Semua Bab The Girl Who Broke the Silence: Bab 31 - Bab 40

The sun sat low in the sky by the time Promise left the Echelon gates. Her uniform clung to her back, damp from sweat and dust, and her feet ached with a slow throb that reached up to her knees. Every step she took echoed the long silence she had endured all day. No one had spoken to her since the drills. Even Ijeoma, who once offered half a smile, had avoided her eyes.She didn’t blame them. Not entirely. Silence had a way of seeping into people like rot into fruit. It wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it crouched between words, behind glances, beneath politeness. Today, Promise wore it like a second skin.She turned onto the dusty road that led toward Ajegunle. The street was long and crooked, patched with potholes and pieces of broken bottles. Her shadow stretched beside her like a tired ghost, thinner now. She moved slowly, her pace stiffened by pain and the weight of the day.Her bag bounced against her hip, light from emptiness. She had left Echelon with no reward, no word of encour

The rain had not stopped for three days in Lagos. It fell like a stubborn drummer’s beat, steady, merciless, drowning out even the loudest bus horns and the cries of street hawkers. The streets shimmered with oily water, gullies overflowing, plastic bottles floating like weary travellers with nowhere to go. For Promise, the rain was more than weather—it was a test. Lagos seemed to be asking her: Howw badly do you want this dream?She stood at the window of their one-room apartment in Ajegunle, watching the water rise outside. Daniel had balanced a rusted tin basin beneath the drip in the roof, but the water overflowed quickly, spilling onto the cracked cement floor. Their mat was already damp. Their clothes smelled of mildew. The room reeked of survival—wet clothes, kerosene fumes, and stubborn hope.Promise pressed her notebook against her chest as if its pages could keep her dry. It was no longer just a collection of sketches, addresses, and rejection slips. It was her gospel. On ni

The morning broke with a roar—not of the sky, but of Lagos itself. Ajegunle’s narrow streets swelled with traders spilling into every available space, umbrellas clashing like shields, voices rising like battle cries. It was market day, and thunder rolled not from clouds but from human need—hunger, bargaining, survival.Promise walked beside Daniel, her patched shoes pressing into puddles left by the night’s rain. The memory of yesterday’s ordeal at Echelon clung to her body like fever. Adaeze’s words—sharp, merciless—still rang in her chest. Yet Lagos never paused to let anyone recover. The world roared on, demanding more.“Keep close,” he murmured.Promise nodded, clutching her bag tightly. She knew better than to let her guard drop here. Markets in Lagos were not just places to buy food. They were arenas where power shifted with every bargain, where desperation made hands quick and voices ruthless.“Corn! Fresh corn!” a woman cried, balancing her tray. Another pushed past with bowls

The morning cracked open with the sound of wood splintering. Daniel was already at work, hammer steady, as if each nail kept the room from falling apart. Promise watched him for a moment before leaving the mat. He did not look up, but he knew. “Today is heavy,” he said simply.Promise nodded. The day of the show had arrived, and she was the opener. A new kind of thunder waited for her, one made of music, cameras, and eyes. She washed at the tap, feeling the compound’s gaze follow her again—neighbors whispering, children pausing mid-play, women tilting their chins with judgment. Lagos was always watching, and today its eyes felt sharper.At the doorway, Daniel placed a small coil of twine in her hand. Rough, ordinary, it smelled faintly of wood dust. “For emergencies nobody will see,” he said. “Sometimes beauty needs something homely to hold it up.”Promise tucked it into her bag, kissed his cheek, and stepped into the chaos of the city.Backstage at Echelon was another world—mirrors b

The morning came with a thin gray light that crept into Ajegunle as though the sun itself was reluctant to rise. Promise washed her face in a plastic bowl, the water gray from yesterday’s use, and tied her hair back with trembling fingers. The slip of Adaeze’s note rested under her pillow, folded neat, as though it were scripture.Daniel was already at his workbench, planing wood in steady strokes. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “You’ll go again today.”It was not a question.“Yes,” Promise whispered.He paused, wiping sweat from his brow, then said softly, “Don’t let them take your eyes. That’s where your strength sits.”Promise tucked his words into her chest and left.At Echelon, the training hall had been transformed. The tables were pushed back, and tall mirrors leaned against the walls, each one catching slivers of light from the high windows. They multiplied the girls into endless rows of reflections, as though the room were crowded with versions of themselves—some sharper, s