With no siblings and no grandparents, the only relative who agreed to take her in was her father’s elder brother, Uncle Obie, who lived in the village with his wife Amaka and their daughter, Nenah.

At first, they welcomed her warmly. There were smiles, warm meals, and even matching dresses for her and Nenah. But the moment the money her father had left behind for Meera ran dry, everything changed.

Sweet Aunt Amaka became cruel.

“Do I look like I picked you from the dustbin?” she would spit. “If you’re not sweeping, you’re washing. If you’re not washing, then you’re just standing there looking like a lost goat.”

Nenah never lifted a finger. She painted her nails, mocked Meera’s torn slippers, and reminded her daily, “You’re the servant in this house.”

The pain worsened when school resumed. Meera had dressed in her old uniform, ready to follow Nenah to the village secondary school. But Amaka blocked the doorway and barked, “You think we’re Father Christmas? I can pay for my own child, not two. Stay at home. There’s rice to winnow.”

That day, Meera’s heart broke. But she did not cry. In that house, tears only brought more insults.

Now, as she walked alone to the farm, she thought of her mother, of her father, of the life that had vanished. Then she saw something on the narrow path ahead.

A man lay sprawled in the dust.

At first she thought he was a bundle of cassava, but when she drew closer she saw he was real—sweating, pale, barely conscious. His leg was twisted, and on his lower calf were two swollen puncture marks.

Snakebite.

Her basket dropped.

For one second, she froze. Then instinct took over.

She pulled the cloth from her waist and tied it tightly above the wound. She stared at the bite, swallowed hard, and bent her head. She sucked the venom from his leg and spat it out again and again, ignoring the bitter metallic taste that made her stomach churn.

Then she dragged him onto her shoulder and half-carried, half-pulled him all the way to the village clinic.

She burst into the hallway, breathless. “Please, help him! Snakebite!”

A nurse and an attendant rushed forward and laid the man on a bed. Another nurse reached for the antivenom.

Then the matron stopped her.

“Where is the deposit slip?”

Meera blinked. “What?”

“We need five thousand naira before treatment.”

Meera stared in disbelief. “He’s dying. Please start treatment—I’ll bring the money.”

“This is not a charity home,” the matron said coldly.

Meera ran.

She ran straight to the only person in the village she trusted—Hope.

Hope was outside pounding yam. Meera gasped, “Please, I need five thousand naira. A man is dying.”

Hope did not ask questions. She ran inside and came back with the money. “Please bring it back. That’s my mama’s pepper soup money.”

“I will. I promise.”

Meera rushed back to the clinic and handed over the cash. Only then did they begin treatment.

By the time she finally returned home, the sun was already low.

Amaka’s voice struck before she could explain.

“Where have you been? Were you chasing boys? If you get pregnant, don’t bother coming back here!”

Meera dropped the basket at the kitchen door, exhausted. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for yourself,” Amaka snapped. “Go and cook.”

That night, after scrubbing pots and swallowing insults, Meera lay on her mat and stared into the dark. Something in her had shifted. She did not know who that man was, but she knew this story was not over.

She was ri