The meal was terrible—slightly burnt beans, uneven rice, too much salt—but none of the girls complained. They ate quietly, and in that small act, something changed.
The house was broken.
But it had not collapsed.
From the next morning onward, Ayetoro whispered about them.
Some pitied Toby.
Others mocked him.
“That man could not even keep his wife.”
“Five daughters and no mother. What kind of home will that be?”
Toby heard the gossip and kept walking.
Inside the small house, Yetunde stepped into responsibilities no eleven-year-old should carry. She learned to cook, fetched water at dawn, braided her sisters’ hair, and helped with homework by lantern light. Kemi turned her pain into fierceness. Abiola became quiet and observant. Folake still asked if their mother missed them. And Titi slowly stopped asking when she was coming back.
Toby worked harder than ever.
His workshop became his refuge.
Word spread that the carpenter by the dusty road did excellent work. Small orders became bigger ones: school benches, church pews, market tables. There was never enough money, but Toby refused to pull the girls out of school.
“Education will open doors,” he told them. “Doors poverty cannot close.”
When Yetunde’s exam fees came due and he did not have enough, Toby worked through the night, built three tables by lantern light, sold them cheaply the next day, and paid the fees.
That was how they survived.
Sacrifice by sacrifice.
Year after year.
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