Rejoice was only eight years old when her life changed forever.
Her mother died giving birth to her baby brother, and her father—an overworked bricklayer—couldn’t care for both a baby boy and a baby girl at the same time. So he made a heartbreaking decision: he took the baby with him to the city and left Rejoice in the care of his late wife’s older sister.
“It will only be for a while,” he said, taking her small hand. “You’ll stay with your mother’s sister. She will treat you like a daughter.”
But from the moment Rejoice set foot in that house in Aba, her life turned into a nightmare.
Aunt Monica was a bitter woman. Her husband had left her for a younger woman, and she carried that anger with her every day. Her two sons, Justin and Terry, lived well: private school, fresh bread, clean clothes. But Rejoice slept on a mat by the stove, wore used and torn clothes, and only ate after everyone else had finished.
“Do you think you’re a princess?” Monica yelled at her, throwing soapy water on her. “Are you coming to my house to act like a lady?”
Rejoice washed dishes, carried water, cooked, scrubbed the bathrooms… and yet she still received slaps almost every day. But she never complained. At night, she lay awake, whispering to her dead mother.
“Mommy, I miss you. Why did you leave me?”
At school, she was quiet but intelligent. Her teacher, Mrs. Grace, used to tell her, “You have a gift, Rejoice. Don’t let anyone make you feel small.”
But Rejoice found it hard to believe. Her back was marked by whip scars. Her arms by burns. Her cheeks by Aunt Monica’s heavy rings.
One Saturday morning, everything changed.
Rejoice was cooking rice and forgot to check the pot because she was sweeping the yard. When she returned, the rice was already starting to burn.
When Monica walked into the kitchen and saw the pot, her eyes blazed with fury.
“You useless girl! Do you know how much rice costs at the market?”
“Auntie, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to, I was sweeping…”
Before she could finish, Monica grabbed a kettle of boiling water and, without hesitation, poured it directly onto Rejoice’s face.
The cry that little girl let out wasn’t just one of pain—it was the cry of shattered innocence.
“My face! Mommy! Mommy!” she screamed, clawing at the air, rolling on the ground. Her cousins, Justin and Terry, froze in horror.
“Now you’ll learn! You silly girl!” Monica shouted, dropping the teapot as if nothing had happened.
Neighbors rushed to the scene when they heard the screams. Someone called a man named Kevin, who took Rejoice to the nearest clinic. The nurses were horrified to see her.
“Who did this? This isn’t an accident—this is boiled water! This is cruelty!”
His face was blistered and swollen. His left eye was completely closed. His skin was peeling off. For days, he couldn’t eat or speak properly. He was startled by loud noises, even while sleeping.
The police were called. But Monica, a well-respected and well-connected woman in the church, claimed it was an accident.
“She was playing in the kitchen. She spilled it all over herself. God knows I love that girl.”
No one believed him. But without proof, the case didn’t move forward.
Rejoice stopped talking for weeks. After her discharge, she continued to avoid everyone’s gaze. Monica, unable to deal with the guilt—or the constant reminder of what she’d done—sent Rejoice back to the village to live with her grandmother.
His body now bore visible scars, but the deeper ones—the internal ones—were much harder to see.
That night, sitting behind her grandmother’s stove and looking at the stars, Rejoice whispered:
“God… why do the bad guys win? Why did you let him do this to me?”
And then he added, barely audible, as if it were an oath:
“Someday, I won’t be poor. I’ll never beg for food again. I’ll never live in anyone’s house again.”
The first time Rejoice saw her reflection after the burns, she barely recognized herself. Her once-smooth skin was now twisted and cracked. Her left eye drooped. Her cheek felt like hardened clay. She slowly touched her face and murmured:
“This is me?”
There was no response.
But the girl standing in front of that mirror would rise—scarred, but not defeated.
EPISODE 2: The girl the world rejected
Rejoice was only nine years old when she learned that life wasn’t fair. The burn had stolen her face, but not her soul. And although every time she looked in the mirror, the pain felt too much, a small spark still lived inside her: hope.
For months, she lived silently in her grandmother’s house. The woman was poor, but kind. She made neem leaf infusions to soothe her skin and sang old songs to her every night, though she didn’t know if her granddaughter was sleeping or crying in the dark.
