My name is Chiamaka. I grew up in a quiet part of London with my adoptive parents, kind people who gave me love, and warmth. But I always felt like something was missing.
Who is my real mother?
I knew I was adopted from Nigeria when I was just a baby. My parents never hid that from me, and even helped me trace my roots, bit by bit. But my adoption papers only told part of the story.
So I saved up, took time off work, and booked a trip to Lagos.
I fell in love with the buzz of the city, which felt both strange and familiar. The strangers I met were kind; I asked careful questions, and visited the small town my papers mentioned.
I was almost ready to give up when no one seemed to know anything.
Then one morning, I found myself in a crowded market, just walking around, without a destination in mind. That was when I saw her.
She was sitting by a table with ripe tomatoes and onions, packing goods for a customer. There was something about her. Maybe it was the curve of her nose, or the way she tilted her head when she spoke. Whatever it was made my feet stopped moving.
My heart told me, “That’s a familiar face.”
I stood there, frozen, for what felt like a full minute. After a while, she looked up and our eyes met.
Something unspoken passed between us.
She frowned slightly, then stood up. “Can I help you?” she asked.
I walked closer, my hands shaking. “I… I’m looking for someone,” I said. “I think it might be you.”
She looked confused. “Me?”
“I am looking for my birth mother. Her name is Amara. That’s all I know.”
Her mouth dropped open in shock. With a tear slowly rolling down her cheek, she whispered, “Chiamaka?”
And in that moment, I knew.
I had found my mother.
This moment all began with a familiar face.
Thanks for reading💕
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