Lagos wakes slowly, a symphony of car horns and distant calls to prayer. But the air in our small flat is still thick with sleep, heavy with the humidity that clings even before dawn. Mama’s side of the bed is empty, just a faint imprint of her warmth on the faded cotton sheet. She left before the sun, another day chasing shillings in the crowded markets.

Fourteen years old. I stretch, feeling the weight of my youngest sister, still asleep beside me, her small hand clutching my arm. Responsibility. It’s a familiar ache in my chest, heavier than any load I carry on my head.

The baby starts to fuss, a low whimper that quickly escalates to a wail. I’m up, shushing him gently, the scent of kerosene and fried plantain filling my senses. Another day begins.

The bucket feels heavier than usual as I make my way back from the communal tap, my arms aching. My brother, Emeka, trails behind me, kicking a dented tin can, his laughter echoing in the narrow street. He doesn’t see the worry that creases my brow, the longing in my heart.

School. It seems like a distant land, a shimmering oasis in the desert of my days. I yearn for the cool quiet of the classroom, for the escape of textbooks and the promise they hold. But Mama needs help, the younger ones need care. My duty is here, woven into the fabric of our lives.

Sometimes, late at night, when the city finally sleeps and the only sound is the whirring of mosquitoes, I let myself dream. I imagine a different life, a life where I could chase my own ambitions, where my mind could soar beyond the confines of our small flat.

But then, I hear the soft breaths of my siblings, feel the weight of their dependence, and a fierce love washes over me, chasing away the shadows of doubt. This is my reality, my purpose. I am the eldest daughter, the second mother, the keeper of dreams. And in the heart of this chaotic, vibrant city, I find my own quiet strength blooming.