CWRC Anthology

FRESH START

© 2022 by Praise Chidimma Abraham.

Brought to you by Christian Writers and Readers Club.

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Trigger warning: The following story contains mentions of abuse, depression, rape and suicidal thoughts. Tread lightly. However, be rest assured that this short story points back to the redemptive power of God, despite all the unavoidable dark scenes.

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1ST JANUARY, 2017
12:00 A.M.

The sounds around me are much welcome to me, but not so to the squirming baby in my arms.

It's my first new year celebration.

That might look like an absurd statement since I am technically still a teenage girl turning nineteen this year, but to me, it's true.

I never lived before now; I just existed.
I had been melting into oblivion with each passing second.
Until His grace found me.
Until hope broke forth in my thick dark mess.

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1ST JANUARY, 2016

It was the new year celebration time in Lagos peninsula, Nigeria. No big news there.

Problem was, I had nowhere to go. I was just another street urchin that people avoided like a pile of faeces.

Lights flooded the early morning streets. It was just a few minutes after the clock struck twelve.

Shouts of "Happy New Year!" rent the cold harmattan morning. Those shouts gave me a major headache because it was the herald of another three sixty five days of misery and hopelessness.

Myriads of fireworks, sparkles and bangers shot up into the black sky. Beautiful displays of light and glory that should cheer every soul that watched them.
They only helped to magnify the growing darkness in my heart.

I sat beside a gutter that stank of rotten fish. Most probably, the owner of the stall behind it was a fish monger. The smell mirrored my life.

I was seriously contemplating suicide. What use was a life as miserable as mine to this already miserable world?

Grandma died four weeks back. My grief couldn't have been worse.

She was my angel in human skin.
She was the only one who took me in and showered me with love. According to her, my mother died due to a difficulty in giving birth to me. I don't know who my father is. Grandma refused to speak of him each time I tried probing.

When the doctor diagnosed Grandma with terminal liver cancer few months ago, I had prayed with all my might to the God she believed in to spare her life. I promised I would serve him all my days, and that I would be a more obedient child to my grandmother.

He didn't answer. She died in my care.

"Don't forget what I have always told you, Joy. A new life awaits you. I'm going home now. I pray God be with you," Grandma rasped with difficulty before breathing her last.

I had screamed and trashed and wailed like my heart had been plucked out of my chest when the neighbours came and confirmed her dead.
I refused to believe it, but it was true. My grandmother was gone forever.

My heartless 'uncles' drove me out of the only place I knew as home immediately they came to pick up Grandma's corpse.
They didn't even allow me to be there when she was buried.

Apparently, to them, I was ill-luck. I was a death-spreading disease to be avoided. They said I was a special kind of witch that sacrifices her loved ones in exchange for powers.