“My aunt burned my face with boiling water. Now I’m the one who feeds her. EPISODE 1:”

Rejoice was only eight years old when her life changed forever.
Her mother died giving birth to her baby brother, and her father—a construction worker overwhelmed with work—couldn’t care for both a newborn and a little girl. So he made a painful decision: he took the baby with him to the city and left Rejoice in the care of his late wife’s older sister.

“It’s just for a while,” he told her, holding her tiny hand.
“You’ll stay with your mom’s sister. She’ll treat you like her own daughter.”

But from the moment Rejoice set foot in that house in Aba, her life became 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 comfortably—private school, fresh bread, clean clothes. But Rejoice slept on a mat next to the kitchen, wore worn-out, torn clothes, and only ate after everyone else had finished.

“You think you’re a princess?” Monica would yell, throwing soapy water at her.
“You come into my house acting like some lady?”

Rejoice washed dishes, fetched water, cooked, scrubbed bathrooms… and still got slapped nearly every day. But she never complained. At night, she’d stay awake whispering to her late mother.

“Mommy, I miss you. Why did you leave me?”

At school, she was quiet but smart. Her teacher, Mrs. Grace, used to say:
“You have a gift, Rejoice. Don’t let anyone make you feel small.”

But it was hard for Rejoice to believe it. Her back bore whip scars. Her arms, burn marks. Her cheeks, bruises from Aunt Monica’s heavy rings.

Then 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 had started to burn.

When Monica entered the kitchen and saw the pot, her eyes blazed with fury.
“Useless child! 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 scream the little girl let out wasn’t just from pain—it was the cry of shattered innocence.

“My face! Mommy! Mommy!” she screamed, clawing at the air, rolling on the floor. Her cousins, Justin and Terry, stood frozen in horror.

“Now you’ll learn! Foolish girl!” Monica yelled, dropping the kettle like nothing had happened.

Neighbors came running when they heard the screams. Someone called a man named Kevin, who rushed Rejoice to the nearest clinic. The nurses were horrified when they saw her.

“Who did this? This isn’t an accident—this is boiling water! This is cruelty!”

Her face was blistered and swollen. Her left eye completely shut. Her skin was peeling. For days, she couldn’t eat or speak properly. She flinched at loud sounds, even in her sleep.

The police were called. But Monica, who was respected at church and had good connections, claimed it was an accident.

“She was playing in the kitchen. She spilled it on herself. God knows I love that girl.”

No one believed her. But without evidence, the case didn’t go anywhere.

Rejoice stopped speaking for weeks. After she was discharged, she still avoided everyone’s gaze. Monica, unable to cope with the guilt—or the constant reminder of what she’d done—sent Rejoice back to the village to live with her grandmother.

Her body now carried visible scars, but the deepest ones—the ones inside—were far harder to see.

That night, sitting behind her grandmother’s kitchen and staring at the stars, Rejoice whispered:

“God… why do the wicked win? Why did You let her do this to me?”

And then she added, barely audible, as if making a vow:

“One day, I won’t be poor. I’ll never beg for food. 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-soft skin was now twisted and cracked. Her left eye drooped. Her cheek looked like hardened clay. She slowly touched her face and whispered:

“Is this… me?”

There was no answer.

But the girl in that mirror would rise—scarred, but undefeated.

EPISODE 2: The Girl the World Rejected

Rejoice was only nine years old when she learned that life isn’t fair. The burn had taken her face, but it didn’t steal her soul. And although every time she looked in the mirror she felt the pain anew, a small spark remained inside her: hope.

For months, she lived in silence at her grandmother’s house. The woman was poor but kind. She gave Rejoice neem-leaf poultices for her skin and sang old songs every night—though she never knew whether her granddaughter slept or cried in the darkness.

“You will heal, my child,” her grandmother whispered as she stroked her head. “God does not abandon the righteous. He sees you.”

