Concrete walls.

Metal gates.

Windows that stayed shut longer than they opened.

Inside me, a child grew.

Not hungry.

Not poor.

Just contained.

Footsteps were soft in my rooms.

Too soft for a growing body.

Laughter rarely stayed long enough to echo.

The mother’s voice traveled well through my corridors.

Warnings always did.

Not in shouting.

In reminders.

People outside are not for you.

Care is scarce.

Love is not generous.

The child learned this before learning multiplication.

Visitors came and left.

Friends were discussed, then dismissed.

Playdates died in sentences that began with “you don’t know people.”

Nigerian films played in my living room.

I watched the child watch them.

Aunties with smiling mouths and cruel intentions.

Uncles who waited for inheritance.

Cousins who envied quietly.

Fiction hardened into instruction.

Relatives stopped coming.

Phone calls shortened.

Doors closed earlier.

The child stayed inside me.

Touch became rare.

Affection became suspicious.

Silence became good behavior.

When mistakes happened, I felt them.

A plate breaking against my floor.

A body running toward a familiar corner.

Punishment always knew where to find the child.

Afterward came explanations that sounded like love.

Everything done here is for you.

Everything endured is because of you.

The child believed it.

I watched a small body learn how to disappear in plain sight.

How not to ask.

How not to need.

By the time the child grew taller,

the walls had already done their work.

I kept them safe.

I kept them lonely.

And even now, when the gate opens,

part of the child still listens for my lock.