AMINA
Chapter Eight:
The road to Iguagi hadn’t changed much.
Red dust rose behind the bus as it rattled down the narrow path. Children waved, barefoot and curious, shouting,
> “Aunty from Lagos!”
Amina sat by the window, watching the old trees blur past.
Every corner carried a memory — the path to the stream, the mango tree she used to climb, the church bell that used to wake her before dawn.
Everything was the same.
Only she had changed.
She wasn’t just Amina from Iguagi anymore.
She was Amina — the girl who spoke truth.
---
It was the women’s council of Iguagi that invited her back.
The chairwoman had called weeks earlier, her voice trembling with pride.
> “We heard your program on the radio, our daughter. We want you to come home and speak to our girls. They listen more when it’s one of their own.”
Amina didn’t hesitate.
This was what her heart had been waiting for.
When she arrived, the village square was decorated with banners made of old cloth.
> “Empower the Girl Child — A Talk by Our Daughter, Amina Umoru.”
Women gathered under the big tree.
Schoolgirls in faded uniforms filled the benches.
Even old men stood at the back, pretending not to be curious.
Amina stepped forward, her heart pounding.
The microphone crackled as she spoke.
> “My name is Amina Umoru. I was born here, in Iguagi. I fetched water from that same stream. I walked to that same school down the road. And I remember how it felt — to be told that girls don’t need dreams, only husbands.”
A quiet murmur moved through the crowd.
> “I left this place thinking I had to be small to survive. But life taught me that silence is the real prison.
A girl with a dream is not a curse — she’s a seed waiting for rain.”
Girls in the front row looked at her with wide eyes.
Some mothers nodded quietly, holding back tears.
Even the old men at the back lowered their heads.
Then she said softly,
> “I came back not as someone who escaped this place, but as someone who was built by it. Every scar, every pain, every ‘no’ — made me stronger.
If I can rise from this soil, so can any of you.”
The applause came like thunder.
The same ground that once silenced her now echoed her name.
---
When the program ended, girls surrounded her, asking questions, wanting hugs.
A little one, no older than ten, held her hand and said,
> “Aunty, I want to be like you — I want to talk, too.”
Amina knelt and smiled.
> “Then start today. Your voice is already enough.”
As the sun set, she went home to her mother.
The air smelled of firewood and palm oil.
Her mother sat on the porch, smiling.
> “You spoke well, my daughter,” she said.
“The whole village was talking about it.”
Amina knelt beside her.
> “I spoke from here,” she said, touching her chest. “From home.”
Her mother nodded.
> “Then your voice will never die.”
---
That night, Amina stood outside, looking at the stars — the same ones she used to wish upon as a little girl.
Only this time, she didn’t wish for escape.
She whispered a prayer of gratitude.
For the pain that birthed her purpose.
For the silence that taught her strength.
And for the girls of Iguagi — the next voices waiting to rise.
Years later, Amina’s name had become a beacon of hope.
From the dusty paths of Iguagi to the bright halls of cities far beyond, her voice carried the stories of the girls she once spoke to under the stars.
She built an empire not of wealth, but of change — a foundation that gave girls the courage to dream and the power to rise.
And whenever she returned home, she still looked up at the same night sky, whispering to the stars that once witnessed her pain, now shining on her purpose fulfilled.
THE END
WRITTEN BY
UMORU DANIELA JOHN