But Rejoice no longer trusted a God who seemed deaf to her pleas.

People in the village looked at her with pity or horror. Children avoided her as if she were cursed. At school, some whispered that her face was divine punishment. Others simply couldn’t bear to look at her. Eventually, she stopped attending.

One day, while walking to the well, she overheard a woman mutter:

“Look at her… the burnt girl. Who would marry someone like that?”

Rejoice clenched the rope of the bucket in her hand and kept walking. She shed no tears. Not anymore.

Her salvation came in the form of dusty books.

Her grandmother, once a teacher, had kept a small box of old texts. “They’re yours if you promise not to give up,” she told Rejoice one day, blowing the dust off a novel.

Rejoice devoured them. She learned to write poetry, to read aloud in front of a mirror, and to dream of a world larger than the one she had. At night, she read quietly to her grandmother by candlelight.

At twelve, she returned to school, chin held high and her face covered with a scarf. When she walked in, her teacher smiled with tenderness:

“Welcome back, Rejoice. Your seat has always been here.”

The first days were not easy. Some classmates laughed; others whispered cruel things. But one girl named Zina sat beside her without a word. Over time, they became inseparable.

One afternoon after class, Zina asked:

“Does it hurt?”

Rejoice paused, then nodded.

“Only when people stare at me like I’m a monster.”

Zina squeezed her hand tightly.

“You’re not a monster. You’re a warrior.”

At sixteen, Rejoice won a science scholarship at the regional level. It was the first time she had left her village since the accident. In the city, no one knew her story. While some still looked curiously, there was no hate. No slaps. No burn water. Only opportunity.

She returned home with a bronze medal and a letter: a non‑profit wanted to sponsor her education through college.

Her grandmother cried with joy.

But not everyone was happy.

One afternoon, someone knocked at her grandmother’s hut.

It was Aunt Monica.

Elegant as always, makeup impeccable, expression calm.

“I’ve come to take her with me,” she said. “I am her legal guardian. And if she’s going to study in the city, she must live under my roof.”

Rejoice froze. Her grandmother pressed her lips together.

“After what you did? Don’t you have shame?”

“There’s no proof. And it happened years ago. I… I made mistakes, but I want to make amends,” Monica replied, voice strained.

Rejoice looked at her with a mix of fear and anger—but also something else: control.

She was no longer the crying child in the kitchen. She was now a young woman with scars, yes…but also purpose.

“I will go with you,” she said slowly, “but not because I trust you. I go so that one day… you will look into my eyes and wish you had never touched me.”

Monica swallowed hard.

Now, years later, Rejoice is twenty‑two.

She holds a doctorate in biotechnology. She works at a children’s hospital where burned children find solace in her soft voice and crooked smile. Her scarf hides nothing anymore. Her face, though marked, shines with unbreakable dignity.

And Monica…

Monica is bedridden, paralyzed by a stroke.

She can’t speak. She can’t walk. She only stares at the ceiling, silently.

Who feeds her? Who washes her? Who gives her medicine?

Rejoice.

Every spoonful, every pill, every look… is a lesson.

“Life gives back what you sow, aunt,” she whispers. “But I sowed love—even when you only gave me pain.”

EPISODE 3: The Forgiveness No One Understood

The hallway clock read 6:00 a.m. Rejoice was already awake.

Each day started the same: she boiled water, prepared oatmeal, and crushed Aunt Mónica’s pills in a mortar. Everything had to be ready before the hospital caregiver arrived. But Rejoice wasn’t a nurse at that moment—she was the niece society said had to care for her aunt, even if that aunt had ruined her childhood.

She entered the room with the tray. Mónica remained motionless. Her eyes—the only part of her paralyzed body that still worked—slowly followed Rejoice. She placed the spoon near her aunt’s mouth and spoke with that serene voice no one could imitate.

“Good morning, Auntie. Today it’s oatmeal with banana. Do you remember how you used to never let me touch fruit because it was only for Justin?”

