“The first time he hit me, I thought it was love cloaked in rage.
The second time, I convinced myself it was my fault.
By the fifth, I had no womb left to carry the children I’d dreamt of.
They called it marriage.
I called it a prison without bars.
But every woman reaches her breaking point...
And mine started with a pill in my soup.”
My name is Lily Adebayo, born and raised in a forgotten corner of Lagos called Ebute. You won’t find it on any Google map. But for those of us who lived there, Ebute was more than a place—it was memory wrapped in dust, laughter tucked between hunger, and dreams louder than the cocks that crowed before dawn.
I was my parents’ only child. Their pride. Their investment. Their prayer point. Papa always said God gave them one so they could focus and give her the world. And they did. Not with money or luxuries, but with sacrifice and love.
Ebute wasn’t paradise. Our roads were broken, sometimes flooded with more mud than sense. We fetched water from a shallow well that dried up every dry season. The electricity was a visitor that came once a month and left before you could boil water. But it was home.
Papa was a farmer and a part-time palm-wine tapper. His hands were hard, his laughter deep, his wisdom simple. Mama sold vegetables in the market—her voice louder than her radio, her wrapper always tied tightly as if she was ready for a fight with poverty. Despite the hardship, we were content.
Every morning, I’d help Mama pick out ugu and scent leaves, then head to school with boiled yam wrapped in paper. After school, I’d read under our guava tree until nightfall. I was always the best in class—not because I was the smartest, but because I was hungry. Hungry for knowledge, for more, for something bigger than Ebute.
I’ll never forget the evening everything started to shift. We were under that same guava tree—me, Papa, and Mama—eating roasted corn with coconut.
Mama looked at me and asked, “Now that you’ve finished secondary school, what’s next?”
Without thinking, I said, “I want to study law.”
Papa stopped chewing. Mama blinked. The silence was heavy, like harmattan dust.
“Law?” Papa echoed. “You want to become a lawyer?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I want to fight for people who can’t fight for themselves.”
Papa didn’t respond immediately, but I saw the way his eyes lit up. That night, he sharpened his cutlass longer than usual. That was the moment he decided to sell his bicycle.
We didn’t tell anyone, but Ebute had ears. Soon, the whole community knew I wanted to be a lawyer. Some clapped and called me “Iya Lawyer.” Others scoffed, said I should marry and help Papa on the farm. But Kemi, my best friend, was my biggest supporter.
We had grown up together, bathed in the stream together, fought over sugarcane and beads. She was the only one who understood how deep my dream ran.
“Mine is to learn fashion designing,” she told me one night as we plaited each other’s hair. i will make your lawyer uniform for you.
We laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was better than crying.
I bought my JAMB form the same week Papa sold his bicycle. Mama sold three basins of tomatoes to add to the money. I studied with all my strength. I memorized past questions like hymns. Some nights, I didn’t sleep. I read until the lantern burned out, then continued with my phone torchlight.
The day my result came out, I got 290.
Mama screamed. Papa danced. That night, we cooked jollof rice and shared with neighbors. Everyone came to rejoice—even the ones who said I wouldn’t make it.
A few months later, I got admission to Lagos State University to study Law. Mama gave up her favorite wrapper. Papa borrowed money to pay my acceptance fee.
The day I left Ebute for Lagos, I wore a borrowed jean skirt, held my Ghana-must-go bag, and hugged Mama until her wrapper soaked with my tears.
“Don’t forget who you are,” she whispered.
“Lagos can change people,” Papa added.
“I’ll come back with a law certificate,” I promised.
But Lagos wasn’t what I expected.
My first week was a baptism of noise and madness. The danfo drivers screamed like drill sergeants. The air smelled like burnt fuel and fried akara. My hostel room was small, shared with four other girls. The first night, I cried into my pillow, wondering if I’d made a mistake.
To survive, I hustled. I sold pure water on weekends. I fried chin chin at night. I washed clothes for rich students who sprayed perfume over dirt. There were days I went to class hungry. Days I thought of giving up.
But I didn’t.
After four years, I graduated top of my class. My parents came for convocation, dressed like royalty. Mama’s gele could block the sun. Papa cried like a baby and told everyone, “My daughter is now a lawyer!”
NYSC came and went like a dream. I served in Abuja, taught Civic Education, and returned home jobless.
That was when life struck again.
I printed over a hundred CVs and dropped them in offices like seeds, hoping one would grow. Some men smiled and offered “help” that came with conditions. I walked away from every one of them.
Instead, I started selling thrift clothes online. I marketed my goods like a beggar sells faith—desperate but determined.
Then one morning, as I was replying to a customer on WhatsApp, the email came.
Subject: Employment Offer
We are pleased to offer you the position of Junior Legal Associate at Jeremy Law Firm.
I blinked.
Checked the sender.
Legit.
I read it again. It was real.
I dropped my phone, sat still, and stared at the wall. My heart pounded like someone drumming in my chest.
This was it. The job I had prayed for.
I should’ve screamed.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I felt something strange—a tightness in my chest. A cold wind in my bones.
Why does this joy feel like a trap?
Why am I afraid to smile?
I didn’t know it yet...
But the story of my undoing—the one that would strip me of love, hope, and nearly my life—was just about to begin.