Chidura Bailwa stared quietly through the hospital window as the nurse helped her into the wheelchair. Every small movement sent sharp pain through her stomach. The surgery had lasted almost 6 hours, and even now, her body felt heavy and weak. Her hands trembled from exhaustion. She had not slept properly in days.
Dr. Tumalo Kosa walked beside her with a serious expression on his face. Before she left, he looked directly at her mother, Eunice.
“She needs complete rest,” he warned firmly. “No stress, no lifting, no standing for long periods. If those stitches reopen, it could become dangerous.”
Eunice nodded quickly without really listening.
Mandla was too busy checking his phone. His wife, Sod, looked bored the entire time.
The drive back home was silent except for the sound of traffic outside. Chidura leaned her head against the car window, trying not to cry from the pain shooting through her abdomen every time the car hit a bump in the road.
When they finally arrived at the family house in Abuja, nobody rushed to help her out of the car.
Mandla walked inside first.
Sod followed behind him carrying shopping bags.
Even her own mother entered the house without looking back.
Chidura slowly pushed herself out alone, one shaky step at a time, holding her side tightly as pain burned through her body. Her overnight hospital bag dragged against the ground behind her.
The moment she entered the house, something felt cold.
Not the air.
The people.
No hugs. No welcome home. No one asked if she was okay.
From the dining room, she could already hear laughter, plates moving, and voices discussing food for the weekend, as if nothing had happened to her at all.
Chidura stood there quietly, pale and exhausted, suddenly realizing something painful.
She had just survived major surgery.
But to her family, she was still only useful when she was serving them.
Chidura barely made it to the couch before the pain in her stomach became too much again. She lowered herself down carefully, breathing slowly as her stitches pulled painfully under the bandages. Her whole body felt weak. Even sitting upright took effort.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, hoping maybe someone would finally care enough to ask if she needed water, medicine, or even help getting to her room.
Instead, she heard her mother’s voice from the dining area.
“Use the gold plates for Sunday,” Eunice said loudly. “Pastor Adewale and his family are coming. Everything must look proper.”
Chidura slowly opened her eyes.
Mandla was moving chairs around while Sod stood beside the table, scrolling through decoration ideas on her phone.
“No, no,” Sod said. “The stew should be spicy this time. Last family dinner was too plain.”
Then she suddenly looked toward the living room and noticed Chidura sitting there weakly.
“Oh, good,” Sod said casually. “You’re back early enough.”
Chidura frowned in confusion.
“Early enough for what?”
Sod exchanged a quick look with Mandla, as if the answer was obvious.
“For the dinner,” Mandla said. “Who else is going to cook?”
Chidura thought she had heard him wrong.
Her stomach still burned from surgery. She could barely stand straight.
Before she could even answer, her mother walked in holding a notepad full of grocery items.
“You’ve rested enough already,” Eunice said with irritation. “The doctor discharged you, didn’t he? That means you’re better.”
Chidura stared at her silently.
Better.
She still had fresh stitches across her abdomen. She still needed help walking. Even breathing too hard hurt.
“I just got home,” Chidura said softly.
Eunice rolled her eyes immediately.
“Every small thing becomes drama with you.”
Mandla sighed impatiently.
“Look, guests are coming tomorrow. We already told people about your cooking.”
Sod folded her arms.
“And nobody cooks jollof rice better than you.”
Chidura looked around the room slowly, shocked by how normal they all acted.
Nobody cared that she had just come from the hospital after major surgery. Nobody cared that she was pale, exhausted, and trembling from pain.
To them, the only important thing was dinner.
Not her recovery. Not her health.
Just service.
And sitting there on that couch, Chidura began to realize something heartbreaking.
Her family never saw her as someone who needed love.
Only someone who needed to keep giving.
The next morning, Chidura woke up to sharp pain shooting through her stomach.
For a few seconds, she forgot where she was. Then reality hit her again.
Not a place of comfort.
A place where nobody cared if she was hurting.
She slowly reached for the pain medication beside her bed, but even sitting up made her dizzy. Her body felt weak and heavy. The stitches under her bandage burned every time she moved.
Downstairs, she could already hear noise.
Pots clanging. Music playing. People talking loudly.
The family dinner preparations had already started.
Chidura carefully stood up and held onto the wall for support. As she walked downstairs, the smell of onions and spices filled the kitchen, but instead of food already being prepared, the counters were empty.
Raw ingredients covered the table.
Everything was waiting for her.
Sod walked into the kitchen holding her phone and smiled casually.
“Oh, good,” she said. “You’re finally awake. We still need pepper chopped, rice washed, chicken cleaned, and stew started before noon.”
Chidura stared at her in disbelief.
“Sod, I just had surgery.”
Sod actually laughed.
Not a nervous laugh.
A cruel one.
“You’re not dying,” she said, shaking her head. “The way you’re acting, someone would think they removed your whole body.”
Mandla chuckled from the dining room.
Chidura felt her chest tighten.
Not one person was taking her pain seriously.
Her mother entered the kitchen carrying bags of groceries and immediately frowned when she saw Chidura still standing there.
“Why are you just looking around?” Eunice snapped. “Guests will be here tomorrow.”
“Mama,” Chidura said softly, trying not to cry. “The doctor said I shouldn’t stand too long. He said I need complete rest.”
Eunice dropped the grocery bags onto the counter with irritation.
“Women in this family work through pain,” she said coldly. “When I gave birth to Mandla, I was cooking the next day.”
“But this was major surgery.”
“And?” Eunice cut her off sharply. “Life does not stop because you’re uncomfortable.”
The room went quiet for a second.