Mónica, as always, didn’t answer. But sometimes, Rejoice could swear she saw a tear slide down her cheek.

At the hospital, Rejoice was someone else. Dressed in a white coat, she wore a smile that even the most injured children could feel like a balm. A five-year-old boy with burns on both hands once asked her:

“Doctor, were you burned too?”

Rejoice nodded, kneeling to his level.

“Yes. It hurt a lot. But it also made me strong.”

The boy looked at her with wide eyes, amazed.

“Then… will I be strong too?”

“Stronger than me, little one. Stronger than me.”

One Sunday afternoon, while organizing paperwork for her research on tissue regeneration, Rejoice found an old box in the corner of the closet. It had belonged to her grandmother, who had passed away two years prior. Inside were letters, photos, a worn-out Bible… and a small note written in shaky handwriting:

“My daughter Rejoice, if the pain ever becomes too much, do not repay evil with evil. God didn’t ask for justice—He asked for purpose.”

Rejoice closed her eyes. She remembered the nights on the floor 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 still felt broken—not because of the scars, but because deep down, a part of her still longed for something Mónica would never say: “I’m sorry.”

A week later, Rejoice was urgently called to the hospital. Mónica had suffered a second stroke. She could no longer move—not even her eyes. She was barely breathing.

The doctors were clear: “She may not make it through the night.”

Rejoice sat by the bed. She held her aunt’s limp hand and spoke for the last time.

“You stole my childhood. You stole my face. But you didn’t steal my soul. Every day I fed you was an act of war against hatred. And I won.”

Tears streamed down her face. Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from liberation.

“And for that… even if no one understands it… I forgive you.”

A long, steady beep broke the silence.

Mónica had died.

The funeral was quiet. No one cried much. Some came out of courtesy, others from habit. Rejoice, dressed in white, stood the entire time. People whispered:

—“Why did she do so much for that woman?”
—“I couldn’t have.”
—“She must be crazy.”

But Rejoice didn’t hear any of it.

She had buried her aunt. But more importantly, she had buried the resentment.

Today, at twenty-five, Rejoice runs a care center for child abuse victims. She named it “Casa Estrella”—Star House—after the stars she used to stare at while crying behind her grandmother’s kitchen.

Every child who walks through that door receives not only medical attention, but something she herself was denied for years: kindness.

“You are not what they did to you. You are what you choose to become,” she tells them.

And when someone asks about her face, she simply smiles.

“These scars aren’t my shame. They’re my story.”

EPISODE 4: When Scars Speak

The sun fell softly over 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, she was returning to the house where everything began.

Yes. Aunt Mónica’s house.

The property had been abandoned since Mónica’s death. Justin had gone abroad and never looked back, and Terry now lived in Lagos. No one claimed the house. No one wanted to touch it.

But Rejoice did.

With the keys still rusted, she opened the gate that had once terrified her as a child. The metallic screech sounded like an old ghost awakening.

She walked slowly through the yard. Everything was covered in weeds and dust. The smell of dampness, mixed with memories, hit her chest.

The kitchen.

She stood before 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.

She closed her eyes.

She heard the echoes of screams, insults, pain. But she also remembered the girl who, even broken, kept breathing. And she decided to do something unthinkable.

Two months later, Aunt Mónica’s old house was no longer the same.

Where once there were screams, now there was laughter. Where there was fear, now there were games.

Rejoice had transformed it into a shelter for abused girls.

She named it “The House of Hope.”

On 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 a gaze so empty it gave chills.

Rejoice welcomed them with a smile.

“Welcome to your home. Here, no one will shout at you. No one will hit you. And no one will dim your light.”

The girls didn’t reply. But that night, Kemi came up to 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, TV programs, to share her story.

One afternoon, during a university talk, a young woman from the audience raised her hand and asked:

“Would you forgive someone who destroyed your life?”