“You’ll be fine, my daughter,” he said, stroking her head. “God does not abandon the righteous. He sees you.”
But Rejoice no longer trusted a God who seemed deaf to her pleas.
The townspeople looked at her with pity or horror. Children shied away from her as if she were a cursed creature. At school, some murmured that her face was divine punishment. Others simply couldn’t bear to look at her. Soon, she stopped going.
One day, as he was walking to the well, he heard a woman murmur:
—Look at her… the burned girl. Who’s going to marry something like that?
Rejoice clutched the bucket rope in her hands and kept walking. She didn’t shed a tear. Not one more.
Salvation came in the form of dusty books.
His grandmother, who had been a teacher before becoming a widow, kept a small box of old texts. “They’re yours, if you promise not to give up,” she told him one day as she blew dust off a novel.
Rejoice devoured them with hunger. She learned to write poetry, to read aloud in front of the mirror, to dream of a world bigger than the one she had been given. At night, she read to her grandmother by the dim light of a candle.
At twelve, she returned to school, head held high and face covered with a handkerchief. When the teacher saw her enter, she couldn’t help but smile tenderly.
—Welcome back, Rejoice. Your seat was always here.
The first few days weren’t easy. Some classmates laughed, others whispered cruel things. But there was one girl named Zina who sat next to him without saying a word. Over time, they became inseparable.
One afternoon after school, Zina asked him:
-Hurts?
Rejoice was silent for a moment, then replied:
—Only when people look at me like I’m a monster.
Zina squeezed his hand tightly.
—You’re not a monster. You’re a warrior.
At sixteen, Rejoice won a scholarship to a regional science competition. It was the first time she’d left town since the accident. In the city, no one knew her story, and although some still regarded her with curiosity, there was no hatred, no slaps, no hot water. Only possibilities.
He returned to the village with a bronze medal and a letter: a non-profit organization wanted to sponsor his studies until university.
His grandmother cried with joy.
But not everyone was happy.
One afternoon, someone knocked on the door of her grandmother’s shack.
It was Aunt Monica.
She was dressed elegantly, as always. Her makeup was impeccable, her expression imperturbable.
“I’ve come to take you with me,” she said. “I’m your legal guardian. And if you’re going to study in the city, you must do so under my roof.”
Rejoice froze. Her grandmother pursed her lips.
—After what you did? You have no shame!
“There’s no proof of anything. And it was years ago. I… I made mistakes, but I want to make amends,” Monica replied, her voice strained.
Rejoice looked at her with a mixture of fear and fury. But also with something else: control.
She was no longer the little girl sobbing in the kitchen. She was a young woman with scars, yes… but also with a purpose.
“I’ll go with you,” he said slowly, “but not because I trust you. I’ll go because someday… you’ll look me in the eyes and wish you’d never touched me.”
Monica swallowed.
Now, years later, Rejoice is twenty-two.
She has a doctorate in biotechnology. She works at a children’s hospital where burned children find solace in her soft voice and crooked smile. Her headscarf no longer hides anything. Her face, though scarred, shines with implacable dignity.
And Monica…
Monica is bedridden, paralyzed by a stroke.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t walk. He just stares at the ceiling, silent.
And who feeds him? Who cleans his body and gives him his medicine?
Rejoice.
Every spoonful you give him, every pill, every look… is a lesson.
“Life gives you what you sow, Aunt,” he whispers. “But I… I sowed love, even when you only gave me pain.”
EPISODE 3: The forgiveness that no one understood
The clock in the hall read 6:00 a.m. Rejoice was already awake.
Every day began the same way: she boiled water, made oatmeal, and ground her Aunt Monica’s pills in a mortar and pestle. Everything had to be ready before the hospital nurse arrived. But Rejoice wasn’t a nurse at that moment. She was the niece society told her aunt should care for her, even though that aunt had ruined her childhood.
She entered the room with the tray. Monica remained motionless. Her eyes, the only survivors of her paralyzed body, followed her slowly. Rejoice placed the spoon near her mouth and spoke in that serene voice that no one could imitate.
—Good morning, Auntie. Today we have oatmeal with banana. Remember how you wouldn’t let me touch the fruit before because it was only for Justin?
Monica didn’t answer, as usual. But sometimes, Rejoice could swear she saw a tear running down her cheek.
