SCORN AND STRUGGLE
The first time Ebimene truly felt the weight of her fall was not when she lost her home, nor when she spent her last money on food. It was when she ran into Adesua.
Adesua had always been her rival in high school. She was smart, but Ebimene had been smarter. She was pretty, but Ebimene's natural charm had always shone brighter. She had money, but nothing compared to the wealth and security Ebimene had once enjoyed. Their unspoken competition had been the source of many whispered conversations, with Adesua constantly trying to prove herself better.
And now, fate had given her the perfect opportunity to strike.
It happened one humid afternoon at the bustling local market, where Ebimene had gone to buy food with the little she had managed to save from her latest shift. Her clothes, once fine and tailored, were now faded and loose. She kept her head down, hoping to remain invisible. But Adesua saw her.
"Ebimene?" Adesua's voice rang out, exaggerated shock laced in every syllable. "Is that really you?"
Ebimene froze, her grip tightening around the small bag of groceries she could afford. She turned slowly, meeting the smug, satisfied smirk on Adesua's face.
She wasn't alone. Two of her old school friends stood beside her, their expensive handbags resting casually on their arms, their eyes filled with amusement.
"Oh my God, it is you!" One of them gasped dramatically. "I almost didn't recognize you. You've… changed."
Adesua tilted her head, pretending to examine her. "No chauffeur? No designer clothes? My, how the mighty have fallen."
Laughter rippled through the trio as they looked her up and down, their gazes stripping away what little dignity she had left.
Ebimene swallowed the lump in her throat. She had prepared herself for hardships, for hunger, for sleepless nights. But she had not prepared for this—being a spectacle for those who once envied her.
She turned to leave, but Adesua wasn't done.
"I have to say, I always suspected your parents' money was what made you special," Adesua continued, stepping closer. "And now that it's gone… well, I guess there's nothing left of you, is there?"
Ebimene clenched her fists, willing herself to remain calm. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
She forced a smile. "You think money made me who I was?" She shook her head. "You never understood me, Adesua. And you never will."
With that, she turned and walked away, ignoring the taunts and laughter that followed her. But her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a hammer against her ribs. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, but she forced herself to hold her head high, even as her nails dug into her palms.
But the worst was yet to come.
As she took a turn into a narrow alley leading to the main road, a figure stepped in her path.
She knew him. Ebimene had seen him countless times before, a man whose lingering stares had always unsettled her. Back when she lived in wealth, he had never dared to approach her. Now, he saw an opportunity.
"Ebimene," he drawled, his lips curling in a lazy smirk. "Didn't think I'd ever get to talk to you up close."
Her pulse quickened. "Excuse me," she muttered, trying to move past him, but he stepped in her way.
"Not so fast." He reached out, brushing a strand of her hair between his fingers. "You used to act like you were too good for people like me. Always walking around like a princess. But look at you now. No guards, no fancy cars, no money. Just another broke girl on the street."
His hand trailed toward her arm. She jerked away.
"Don't touch me." Her voice was sharp, but it did nothing to deter him.
He laughed. "Why so cold? You don't have that rich-girl attitude anymore, do you?"
Fear coiled around her spine. She glanced around, but the alley was empty. Adesua and her friends had already walked away, their laughter fading in the distance. There was no one to help her.
Her body tensed as he stepped closer, his breath hot against her skin. Her stomach churned. For the first time in her life, she felt truly powerless.
His eyes gleamed with a sick pleasure, as if he had been waiting for this moment. "You know, I've watched you for a long time," he murmured. "Always so untouchable, so perfect. But now…" He reached for her again.
Then, as his fingers brushed her sleeve, something snapped inside her.
With all the force she could muster, she shoved him backward and ran.
She didn't stop until she reached her tiny house, her hands shaking as she locked the door behind her. Her heart pounded in her chest, rage and humiliation swirling in her mind like a storm.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
She had been weak. She had been helpless.
Never again.
That night, as she stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror, she made a new vow.
She would never let anyone make her feel powerless again.
The next morning, the bruises on her arms reminded her of her helplessness, but they also fueled something deep inside—an anger that burned hotter than anything she had ever felt. She refused to be prey. She refused to be anyone's victim.
And so, Ebimene began to train. She couldn't afford a gym, couldn't pay for self-defense classes, but that didn't matter. She scoured the internet, watching every martial arts video she could find. She studied the movements in action movies, practiced in her cramped living room, bruising herself countless times as she learned to punch, to block, to strike with precision.
At first, her body resisted. She was sore, weak, uncoordinated. The pain was unbearable some nights, her muscles screaming in protest. But pain was nothing new to her. She embraced it, pushed through it.
She learned to fall and rise again, each failure strengthening her resolve. There were nights she collapsed on the floor, breathless and aching, only to force herself up and go again. She memorized every technique, mimicked every stance, shadowboxed against an invisible enemy.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. And still, she trained.
She would punch until her knuckles bled, kick until her legs trembled. She found solace in the rhythm of combat, in the control it gave her. Each strike was a promise—to herself, to the world. A promise that she would never be weak again.
Two years passed, and the girl who had once cowered in fear was gone.
She was stronger now. Faster. Sharper. Her body moved with a lethal grace, honed through relentless practice.
And soon, the world would see just how powerful she had become.