Episode 1

It had been five years since Mira disappeared. Five years since the world stopped spinning in my house. Five years since I had any peace.

I still remember the exact moment she left: twelve years old, hair tied in two buns, wearing the yellow and red dress she insisted on wearing every Sunday. I sent her to the next street to buy bread for snack. She grumbled a little, saying she was tired, but she went. She always obeyed. That was the last time I saw her.

At first, we thought maybe she was delayed, or perhaps the bakery had closed. But as minutes turned into hours, and hours into night, I knew something terrible had happened. The neighborhood joined the search. My husband called the police. Flyers were printed. Churches prayed. Prophets pointed in different directions. But no one found her.

Some said she had been kidnapped. Others whispered that maybe she had run away. But I refused to believe it. My Mira? No. She wasn’t like that. She was quiet, helpful, the protector of her younger siblings.

My husband gave up after two years. He said we had to move on. But how does a mother move on when her child has vanished? I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I wandered the streets at night like a madwoman, peering into gutters, corners, and under bridges. Once, a neighbor even took me to a shrine and swore the gods would reveal her location.

They didn’t.

I clung to her clothes. Her baby photos. Her birth certificate. Her toothbrush. Everything. My life froze, but the world went on.

Until that day.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. I had gone to Balogun Market to buy second-hand uniforms for my two younger children. We didn’t have much, and I was haggling with a loud woman over 200 ₦ when something—or someone—caught my attention across the street. A tall girl, wearing heavy makeup, standing beside a parked car. Red heels. Short skirt. Painted eyes, but tired. I looked once, then looked again.

She turned slightly, smiled at someone, and I dropped the uniforms.

I felt a tightness in my chest.

There was something in her smile.

Something in the way she scratched one side of her face.

That dimple.

I moved my legs before my mind could process. I didn’t scream yet; I simply crossed the street slowly, trying to believe what I saw. As I got closer, her eyes met mine.

She froze.

I froze too.

“Mira?” I whispered, barely audible.

She turned and ran.

I shouted and chased her. My sneakers pounded the hot concrete as I pushed through the crowd. She ran like a hunted animal, through narrow alleys, past abandoned stalls, until she tripped over a sack of rice at the corner of a shop.

I reached her, knelt down, and grabbed her arm.

She fought, kicked, scratched, but I held on.

Then she looked at me—truly looked at me.

“Mom?”

And she collapsed into my arms.

My own daughter.

My Mira.

She sank into my lap as I cried and cradled her as if she were five years old again. Her body was thin, her skin rough, her scent unfamiliar. I touched her face, arms, neck, just to make sure she was real.

“I didn’t die,” she whispered. “I just didn’t know how to come back.”

We sat like that for what felt like hours.

Then she told me everything.

A woman had approached her that day. Told her she had a job. That she could help her family. Innocent Mira followed her. They took her far from home, locked her in a room, and forced her to do things no child should endure.

When she escaped, she had no idea how to return. She changed her name. Slept under bridges. Was beaten. Used. Humiliated.

But she survived.

She told me she started selling herself to feed her siblings—yes, the same siblings still at home. She gave money to strangers who promised to drop her near our complex. Some did. Most didn’t.

She said she saw me once in a hospital but hid. She said she saw her younger brother return home from school but couldn’t speak.

She thought I would hate her.

Hate her?

I cupped her face in my hands and told her she was the strongest girl in the world. That I wasn’t ashamed. That she had saved me. That I had died inside when she disappeared, but today she had returned my life.

She trembled in my arms.

And I whispered, “You’re mine. You’re my daughter. Nothing will ever change that.”

That night, we didn’t go home immediately. I took her to a nearby guesthouse, fed her, cleaned her up, braided her hair while she slept, and cried over every scar I found on her back.

She had been just a little girl when she left. Now, she was a survivor.

But the road ahead wouldn’t be easy.

Because even though I had found her, the world was about to discover where she had been.

And not everyone would welcome her with open arms.

Part 2

The following days were a whirlwind.

At the break of dawn, there were knocks at the door: curious neighbors, distant relatives who had never helped in the search, even strangers claiming they “just wanted to see her.” Some came with sincere tears… others with eyes sharp as knives.

At the market, people stared at us. Some whispered:
“Look… the girl who was lost, and now… you know.”
“She’s a disgrace to the family,” said another voice, louder than necessary.