There was a long silence.

Then Rejoice answered firmly:

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It means choosing not to let the past control your future. My aunt hurt me, yes. But if I hadn’t forgiven her, I would still be her prisoner… even after her death.”

The room fell silent. Some applauded. Others cried.

And in one corner, someone watched with glistening eyes: Zina, the friend who had never abandoned her.

One day, while walking through the market, an older woman approached her. She wore a veil and walked with difficulty.

“Are you… Rejoice?”

She nodded, not recognizing her.

The woman slowly removed her veil.

It was Mónica’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… my silence was cowardice.”

Rejoice said nothing.

The woman knelt before her, right in the middle of the market.

“Forgive me, child. For not defending you. For letting you grow up in the shadows.”

People watched. Whispered.

But Rejoice gently helped her up.

“You don’t need to kneel. The wound has healed. And if it ever bleeds again… I have clean hands to tend to it.”

That night, back at the shelter, Rejoice sat with the girls in the courtyard under the stars.

“Do you know what my grandma used to tell me?” she asked. “That when the world breaks you, it’s not to destroy you. It’s to show you how much you can rebuild yourself.”

Blessing, who at first couldn’t even sleep without crying, rested her head on Rejoice’s shoulder.

“Then… can we heal?”

“More than heal,” Rejoice answered. “You’re going to shine.”

EPISODE 5: Light in the Darkness

The “House of Hope” had become much more than a shelter for wounded girls; it was a symbol of resilience, healing, and the future.

Rejoice walked through the rooms, watching as laughter broke the silence that had once dominated that house. Blessing was helping to prepare dinner, Amaka was drawing for the first time in weeks, and Kemi was singing a song she had invented herself.

A soft sound of footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. It was Zina, the faithful friend who had always stood by her side.

“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 improvised stage.

An elderly man with deep eyes held a microphone. He was the town’s mayor, and behind him hung a huge banner that read:
“Recognition for Rejoice: A Symbol 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 turned her pain into light for our entire community.”

The applause was thunderous.

Rejoice stepped onto the stage, her scars illuminated by the lights, her voice steady and clear:

“It wasn’t easy to get here. There were times I thought the darkness would consume me. But each day I chose to fight. I chose to love, even when I had been hurt. This recognition isn’t just mine—it’s for all the girls still looking for a safe place. For all those who need to know they can shine.”

As she stepped down from the stage, a young girl timidly approached her.

“Dr. Rejoice, thank you for showing us that beauty is in the soul.”

Rejoice smiled, remembering the reflection of herself as a little girl—and how that scarred face had now become the story of her strength.

That night, at the shelter, while the girls slept, Rejoice pulled out an old box from under her bed. Inside were the letters and photos that had accompanied her since childhood.

She wrote in a notebook:

“Today I learned that scars do not define who I am—they reflect how I rise each day. And though life burned me, I choose to heal and help others heal.”

She lay down, tired but at peace.

Because she knew the real journey was only just beginning.

EPISODE 6: The Past That Isn’t Forgotten

Though life at the “House of Hope” carried on with joy and purpose, ghosts from the past still visited Rejoice on quiet nights.

One afternoon, while reviewing documents for a new outreach campaign, she received an unexpected call. On the other end of the line, a familiar but trembling voice:

“Rejoice… it’s Justin.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

Justin—her cousin who had vanished years ago—now wanted to see her.

“Why are you calling me?” she asked, holding back her emotions.

“I need to talk to you. There are things I never said… and I want to try to make things right.”

She agreed to meet him at a café in town.

When he arrived, he looked tired, with premature wrinkles and eyes heavy with guilt.

“I know I have no 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 resentment.

“I wasn’t a strong child either. But I survived. And now, I help other girls survive too.”

Justin nodded.

“I want to help. I want to be part of the ‘House of Hope.’”

