Writers 
Living in the ghetto was never easy.
Unemployment was everywhere, and everyone seemed to be struggling to survive. Mama was doing everything she could, and I helped her whenever I could. Sometimes, I followed her to houses where she went to clean. Other times, I helped her hawk goods on the street. We did whatever we could to put food on the table.
But while Mama was fighting to keep us alive, I was slowly being pulled into a life she could not completely control.
Smoking.
Drinking.
Things I had never imagined myself doing. Then, one bright afternoon, everything changed. By that time, I was no longer a little teenager. I was older, already well into secondary school. That morning, Mama told me she had to go and help someone clean a house. She asked me to help sell some goods on the street while she was gone.
I agreed.
My four cousins and I were preparing to leave when one of them suddenly screamed. Then she started coughing. At first, we thought it was nothing serious. But the coughing became louder and more violent. Within moments, everyone in the house was awake. Then she coughed up blood. Panic took over. We abandoned everything and rushed her to the hospital. Mama and her sister sat quietly at the reception, waiting for the doctor. Nobody knew what to expect. After some time, the doctor came out and looked at both women.
“Who is the mother of the girl?”
Mama's sister immediately stood up.
The doctor asked what the girl had eaten the previous night. We told him it was rice the same meal all of us had eaten. Then he asked another question.
“Is she a smoker?”
The room went silent. Mama and her sister already knew the answer. So did we. Mama's sister looked at the doctor desperately.
“Please, what happened to my daughter?”
The doctor explained that her condition was extremely serious and that her heavy smoking had severely affected her health. But there was nothing more they could do. She died.
We returned home in tears.
For days, the house felt strangely quiet. We mourned her, but I could not stop thinking about what had happened.
Then, one afternoon, I returned from school and found Mama packing again. “Where are we going this time?” I asked. “I hope we are not going to your brother's house. That place is even worse.”
Mama looked at me.
“My daughter, Amara, we are not going there. We are moving into our own place.”
I stared at her.
“Even if it is only one room, I am taking you out of this ghetto.”
She had made up her mind.
We packed our few belongings and got on the road again. Eventually, Mama found us a room in an isolated area called Fresh. It was inside an unfinished building. The owner had divided the building into five unfinished rooms and rented one to us. There was only one window. Mama covered it with cardboard and whatever hard materials she could find. Thankfully, the door was strong.
For the first time, we had peace.
No smoking.
No drinking.
But leaving the ghetto did not instantly erase what it had done to me. The cravings remained. Whenever I desperately wanted to smoke or drink, Mama would give me a bitter herbal mixture. It made me dizzy, and I would sleep immediately. Slowly, I began to recover.
But now I had another problem.
I made one or two female friends at my new secondary school, but I was already approaching the end of my education.
University was waiting.
I didn't know whether Mama could afford it.
I didn't even know if I would go.
Our future was completely uncertain.
For now, we had only three things to worry about:
Food.
Shelter.
Survival came first.
Everything else would have to wait.
