A Voice for the Voiceless

My name is Emefiona Chikamso, and my heart beats with the rhythm of Oraifite. Oh, Oraifite! The very name conjures images of lush green fields stretching towards the horizon, the gentle rustle of palm trees whispering secrets to the wind, and the warm, embracing sun that kisses our skin. It’s a place where laughter should echo from every compound, where the aroma of delicious meals wafts through the air, and where children’s voices should be as bright and clear as the morning dew. I’m from Oraifite, in the Ekwusigo Local Government Area, a place I love with all my being.

But lately, my heart aches when I think of Oraifite, and indeed, of so many other places. Because beneath the surface of sunny smiles and communal greetings, there is a shadow. A deep, dark shadow that creeps into homes and steals the joy from innocent eyes. It’s the shadow of maltreatment, the silent suffering of children who are not loved, not cared for, and often, not even seen.

When I look around, and when I read and see what happens in the world, a heavy weight settles in my chest. So many children, just like me, are made to feel small, unwanted, and afraid. And often, this cruelty comes from the very people who are supposed to protect them, the ones who should be a source of comfort and love. I’m talking about stepmothers, whose hearts, for reasons I struggle to understand, can turn as cold as the harmattan wind, and about others who forget that a child’s heart is a delicate thing, easily broken.

I can’t stand by and let this happen. I can’t let the tears of these children go unnoticed, their silent pleas unheard. That’s why I’m writing this book. I want to open your eyes, and open your hearts, to the struggles of these brave little souls. I want to tell their stories, to shine a light on the unfairness and the hardships they endure. And most importantly, I want to find a way to help them, to bring them comfort, and to remind them that they are Chika. Chika is a gentle soul, with eyes that used to sparkle like polished obsidian, full of mischief and dreams. But lately, those eyes had become clouded, holding a perpetual sadness that tugged at my heart.

Chika lived with her father and her stepmother. Her mother had passed away when she was very young, and while her father loved her, he was often away for work, leaving Chika in the care of her stepmother. And oh, that stepmother! She had a face that seemed permanently set in a frown, and a voice that could curdle milk. She never seemed to have a kind word for Chika, or for any of the children in the neighborhood, for that matter.

On this particular afternoon, Chika’s stepmother was shouting. Her voice, sharp and angry, cut through through a gap in the fence, I saw Chika standing in the middle of the courtyard, her small body trembling. She was holding a broken clay pot, its pieces scattered around her feet.

“Useless girl!” the stepmother shrieked, her face contorted with rage. “Can’t you even carry a simple pot without breaking it? You are a disgrace! You will pay for this!”

Chika’s eyes were wide with fear, tears silently streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t say a word, just stood there, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller. Elder obi watched, my own heart pounding like a drum against my ribs, as the stepmother raised her hand and struck Chika across the face. It wasn’t a hard blow, but the shock, the humiliation, and the sheer meanness of it sent Chika stumbling backward. She fell to the ground, the broken pot shards digging into her skin.

Elder obi wanted to scream, to run in and defend her, but a knot of fear tightened in my throat. I was just a child myself, and the stepmother’s fury was a terrifying thing to behold. He could only watch, my hands clenched into fists, as the stepmother continued to berate Chika, her words like venomous darts. She made Chika clean up the mess, her hands bleeding from the sharp edges of the broken pottery.

Later, when the stepmother had gone the compound. Chika was sitting on the ground, her knees pulled up to her chest, still sobbing quietly. Her face was red where she had been hit, and her arms were scratched.

“Chika,” he whispered, my voice trembling. “Are you okay?”

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with a pain that was too deep for her young age. “She hates me, Elder obi ” she choked out. “She always hates me.”

My heart broke for her. He sat beside her, and without thinking, he reached out and gently touched her scraped arm. “No, she doesn’t hate you,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “She’s just… not happy. But you are good, Chika. You are kind and good.”

She looked at me, a flicker of something – hope, perhaps? – in her tear-filled eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” Elder obi affirmed, my voice gaining strength. “And I’m your friend. And friends help each other.”

That day, something shifted within me. Seeing Chika’s pain, her fear, and her quiet resilience, ignited a fire in my soul. It was no longer enough to feel sad about the stories I heard. I had to do something. I had to be a voice for those who couldn’t speak, a protector for those who were vulnerable.

This is not just Chika’s story. There are so many other children out there, hidden in plain sight, their spirits bruised but not broken. They are children who are denied food, forced to do endless chores, subjected to harsh punishments for no reason, and stripped of their joy. They are children who are made to feel like burdens, when they are, in fact, precious gifts.

It’s easy to turn away, to pretend we don’t see the signs, to believe that it’s not our business. But it is our business. Every child deserves to feel safe, loved, and cherished. Every child deserves to laugh freely, to play without fear, and to grow up knowing their worth.

I know that facing such cruelty can make anyone feel small and powerless. It can make you doubt yourself, make you believe that you are indeed worthless. But I want you, if you are one of these children, to know this: you are not worthless. You are strong, even when you feel weak. You have a light within you, even when darkness surrounds you. Please, believe in yourself. Hold onto that flicker of hope, that tiny ember of resilience.

And if you see a child suffering, if you witness the shadows creeping in, please, don’t look away. Be like Elder Obi, a wise and kind man in our village who sees so much. He is the kind of person who listens, who understands, and who offers a helping hand without judgment. He noticed the change in Chika, the weariness in her eyes, and he would often stop to talk to her, his gentle words a balm to her wounded spirit. He has a way of seeing the truth, and I believe he sees the injustice that Chika faces. He is a beacon of hope, and he reminds me that there are good people in the world, people who care.

So, let us all be Elder Obi. Let us be like Elder Obi. Let us open our hearts and our eyes. Let us be the voices for the voiceless, the protectors of the vulnerable. Let us work together to ensure that every child, in Oraifite and in the city and every where and every country can experience the warmth of love, the safety of a home, and the boundless joy of childhood., Thanks