CHAPTER FIVE — THE HOUSE OF THREE
The Adigbes lived in a house where fairness was spoken of like a rumor, something people whispered about but never actually saw.
From the outside, they looked like a close-knit, loving family.
Three children, two parents, one modest bungalow in Nyanya.
But inside, it was a house divided by gender, privilege, and quiet wounds.
The father, Mr. Adigbe, believed that being a man meant being obeyed.
His voice carried authority, even when he was wrong. His word was law, and his law favored one person above all others: his only son, Tobi.
Tobi was the crown prince of the house, lazy, charming, and endlessly excused. He had finished secondary school almost two years ago, but hadn't decided what to do next.
One week, he wanted to study Engineering, the next, he said he might try Music, and after that, he claimed he wanted to "learn tech." Each new ambition came with no action, yet his father praised him like a budding genius.
"You can't rush greatness," he'd say proudly, thumping his chest. "A man must take time to find his path."
Meanwhile, Adaeze, the youngest daughter, had found hers and was punished for it.
She had passed her JAMB even when it looked like she wouldn't, and, despite all possibilities lost, she earned admission to study Mass Communication at the University of Abuja.
But her father only squinted at the admission letter and muttered,
"Who told you we have that kind of money? You think life is about running to university like a headless chicken?"
That was his way of saying NO.
Not because the money wasn't there, but because the belief wasn't. But still, she rebelled so much that he had no peace of mind but to send her to the university. He saw Adaeze's intelligence as rebellion, a girl too sharp for her own good. She should have been grateful, humble, quiet, but Adaeze's questions often made him uncomfortable. So instead of pride, he gave her suspicion.
Whenever she fell ill, he accused her. "Are you sure you're not pregnant?"
Every fever, every cough , it always came down to that. The first time he said it, Adaeze thought he was joking.
The second time, she realized he wasn't. By the third time, she stopped defending herself.
Her mother never interfered. She would sit by, sigh deeply, and murmur,
"You know how your father is. Just let him talk. It's for your good."
That phrase had been used to silence her since childhood. If she asked for transport money to school, her father barked, "Do I look like Central Bank? Must you always ask for something?"
But when Tobi wanted money to 'hang out,' the man reached into his wallet with pride. "A man must see the world," he said.
See the world, even if all Tobi did was sit at a barbershop, scrolling through Instagram, and debating football.
The eldest sister, Amaka, was an entirely different creature.
Polished, poised, and perfect in everyone's eyes. She worked at a boutique in town and lived alone in a small but well-furnished apartment. She dressed elegantly, spoke gently, and always smelled like imported success.
Whenever she visited home, she brought gifts: wigs, perfume, dresses, and handbags. She made Adaeze feel beautiful for a moment before the jealousy returned. Because Amaka had what Adaeze wanted most: freedom.
And the cruel part was that Amaka knew it.
Their father treated Amaka like his golden child, not because she was perfect, but because she had learned how to play him. She knew when to flatter, when to kneel, and when to speak softly. But she had the anger of a stammerer.
When she wanted something, she smiled, "Daddy, you know I'm your first daughter. Your Ada…"
And just like that, the man's heart melted.
When Tobi or Amaka needed something big, such as money for a new phone or help with rent, they would beg Adaeze to support their request.
"Please, Ada, just tell Daddy you need it too," Amaka would whisper. "You know he listens when you talk first."
And she would only for her father to look at her sternly after granting their wish. "You see, Adaeze? You should learn from your siblings. Always asking for something is not womanly. Grow up."
Each word scraped her pride raw. They used her voice when it suited them, and silenced it when it didn't.
Over time, she started to shrink inside herself, not physically, but emotionally.
She stopped asking. Stopped arguing.
When her father ranted, she only nodded. When her mother said "Endure", she endured.
When her siblings mocked her for being too serious, she smiled faintly.
But each night, when the lights went out and the house grew quiet, she would sit before her mirror.
A long line was cracked, splitting her reflection in two. Sometimes she stared at herself until her vision blurred.
She didn't know if she still recognized the girl looking back. There was intelligence in her eyes, yes, but also exhaustion.
A loneliness that settled deep, like dust. She would whisper to her reflection,
"You are enough." Even though she didn't believe it.
When she closed her eyes, her mind replayed every insult, every "no," every time she'd been treated as less.
And yet, somewhere beneath the ache, something still burned quietly but stubbornly.
That night, she wrote in her notebook.
"When I leave this house, I will breathe.
When I speak, I will not beg to be heard.
I am not your mistake. I am not your shadow.
And one day, you will have to listen."
She folded the page and hid it under her mattress.
It was her secret rebellion , paper Armor for a war no one else could see.