First things first, I want to sincerely apologize for not sharing this chapter yesterday. There was a power outage in my school, and unfortunately, it disrupted my writing and posting schedule. Thank you so much for your patience and understanding—it means the world to me. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter.
Disclaimer: The events in this story are fictional and inspired by various lived realities. Any resemblance to actual persons or situations is purely coincidental. This story explores themes of identity, self-discovery, and resistance, and may contain emotionally charged dialogue.
My father wanted me to be a doctor.
I was gifted, remember? A child born with rain and miracles. So of course I'd heal people. Of course, I’d be the one to carry on his legacy of struggle-to-glory. f course I'd be his pride.
He decided this before I could even pronounce "medicine," and the rest of the family followed his lead like it was scripture.
"Onyinyechukwu is going to be the first doctor from this town, you people will see," he'd announce to his drinking buddies, his beer bottle pointing at me like a judge's gavel. The neighbors would nod, already imagining their free consultations.
This was my destiny:
The kind of doctor that gets whispered about in church bulletins and sits in the front row during harvest. The kind who would one day wear a white coat and a quiet smile, like Mama’s friend Dr. Ifeoma.
But I wasn't that kind. Not really.
After seeing Omasirichi's note under my pillow, I didn’t sleep. Not really. I laid still until the rooster began to call out the morning and the house rustled to life. I dressed slowly, like my body was unsure of itself. Maybe it knew what I was about to do before my mind fully admitted it.
At school, I walked past the science block without stopping. Past Mr. Okafor’s lab, past the fume hoods and molecular models and past that periodic table mural everyone pretended to admire. My legs carried me to the arts building like they’d been waiting to all my life.
“I want to switch,” I said, when I got to the secretary's desk. The secretary blinked at me over her glasses.
“Switch what?”
“Classes. I’m not doing scienceas anymore.” She looked at the slip in her hand.
“You’re... Onyinyechukwu?”
“No,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “Just Onyi.”
She stared. I waited. The clock ticked behind her like it too was holding its breath. “You’ll need your parents or guardian’s signature,” she said eventually, handing me a fresh form. My heart was beating so fast and loud enough, I feared she might hear it.
“I’ll get it,” I lied.
She nodded, already scribbling something else, already moving on. I stood there for a second longer, holding that form like it was fragile. Like maybe if I pressed it too tightly to my chest, it would disappear.
Later that day, I sat behind the window in the empty art room, dreaming of a future I hadn’t yet named. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to be there. I wasn’t sure if any of this would stick.
But for the first time in years, I felt breath move through my body like it belonged there. Maybe I was more than just a name. Maybe I was more than someone else’s dream. And maybe,just maybe, this was the beginning of mine.
Mama found the form first. I’d hidden it between the pages of my old Basic Science notebook—figuring no one ever opened old books—but Mama was on one of her Saturday cleaning sprees and she found it. She didn’t scream. She just stood at the doorway of my room, the form in her hand, her eyes unreadable.
“Onyinyechukwu,” she said, like a warning.
I sat up straighter.
“What is this?”
I swallowed. “A transfer form.”
“To where?”
“To the arts class.”
She let out a laugh so sharp it cut through the walls. “You want to disgrace your father?”
“No, I—”
“After everything he has done? All his sacrifices? Is it drawing abi storytelling you will use pay him back?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
“You want to be like those people who carry sketchpads and empty plates, eh? Living off dreams and foolishness?” Mama snapped, the transfer form trembling in her hand. I stood my ground, even though my knees were quietly arguing with me.
“Chimamanda Adichie isn’t begging for food now,”
I said. The words came before I could soften them.
Mama’s eyes widened—more in shock than anger. For a second, she looked like she didn’t know whether to slap me or cry.
“You’re comparing yourself to... to writers on TV?” she said, voice rising. “Ah! Have I not tried enough?”
“Mama, you asked what I’d be eating,” I said quietly, “and I’m telling you—people read stories too.”
She was quiet now. Her face had gone still in that dangerous way. She dropped the form on the floor, like it burned her fingers.
“You’ll explain this to your father,” she muttered, already turning away.
I heard him before I saw him.
The iron gate slammed shut the way it always did when he was angry—or when NEPA had taken light. His voice rose from the corridor, colliding with the walls and rattling something in my chest.
“Isị? Onyinyechukwu mere gịnị?”
Mama’s reply was too low to hear, but I didn’t need to hear. I was the topic. I was always the topic these days.
The door creaked open, and there he was: His eyes met mine like we were strangers, like I’d wronged him personally.
“ị chọrọ igbu m? ” he asked. No greeting. No preamble. I stayed seated, fingers curled into the hem of my wrapper.
“I’m not trying to kill anyone, Papa.”
“So what are you trying to do, Onyinyechukwu? Ehn? Throw away your future because of what?"
“I want to write,” I said, my voice low but steady.
He laughed. Not the full one. The small, bitter one he gave when things no longer made sense to him.
“And write what oh? Storybooks for children? Love letters?”
“Books. Stories. Maybe even essays. Chimamanda-"
“Eh-eh!” he raised a hand, as if her name offended him. “You think just because one woman with makeup and foreign accent is speaking big English on CNN, you too want to follow? Onyinyechukwu, ị na-eche na ndụ bu fim?”
“She’s not begging for food,” I said, again.
He froze.
“I sị ya ọzọ?”
I nodded. “She’s not begging. She’s writing. And people are reading her books.”
Papa’s eyes narrowed—not just in anger, but in fear. The kind fathers feel when they realize they’re losing control.
“You’re not going to write anything in this house, Onyinyechukwu.” he said finally.
“As long as you’re under my roof, you’ll finish that science class and become a doctor. But becoming a writer? Ọ gaghị eme n'ụlọ a.”
My throat went dry, but I stood. My fingers were still trembling, but I stood.
“I’d rather sleep under a different roof than live under one that doesn’t see me.”
I left the room before the weight of my own words could drag me back.
In the days that followed, nobody mentioned the form. Even Omasirichi and Aunty Ada avoided me like plague. It was as if they were waiting for me to change my mind. For the shame to settle. For the rebellion to wear off. Like if they ignored it long enough, I would shrink back into the version of me they could understand.
Obedient. Predictable. Safe.
But I didn’t shrink. I bloomed—quietly, stubbornly.
I started writing again. Just little things—snippets of conversation, dreams that didn’t fit into real life, characters I imagined hiding behind the old mango tree in school. The stories came like whispers at first, then like rain. I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Omasirichi.
But in my mind, I was already building a world where girls like me got to choose. Where names didn’t feel like burdens. Where dreams didn’t need permission.
I didn’t know what becoming a writer would look like. Didn’t know what course to fill in on the university form when the time came or how I’d convince my father without shaking.
But for the first time, I wan’t chasing anyone’s dream but my own. And that was enough.
Like Michael said,
Wow
Wow