At the hospital, Rejoice was different. She wore a white coat and a smile that even the most wounded children could feel like a balm. A five-year-old boy, with burns on both hands, once asked her:
—Doctor, did you get burned too?
Rejoice nodded, crouching down to his level.
—Yes. It hurt a lot. But it also made me stronger.
The boy looked at her with big, admiring eyes.
—So… I’m going to be strong too?
—More than me, kiddo. More than me.
One Sunday afternoon, while sorting through papers for a research project she was conducting on tissue regeneration, Rejoice found an old box in the corner of the closet. It belonged to her grandmother, who had died two years earlier. Inside were letters, photos, a worn Bible… and a small note written in shaky handwriting:
“My daughter Rejoice, if grief ever overwhelms you, don’t return evil for evil. God didn’t ask you for justice. He asked you for purpose.”
Rejoice closed her eyes. She remembered the nights on the mat, the cold soups, the silent tears… and her promise: “I will never live in anyone’s house again.”
She had made it. But something inside her was still broken. Not because of the scars. But because, deep down, a part of her was still hoping for something Monica would never say: “Forgive me.”
A week later, Rejoice was called to the hospital urgently. Monica had suffered a second stroke. She couldn’t even move her eyes. She was barely breathing.
The doctors were clear: “He may not make it through the night.”
Rejoice sat down by the bed. She took her aunt’s limp hand and spoke for the last time.
—You took my childhood. You took my face. But you didn’t take my soul. Every day I fed you was an act of war against hate. And I won.
Tears were now streaming down her face. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from release.
—And for that… even though no one understands it… I forgive you.
A long beep interrupted the silence.
Monica had died.
The funeral was low-key. No one cried much. Some came out of politeness, others out of habit. Rejoice, dressed in white, stood the entire time. Some murmured to each other:
“Why are you doing so much for that woman?
” “I couldn’t.
” “She must be crazy.”
But Rejoice wasn’t listening to any of that.
He had buried his aunt. But more than that, he had buried the resentment.
Today, at twenty-five, Rejoice runs a care center for victims of child abuse. She named it “Star House”—like the stars she watched as a child, crying behind her grandmother’s stove.
Every child who walks through that door receives not only medical care, but something she was denied for years: tenderness.
“You are not what they made you. You are what you choose to be,” he tells them.
And when someone asks her about her face, she just smiles.
—These marks aren’t my shame. They’re my story.
EPISODE 4: When scars speak
The sun fell gently on the rooftops of Aba. It was an ordinary day for most. But for Rejoice, it was the beginning of something different.
For the first time in many years, I was returning to the house where it all began.
Yes. Aunt Monica’s house.
The property had been abandoned since Monica’s death. Justin had left for abroad without looking back, and Terry now lived in Lagos. No one claimed the house. No one would even touch it.
But Rejoice does.
With the keys still rusty, she opened the gate that had so frightened her as a child. The metallic screech sounded like an old ghost waking up.
He walked slowly through the yard. Everything was covered in weeds and dust. The smell of dampness, mixed with memories, hit him in the chest.
The kitchen.
She stood in front of that door for several minutes. That corner where her face had changed forever… was now just an empty space, with a forgotten pot still on the stove.
He closed his eyes.
He heard the echo of the screams, the insults, the pain. But he also remembered the little girl who, even broken, continued to breathe. And he decided to do the unthinkable.
Two months later, Aunt Monica’s old house was no longer the same.
Where there had once been screams, now there was laughter. Where there had once been fear, now there was play.
Rejoice transformed it into a refuge for abused girls.
He called it “The House of Hope.”
The first day it opened, only three girls arrived. One of them, Blessing, had a wound on her back that was still oozing. Another, Amaka, hadn’t spoken a word in two weeks. And the third, Kemi, had such a blank stare it was chilling.
Rejoice greeted them with a smile.
—Welcome home. Here, no one will yell at you. No one will hit you. And no one will turn off your light.
The girls didn’t respond. But at night, Kemi approached her and gently touched her face.
—Were you like us too?
Rejoice nodded, holding back tears.
—Yes. And I still am.
Over time, the shelter grew. Volunteers arrived. Psychologists. Donors. Rejoice began to be invited to conferences, to television programs, to tell her story.
