My name is Amaka.
At 19, I was in love with Chigozie.
He was my first everything — my first kiss, my first dream, my first heartbreak.
When I got pregnant, I thought it would bring us closer.
Instead, he vanished.
His last words were:
“I can’t marry you. My mother says you’re not our class. I’m already engaged to someone abroad. Handle it on your own.”
He blocked my number.
His family ignored me.
My own mother nearly collapsed in shame.
I was thrown out of school.
Shunned by the same church choir I once led.
But I kept the child.
Because he was innocent.
Because he kicked in my belly with a rhythm that felt like hope.
I named him Chidi — meaning God exists.
I sold yam by the roadside to survive.
Boiled corn in rainy season.
Roamed the market with a tray, carrying my son on my back.
There were nights I cried into empty pots.
Times I soaked garri with tears.
But Chidi never lacked love.
At 3, he could recite memory verses.
At 6, he was leading school assembly.
I hustled hard.
Saved every naira.
Took a free catering course at a community centre.
Started small: birthday parties, women’s meetings, church events.
Soon, people were calling me “Chef Maka.”
I built a brand.
Fast forward 12 years.
One day, I got a big job.
A high-society wedding.
The bride’s family wanted traditional meals and modern pastries.
They paid upfront.
No complaints.
I coordinated everything — from small chops to jollof rice.
When I arrived at the venue, I saw them.
Chigozie.
And his wife.
