Picture credit to : Nicholas Free
Photo from the Internet istock
In a quiet riverside village nestled deep in the heart of Nigeria, a boy named Dominion was born into a family of six. The first of five children, he quickly stood out—not by strength or fortune, but by determination. Dominion had made a silent vow: he would not be defined by where he came from, but by where he was going.
From a young age, he learned to paddle canoes, cast fishing nets, and sell his catch in the local market. He saved every coin he could, dreaming of a life that reached far beyond the riverbanks. Step by step, he paid his way through school—primary, then secondary. Against all odds, he made it to university.
In the bustling corridors of the city, amidst lecture halls and study groups, Dominion met Juma—a beautiful woman with eyes full of quiet strength. He loved her deeply and, in time, made her his wife. They built a life together filled with laughter, challenges, and the soft giggles of children. Four of them.
His hard work earned him a promotion, and the family moved to the northern region of Nigeria, settling in Kano State. Life there brought new opportunities, but also danger. The 1990s were marked by unrest. Tension brewed, and riots became frequent.
One fateful day, just after Juma had given birth to their youngest child, the chaos grew too close. Fearing for their safety, Dominion sent his family back to the village while he remained behind to sort things out.
In the village, Juma was received with warmth by most, and even given a small plot of land to farm. But not all hearts were welcoming. One of her husband’s brother’s wives—her rival, as the village called such women—nursed a quiet, bitter anger toward her. Juma never understood why.
One hot morning, Juma asked her oldest son, Fami, now 20, to go tend the farm. Without telling his mother, Fami took his baby sister along. She was just learning to walk, always following him around like a little shadow.
As they approached the farm, a gunshot shattered the calm.
It came out of nowhere.
Fami turned in shock. His baby sister lay on the ground, her tiny body twisted, blood beginning to soak the dry soil. Her scream pierced the air—and then everything went silent.
He ran. He scooped her up. But it was too late.
The bullet had not been meant for the child. It was a stray bullet, fired in anger, in jealousy, in blind rage—meant for Juma, but it found her child instead.
The little girl survived, but the life she knew was gone. Her legs were broken, her arms torn. She could not walk, could not lie still without pain, could not sleep in peace. The village mourned. Dominion returned home to a family forever changed.
And though time passed, and wounds began to scar, the memory never faded.
That bullet, wandering without aim, had changed everything.
It was a stray bullet— but it struck straight through the heart of a family.
