streets. "Groundnuts! Garri! Come and buy!" she called out, her voice blending with the chorus of other hawkers.
The sun was merciless, leaving her skin hot and sticky, but Shelong didn't complain. Complaining never changed anything.
By the time she returned home, her legs aching and her throat dry, her mother would already have a new task waiting for her. The kitchen was always a battlefield of pots and pans, her siblings' laughter in the background a sharp reminder of everything she didn't have time to enjoy.
"Shelong, you're slow," her mother snapped one afternoon, watching her peel yams with trembling hands. "If you keep wasting time, we won't eat tonight."
"Yes, Mama," Shelong mumbled, her eyes fixed on the knife in her hand. She didn't argue, even though she hadn't stopped working since dawn.
Her father sat silently in the corner, his expression unreadable as he read the day's newspaper. He never intervened, never asked how she was doing. Shelong often wondered if he even noticed her at all.
It wasn't the work that weighed her down—it was the emptiness, the absence of warmth in her parents' eyes. She felt like a machine, useful only when she was doing something for them.
But outside the house, in the streets of Kaduna, Shelong found fleeting moments of escape.
One evening, after selling her last sachet of groundnuts, she wandered through the market, letting the noise and movement carry her away. Her scarf had slipped down, and strands of her hair clung to her damp forehead. She was about to head home when she heard a familiar voice.
"Shelong!"
Turning, she saw him—David, the boy with the crooked smile who had stopped her weeks ago. He leaned casually against a wooden stall, his arms crossed.
"Why are you always walking so fast? You never even stop to say hi," he teased.
Shelong felt a shy smile creep onto her face. "I have to get home."
David stepped closer, his tone softening. "Why don't you stay a little longer? I'll walk you back."
Her heart fluttered. No one had ever offered to walk her home before. She hesitated, glancing at the setting sun, knowing her mother would be furious if she was late. But something about David's presence made her want to linger.
"Okay," she said finally.
As they walked through the bustling streets, David asked her questions that no one else ever had. What did she like to do? What made her happy? What were her dreams?
Shelong stumbled over her answers, unsure of how to respond. She had spent so long doing what was expected of her that she had never stopped to think about what she wanted.
When they reached her house, David paused and looked at her with a seriousness that caught her off guard
"You're special, Shelong," he said quietly. "You deserve more than this."
His words echoed in her mind long after he left. That night, as she lay on her thin mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling, she thought about what "more" might look like. Could it be a life where she didn't have to hawk in the streets? A life where she felt loved, truly loved?
But even as she dreamed, a voice in the back of her mind whispered doubts. Love wasn't for people like her. She was too tired, too broken, too invisible to be truly seen.
Still, David's words stayed with her, a flicker of hope in the darkness.