Chidura looked at each of them one by one, hoping maybe someone would finally show even a little kindness.
Nothing.
Mandla kept scrolling on his phone.
Sod opened a soda and sat down comfortably at the table.
Her mother started giving cooking instructions like Chidura was a hired worker instead of her daughter.
And standing there in pain, still wearing her hospital wristband, Chidura realized something that hurt even more than the surgery itself.
If she collapsed in front of them, they would probably still ask who was finishing dinner.
By afternoon, the kitchen felt unbearably hot.
Steam filled the air while pots boiled on the stove. The smell of fried onions and pepper hung heavily in the room, making Chidura feel even more nauseous.
Sweat rolled slowly down the side of her face as she stood at the counter trying to cut vegetables. Her hands would not stop shaking. Every small movement pulled painfully against her stitches. It felt like something inside her stomach was tearing little by little each time she reached for another plate or lifted another pot.
More than once, she had to grip the counter just to stay standing.
But nobody came to help.
From the living room, she could hear laughter.
Loud laughter.
Mandla was watching football with his feet stretched comfortably across the couch. Sod sat beside him, scrolling through social media while laughing at videos on her phone. Eunice was telling guests over the phone about the beautiful family dinner they were preparing for tomorrow, as if she had done any of the work herself.
Meanwhile, Chidura stood alone in the kitchen, fighting tears.
At one point, the pain became so sharp that she quietly leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her breathing became uneven. She pressed one trembling hand against her stomach, trying not to cry out loud.
But before she could even rest for one minute, Eunice’s voice came from the living room.
“Chidura, don’t burn the stew.”
She quickly straightened herself again.
“I’m trying,” she whispered weakly, even though nobody cared enough to hear how much pain was in her voice.
A few minutes later, Sod walked into the kitchen holding an empty glass. She looked around casually before frowning.
“Why are you moving so slowly?”
Chidura looked at her with exhausted eyes.
“I’m in pain.”
Sod sighed dramatically.
“Everybody is tired, Chidura. You’re not special.”
Then she walked away again.
Just like that.
No sympathy. No concern. Nothing.
Hours passed.
The more Chidura cooked, the weaker she became. Her back hurt. Her legs trembled. Even lifting the spoon to stir the stew started feeling impossible.
And the entire time, her family kept laughing in the next room while she silently suffered alone only a few steps away from them.
That was the part that hurt the most.
Not the stitches.
Not the surgery.
But realizing that the people who were supposed to love her could hear her struggling and still never once came to ask if she was okay.
As Chidura slowly stirred the pot of stew, her vision started to blur from exhaustion. The kitchen noise faded for a moment as memories quietly filled her mind.
This wasn’t new.
Taking care of everyone while nobody cared about her had been her entire life.
Three years earlier, when Mandla’s transport business failed, he had come home angry and desperate after losing almost everything. Creditors were calling nonstop. His car had nearly been repossessed. For weeks, he stayed locked inside his room, pretending everything was fine.
Then, suddenly, the debt disappeared.
Mandla told everyone he had figured things out.
What nobody knew was that Chidura had secretly emptied most of her savings to save him. She still remembered sitting alone in her office parking lot that night, staring at her bank account with tears in her eyes after transferring the money.
Mandla never even thanked her properly.
A year later, Eunice became seriously ill. Hospital bills piled up quickly. Every week, there seemed to be another test, another payment, another emergency.
Eunice spent months proudly telling relatives that God provided.
But God wasn’t the one secretly paying every invoice before the due dates.
It was Chidura.
Late nights. Extra contracts. Skipped vacations. Exhausting herself quietly just to keep the family afloat.
Even the house they all lived in.
Most of the mortgage payments had come from her account.
Electric bills. Food. Repairs. Internet. Furniture.
Whenever something needed money, somehow Chidura always handled it before anyone else noticed there was even a problem.
And over time, the family became used to it.
Used to comfort.
Used to rescue.
Used to her sacrifice.
The painful part was that nobody ever asked how she managed it all. Nobody wondered why she barely rested. Nobody noticed how hard she worked.
To them, money simply appeared whenever life became difficult.
Standing there in the kitchen, sweating and shaking from pain, Chidura slowly realized something heartbreaking.
The family didn’t love her because of who she was.
They loved what she silently provided.
And the saddest part was that even after everything she had done for them, they still couldn’t give her one single day to heal.
By evening, the house was full of people.
Voices echoed through the living room while music played softly in the background. Guests laughed loudly around the dining table, completely unaware of what had been happening in the kitchen all day.
Chidura could barely feel her legs anymore. The heat from the stove mixed with the pain in her body until everything started feeling unreal. Her breathing had become slow and uneven. Every few minutes, she had to secretly grab the counter to stop herself from falling.
But still, she kept going, because nobody else would.
Her mother was busy entertaining guests.
Mandla was showing people football highlights on television.
Sod sat comfortably in the lounge accepting compliments about the smell of the food, acting as if she had helped prepare any of it.
Meanwhile, Chidura stood alone carrying the final tray of food toward the dining room.
Her hands shook violently underneath the heavy tray. The room around her started spinning. She blinked hard, trying to focus.
One more step.
Then another.
Suddenly, a sharp pain exploded through her stomach so violently that she gasped out loud.
Her knees buckled instantly.
The tray slipped from her trembling hands. Fresh plates shattered across the floor. Glasses exploded into pieces. Hot stew splashed across the tiles.
The loud sound silenced the entire house.
Guests jumped in shock.
For one terrifying second, nobody moved.
Then Chidura collapsed hard onto the floor beside the broken dishes.
A scream filled the room.
