“You may swallow the dust you clean to survive. Silence is your sole gift to an unseen child.”
My name is Lucia. I swept the office of a guy who never realized his worst mistake had a name, face, and tomb for years.
I found out I was pregnant at 17. In my senior year of high school in Enugu, all I wanted was to graduate and improve my life. My deskmate, Nonso Okoye. Son of a wealthy family, funny and eloquent. As the daughter of a shoemaker and banana salesman, I was afraid to look him in the eye.
He didn’t say anything when I informed him I was pregnant.
He shakily inquired, “Are you sure?”
Nonso, I’ve never been with anybody else. His is yours.”
I never heard from him again. I learnt a few days later that his parents sent him to study in the UK.
My mother noticed the doctor’s note in my bag one morning.
“You want to shame us? Furious, she said, “Find the father.”
“I have nowhere to go, Mom…”
Then leave. Sinners don’t belong here.”
I was alone with a swelling tummy and crippling terror. I survived by sleeping in half-built dwellings, washing clothes, and selling oranges at the market. I had my birth beneath a mango tree, beside Doña Estela’s stall.
“Hang in there, baby, almost there,” she said, rubbing my forehead.
I tightened my hands as the baby was delivered softly.
“What will you name him?”
“Chidera,” I muttered. Because God wrote it, no one can erase.
Life was hard. Chidera and I spent freezing nights, hungry days, and borrowed beds. He turned six and asked:
“Where’s Dad, Mom?”
Son, he journeyed far. Someone will return.”
“And why not call?”
He may have lost his way.”
He never did.”
Chidera became sick at nine. Fever, cough, weakness. The doctor said:
The surgery is straightforward but costs 60,000 naira.
I lacked them. Borrowing and selling my ring and radio wasn’t enough.
I carried my kid alone with a tattered father picture and a blue blanket.
Son, forgive me. Not knowing how to rescue you.”
Five years. I relocated to Lagos for a fresh start. Victoria Island technology business G4 Holdings hired me as a cleaner.
“Your uniform is brown, your schedule is night.” Avoid talking to executives. Just clean, the supervisor said.
An office with thick carpet and gold knobs was on the seventh level.
Sign read: “Mr. Nonso Okoye, Managing Director.”
I felt like my world was falling apart.
“It can’t be“ I clenched the mop and whispered.
Nonso changed. Taller and stronger, sporting a nice suit and foreign cologne. But his look remained piercing and haughty, as if the world owed him everything.
I cleaned his office nightly. I cleaned his papers, polished his glass table, and dumped his garbage.
Nobody recognized me.
My name tag slid off his desk one afternoon when he cleaned.
Does your name sound familiar? He inquired, glancing at me. Worked in Enugu before?
A little grin.
“No, sir.”
Didn’t insist. He returned to his laptop, ignoring me.
While scrubbing the conference room that night, I heard him laughing with coworkers.
“I once got a girl pregnant in high school,” he laughed. She claimed ownership. However, impoverished females say anything.”
Everyone laughed.
I dropped the mop, hurried to the toilet, and wept for an hour.
“Why, God? Why me?
My patience ran out. I composed a letter with quivering hands while I watched our kid struggle for oxygen, remembering you even if you may not remember me. You never returned. However, I cleaned up your filth everyday in life and on your floor.”
I folded it and put it under his office mug.
I requested a relocation the following day. I couldn’t endure his sight.
A lady visited my residence two weeks later. She was lovely in white and had a nicer face than Nonso.
Are you Lucía?
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Nonso’s older sister.”
Unable to speak.
“Your letter made him cry. He was unaware. The parents concealed it. He suspected an ab0rtion.”
“No, Chidera lived nine years. He waited for his dad.”
She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
Nonso visited the graveyard. He located your son’s tomb. He wants you. To atone for his misdeeds, not apologize.”
I agreed. We met beneath the mango tree where I buried Chidera in the cemetery.
Silent Nonso entered with lowered shoulders.
“Lucía…”
“Don’t speak.”
Kneeling over the grave, he cried like a kid.
Forgive me, son. You never erred.
We planted a tiny tree beside the tombstone.
“What should Chidera have been?” His voice broke as he asked.
A decent dude. You can still be that.”
After then, Nonso changed. He finances a school for expelled adolescent mothers. He dubbed it “Chidera’s House.”
“No girl should go through what you went through,” he said while inviting me to the school.
The basic building is full with laughter. A mural depicts a woman holding her child to heaven.
I get monthly allowance from Nonso. I never requested it.
“Lucía, it’s not charity. Justice.”
I live modestly. I cook, sweep, and wash. But now I sleep better.
Shared my tale. Finally, someone heard.
Walking across the playground and seeing females in class makes me realize how far I’ve come. One with long braids and a bashful grin approaches me:
Are you Chidera’s mom?
“Yes, why?”
“I want to be strong like you, even if I’m afraid.”
Hugging her.
“You’re strong—just believe it.”
Occasionally, Nonso calls to discuss school. He speaks less, listens more.
“Thank you, Lucía,” he says. “For giving me a second chance at fatherhood, even to other children.”
A plaque in the main hall:
“Chidera’s Home. So no mother eliminates loneliness and no kid is invisible.”
My forgiveness may never be complete. But I know I no longer own quiet.
I now sweep the yard with pride.
Some dust you clean up is also the dust you eat to thrive.
Telling your narrative turns dust into a seed.
Trees that shade others thrive there.