One afternoon, at a university talk, a young woman in the audience raised her hand and asked:
—Would you forgive someone who destroyed your life?
There was a long silence.
Then Rejoice replied in a firm voice:
—Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It means choosing not to let the past control your future. My aunt hurt me, yes. But if I didn’t forgive her, I would still be her prisoner… even after her death.
The room fell silent. Some applauded. Others cried.
And in a corner, a figure watched with shining eyes: Zina , the friend who never abandoned her.
One day, while she was walking through the market, an elderly woman approached her. She was wearing a veil and walking with difficulty.
—Are you… Rejoice?
She nodded, not recognizing her.
The woman slowly removed her veil.
She was Monica’s mother.
“I… I knew what my daughter did to you. I knew everything. And I never did anything.” Her voice trembled. “I always thought it was a family matter. But now I see… that my silence was cowardice.”
Rejoice said nothing.
The woman knelt before her, in the middle of the market.
—Forgive me, daughter. For not defending you. For letting you grow up in the shadows.
People watched. They murmured.
But Rejoice gently lifted her up.
—You don’t have to kneel. The wound has already healed. And if it ever bleeds again… I have clean hands to treat it.
That night, upon returning to the shelter, Rejoice sat with the girls in the courtyard, under the stars.
“Do you know what my grandmother used to tell me?” he asked. “That when the world breaks you, it’s not to destroy you. It’s to show you how much you can rebuild.”
Blessing, who at first couldn’t even sleep without crying, rested her head on his shoulder.
—So… can we heal?
“More than heal,” Rejoice replied. “They’re going to shine.”
EPISODE 5: Light in the Darkness
The “House of Hope” had become much more than a refuge for wounded girls; it was a symbol of resilience, healing, and the future.
Rejoice walked through the rooms, watching laughter break the silence that had reigned in the house for years. Blessing helped prepare dinner, Amaka drew for the first time in weeks, and Kemi sang a song she’d made up.
A soft sound of footsteps brought her out of her thoughts. It was Zina, the faithful friend who had always been by her side.
“Do you want to come with me?” Zina asked. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Rejoice nodded and followed her friend to the town square, where a group of people had gathered around a small makeshift stage.
An elderly man with a deep gaze held a microphone. He was the local mayor, and right behind him was a huge banner that read: “Rejoice in recognition: an example of courage and hope.”
Rejoice’s heart pounded as she heard the mayor speak:
—Today we honor a woman who, despite facing the cruelest adversity, has transformed her pain into light for our entire community.
The applause was deafening.
Rejoice took the stage, her scars illuminated by the lights, her voice firm and clear:
—It wasn’t easy getting here. There were times when I thought the darkness would consume me. But every day I chose to fight. I chose to love even when I was hurt. This recognition isn’t just mine; it’s for all the girls still searching for a safe place. For all those who need to know they can shine.
As he stepped off the stage, a young woman approached him timidly.
—Dr. Rejoice, thank you for teaching us that beauty is in the soul.
Rejoice smiled, remembering her own reflection as a child and how that scarred face was now the story of her strength.
That night, in the shelter, while the girls were sleeping, Rejoice pulled an old box from under the bed. Inside, she kept all the letters and photos that had accompanied her since childhood.
He wrote in a notebook:
“Today I learned that scars don’t define who I am, but rather how I wake up each day. And even though life has burned me, I choose to heal and help others heal.”
She lay down, tired but at peace.
Because I knew the real path was just beginning.
EPISODE 6: The past that is not forgotten
Although life at the “House of Hope” continued with joy and purpose, the ghosts of the past still visited Rejoice on silent nights.
One afternoon, while reviewing documents for a new aid campaign, she received an unexpected call. On the other end of the line, a familiar but shaky voice.
—Rejoice… it’s Justin.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Justin, her cousin who had left without a trace years ago, now wanted to see her.
“Why are you calling me?” she asked, holding back her emotion.
—I need to talk to you. There are things I never said and… I want to try to make amends.
She decided to meet him at a cafe in town.
When he appeared, the man looked tired, with premature wrinkles and guilt-filled eyes.
“I know I don’t have the right,” he began. “When my mother hurt you, I just hid. I was afraid, and I did nothing to protect you.”
Rejoice looked at him without rancor.
—I wasn’t a strong girl either. But I survived. And now, I help other girls survive.
