PROLOGUE
Haneefah – Age 22
They say when the moon is full, secrets stretch their arms.
In our house, there were too many full moons.
Eight daughters.
Each one born of love.
And still… love nearly tore us apart.
I am the last. The youngest.
The one who came when Mama had stopped praying for sons,
and started planting strength into girls like yam in red soil.
My sisters—each one is a storm dressed as a woman.
Not loud, always, but devastating in her own way.
They taught me that love is not always sweet,
but it is always real. Even when it ruins you.
Mama never told us everything.
She cooked truth like ogbono—thick, slippery, never quite landing in your mouth whole.
But she watched. And when she did speak, her words stayed. Like this one:
"You will learn, my daughter… that the heart is not a drum. Not everything deserves to be danced to."
Now, at 22, I find myself standing at the crossroads.
Where love begins. Where womanhood deepens.
And I wonder—will I be like them?
Will I let love write on me with ink that doesn't wash off?
This is not just my story.
It is Aisha's. Bisola's. Chiamaka's. Damilola's. Efe's. Fadilah's. Grace's.
And, in the end… Mama Adunni's.
Each of them will speak.
Each will bleed truth.
And maybe, just maybe—
I will learn not what love is…
but what love did to us.