Slowly, Justin began working with Rejoice. He repaired the house, organized events, and gradually earned the trust of the girls.

But not everything was easy.

One night, after an argument between him and his brother Terry, old family wounds reopened.

“Why are you supporting her?” Terry shouted. “She was never part of this family!”

Justin stayed calm.

“Because she’s the family I choose now. And because I believe in her strength.”

At a volunteer meeting, Rejoice addressed the group:

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting, or allowing the harm to happen again. It means choosing to heal and to build. Justin is here because he chose to be part of that journey. We can all change.”

That night, as she closed the doors of the house, she looked up at the starry sky and whispered:

“Thank you, Mama, for giving me the strength to go on. No matter how dark the road, light will always find its way.”

EPISODE 7: The Awakening of Hope

The “House of Hope” was full of life. Every corner pulsed with laughter, music, and new stories of triumph. Rejoice had succeeded in transforming that once dark space into a beacon for those seeking light.

One morning, as she organized a meeting with volunteers, she received an unexpected letter. It was 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, and that the wounds she carried were no longer a limitation, but a bridge.

However, not everything was perfect. Some members of the community still looked at her with suspicion, unable to overcome the prejudice and stigma she had borne all her life.

One night, upon returning to the shelter, she found graffiti on the wall:
“Monster. You don’t deserve help.”

Rejoice felt the familiar pain—but this time, she didn’t let it defeat her.

The next day, she gathered the girls and volunteers.

“This isn’t just an attack on me,” she said firmly. “It’s a reminder that there’s still much work to be done. But every time they try to put out our flame, we’ll light a stronger one.”

Blessing raised her hand and said:

“Dr. Rejoice, I want to help too. I want every girl to know they can be strong, no matter what people say.”

Rejoice hugged her.

“That’s right, Blessing. Together we’re unstoppable.”

With the help of the international organization, the House of Hope opened a new wing dedicated to emotional rehabilitation and education for abuse victims throughout the region.

Rejoice was happy, but she knew her greatest achievement wasn’t the building or the funding. It was seeing each girl rise, heal, and shine with her own light.

One afternoon, as she wrote in her journal, she found a sentence that summed it all up:

“Scars tell stories. Ours speak of battle, resilience—and above all, hope.”

And that hope was now stronger than ever.

EPISODE 8: Rebirth and Legacy

The sun peeked gently over Aba as Rejoice walked through the halls of the expanded “House of Hope.” Now, the shelter not only housed girls, but also offered workshops, psychological support, and a school reintegration program for hundreds of abuse victims across the region.

Every step she took was a reminder of everything she had overcome. Her burn-scarred face was no longer a symbol of pain, but of victory.

That morning, a special ceremony gathered the community, volunteers, and local authorities to officially inaugurate the new wing.

The mayor took the microphone and spoke proudly:

“Rejoice has not only healed her own soul—she has transformed the lives of hundreds. This is a tribute to her courage, her resilience, and her unbreakable love.”

Rejoice stepped onto the stage, and with tears in her eyes, she spoke:

“When I was a child, life struck me with cruelty. I lost my face, my childhood, my trust. But here, in this house, I found a family, a mission, a purpose. Every girl who walks through these doors teaches me that pain is not the end—but the beginning of a story of hope.”

When she finished, she walked through the garden, where the girls were playing—some now smiling, others with dried tears on their cheeks—but all full of life.

Epilogue: The Legacy of Rejoice

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, proving that human dignity does not lie in appearances, but in the strength of the spirit.

Rejoice never forgot her roots or those who helped her on her journey. She kept alive the memory of her grandmother, of Zina, of Justin, and of every girl who found a reason to keep going in the darkest of places.

Her scarred face told the story of a burned girl—yes—but also of a woman who, through every act of love, rebuilt her world.

And so, in every corner where a silenced voice begins to be heard, in every heart that refuses to give up, lives the true legacy of Rejoice:
the hope born from the fire.