Mira walked beside me, head down, hood up. Her hands trembled.

“Mom, maybe… maybe I shouldn’t have come back,” she murmured.

My heart sank.
“Don’t say that. This is where you belong.”

But inside, I knew the real enemy wasn’t just the stares—it was poverty. Food at home was scarce. Bills piled up. Mira’s siblings needed school fees.

Then one night, while everyone slept, she sat next to me on the bed and said something that chilled me to the bone:
“I can help, Mom. I can… work.”

“What kind of work?” I asked, fearing the answer.
She didn’t answer. She just lowered her gaze.

I pulled her close.
“No. No more. Never again.”

But the days grew harder. And one Friday, when I opened the empty pantry and saw my younger children crying from hunger, I found myself looking at Mira… and thinking the unthinkable.

It was the first time I understood that, in this world, sometimes the line between protecting and destroying your children… is too thin.

And I was about to cross it.

Part 3

The night I almost did, it rained.

Water pounded the tin roof like a war drum, and in the dim light, I could hear the sound of empty stomachs in the next room.

Mira sat silently, playing with a frayed thread from her hoodie. Her face was hidden, but her eyes… her eyes said it all: she already knew what I was thinking.

“Mom,” she whispered, “if I don’t do it, my siblings will starve.”

A lump rose in my throat. I stood, grabbed the old umbrella, and opened the door.
“No. If someone has to sell something so we can eat… it will be me.”

I took two steps into the street, but a cold hand grabbed my wrist.
“You don’t understand… this isn’t your world, Mom. It’s mine.”

Before I could respond, a black car stopped in front of the house. Its headlights pierced us like blades. A tall man got out, sharp-suited, hard-eyed.

“Mira,” he said, not looking at me, as if I were invisible, “we need to talk.”

She stood slowly. I stepped forward to intervene, but his voice stopped me cold:
“It’s about that night… and what really happened before you disappeared.”

My heart lurched.
Mira glanced at me, lips trembling… and I knew there was a secret she had never told me.

And that man… knew everything.

Part 4

The silence was so thick I could hear my own heartbeat.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

The man barely turned his head toward me, as if deciding whether I deserved an answer.
“I am the reason your daughter is still alive,” he said with chilling calm.

Mira closed her eyes, as if the words weighed more than anything else.
“You don’t have to tell him anything,” she whispered. “Not now.”

But he stepped forward, rain glinting cold on his shoulders.
“That night five years ago, when everyone thought she disappeared… it was no accident.”

I felt the ground slip beneath my feet.
“What are you saying?”

“Someone sold her.” His words fell like knives. “And I was the one who paid… to get her out before it was too late.”

My throat burned. I turned to Mira, seeking denial, a shake of the head, anything… but all I found was silent crying, held in for years.

“Mom…” her broken voice—“I wasn’t lost. They… hid me.”

Then the man spoke again:
“The person who made the deal… is someone you know very well.”

My breath caught. I knew that the next word he spoke… would change everything forever.

Final Part

Rain pounded the ground as if trying to erase the scene about to unfold.

“Say their name,” I demanded, feeling rage rise from my stomach to my throat.

The man held my gaze. Didn’t blink.
“It was… your sister.”

I felt the air ripped from my lungs.
“That’s impossible,” I stammered. “She… she helped me search… cried with me every night…”

Mira shook her head gently, soaked, trembling.
“She took me to the van… told me it was a game. That I had to hide. And then… handed me over.”

The images in my mind began to crumble like an old building: every hug from my sister, every word of comfort, every tear I believed was real… all tainted with betrayal.

“Why?” I whispered, not sure I wanted the answer.

The man looked down, as if it were too dirty to say out loud.
“Money. And revenge. She never forgave him for marrying his ex.”

I stood frozen, feeling cold—not from the rain, but from the empty chill that had just opened inside me.

Mira stepped toward me, and I held her tight, a hug that hurt to my bones.
“Never again, daughter. No one will ever touch you again.”

The man nodded and turned, disappearing into the shadows as if he had never existed.

In my mind, only one thing was clear: I wasn’t calling the police yet. Not before looking her in the eyes… and making her tell me the truth with her own mouth.

Because what began five years ago… hadn’t ended tonight.
It had just begun.