Justin nodded.
—I want to help. I want to be part of “House of Hope.”
Little by little, Justin began working with Rejoice. He repaired the house, organized events, and gradually gained the girls’ trust.
But not everything was easy.
One night, after an argument between him and Terry, his brother, old family wounds were reopened.
“Why do you support her?” Terry yelled at him. “She was never part of the family!”
Justin kept calm.
—Because she’s the family I’ve chosen now. And because I believe in her strength.
At a volunteer meeting, Rejoice addressed the group:
—Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting or allowing the damage to be repeated. It means choosing to heal and build. Justin is here because he decided to be part of that journey. We can all change.
That night, as he closed the doors of the house, he looked up at the starry sky and whispered:
—Thank you, Mom, for giving me the strength to keep going. No matter how dark the road, the light always finds its way.
EPISODE 7: The Awakening of Hope
The “House of Hope” was bustling with activity. Every corner vibrated with laughter, music, and new stories of success. Rejoice had managed to turn that dark space into a beacon for those seeking light.
One morning, while organizing a meeting with the volunteers, she received an unexpected letter from an international organization recognizing her work and offering financial support to expand the shelter.
The news spread quickly. For Rejoice, it was a clear sign that her mission was growing, that the wounds she carried were no longer a limit, but a bridge.
However, not everything was perfect. Some members of the community still viewed her with suspicion, unable to overcome the prejudices and stigma she had carried her entire life.
One night, upon returning to the shelter, he found graffiti on the wall that read: “Monster. You don’t deserve help.”
Rejoice felt the familiar pain, but this time she didn’t let it get to her.
The next day, she gathered the girls and the volunteers.
“This isn’t just an attack on me,” he said firmly. “It’s a reminder that there’s still so much work to be done. But every time they try to extinguish us, we ignite a stronger flame.”
Blessing raised her hand and said:
—Dr. Rejoice, I want to help too. I want all girls to know they can be strong, no matter what anyone says.
Rejoice hugged her.
—That’s right, Blessing. Together we’re invincible.
With the help of the international organization, the House of Hope opened a new wing dedicated to emotional rehabilitation and education for victims of abuse throughout the region.
Rejoice was happy, but she knew her greatest triumph wasn’t the building or the funding. It was seeing each girl rise, heal, and shine with her own light.
One afternoon, while writing in his diary, he found a phrase that summed it all up:
“Scars tell stories. Ours speak of battle, resilience, and above all, hope.”
And that hope, now, was stronger than ever.
EPISODE 8: Rebirth and Legacy
The sun was timidly rising over Aba as Rejoice walked through the halls of the expanded “House of Hope.” Now, the shelter not only housed girls, but also provided workshops, psychological support, and a school reintegration program for hundreds of victims of abuse throughout the region.
Every step he took was a reminder of everything he had overcome. His burnt face was no longer a symbol of pain, but of victory.
That morning, a special ceremony brought together the community, volunteers, and local authorities to officially open the new wing.
The mayor took the microphone and said proudly:
—Rejoice has not only healed her own soul, but has transformed the lives of hundreds. This is a tribute to her courage, her resilience, and her unwavering love.
Rejoice walked onto the stage, and with tears in her eyes she spoke:
—When I was a child, life dealt me cruel blows. I lost my face, my childhood, my confidence. But here, in this house, I’ve found a family, a mission, a purpose. Every girl who passes through these doors teaches me that pain isn’t the end, but the beginning of a story of hope.
When he finished, he went downstairs and walked around to see the girls playing in the garden, some now smiling, others with dried tears on their faces, all full of life.
Epilogue: Rejoice’s Legacy
Years later, Rejoice’s story became an inspiration for an entire country. Books and documentaries were published, and similar programs were established in other regions.
She herself traveled the world to share her experience, demonstrating that human dignity lies not in appearance, but in the strength of the spirit.
Rejoice never forgot her roots or those who helped her along the way. She kept alive the memory of her grandmother, Zina, Justin, and every girl who found a reason to keep going in the darkness.
Her scarred face told the story of a burned girl, yes, but also that of a woman who, with each act of love, rebuilt her world.
And so, in every corner where a quiet voice begins to be heard, in every heart that refuses to give up, lives the true legacy of Rejoice: the hope born from fire.
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