FROM PROSTITUTION TO MOTHERHOOD- HOW MY FRIEND LOST HER BABY FOR ₦500,000… ANONYMOUS LADY SHARES PAINFUL STORY

We grew up on the same street.
She was the loud one, the fearless one, the girl who always said she would leave our small neighbourhood and never look back. I was the quiet one who believed life would somehow work itself out.

When she ran away from home, nobody was shocked.

Her family was strict. Her father ruled with fear, not understanding. After one heated argument, she packed a small bag and disappeared. At first, we thought she would come back after a few days.

She didn’t.

Months turned into years. Stories filtered back slowly she was in another state, she was “hustling,” she was surviving. Nobody said the word prostitution out loud, but everyone knew.

Then one day, she returned.

She looked thinner. Older. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. She didn’t come home by choice she was in pain and confused. That was when the truth came out.

She was pregnant.

She said she didn’t even know until it was almost time. Her life had been so chaotic that she ignored the signs. Different men, different nights, no stability. She couldn’t even tell who the father was.

Her family didn’t react with concern.

They reacted with shame.

Her siblings refused to speak to her. Her parents said she had disgraced them. Some relatives said she shouldn’t have come back at all. Instead of help, she was met with silence and judgment.

She gave birth quietly.

There was no celebration. No naming ceremony. No joy. Just whispers and decisions made without her voice fully present.

The family said they didn’t want the child.

They claimed they couldn’t raise a baby born from “that kind of life.” They said the child would always be a reminder of shame. So they took the baby to an orphanage.

That was where a woman entered the story.

She was wealthy. Educated. Married for years but never blessed with a child. When she saw the baby, she reportedly fell in love instantly. She followed the proper adoption process through the orphanage.

But she also did something else.

She gave the family ₦500,000.

They called it compensation for hospital bills, stress, and “closure.” Some called it gratitude. Others called it help.

But in my heart, it felt like a price.

My friend didn’t argue. She didn’t fight. She was too broken to protest. She signed where they asked her to sign. The baby was handed over. Just like that.

₦500,000 changed hands.

A child changed lives.

Years have passed, but that story still sits heavy in my chest. Not because the child went to a bad home by all accounts, the baby is loved and well cared for.

But because of how easily desperation, shame, and poverty can corner a woman into decisions she may never recover from.

My friend is still alive.

But a part of her stayed in that delivery room.

And sometimes, I wonder how many similar stories never get told.