If ONLY They Knew Why She Wears EYE PATCH to School
In a small town where dusty roads met the hum of daily life, lived Amarachi, a girl unlike any other. A jagged scar ran from her forehead to her cheek, a remnant of a childhood accident no one dared mention. She hid it beneath an eye patch, but whispers followed her like shadows. Her father, a mechanic with oil-stained hands and a heart of gold, would cup her face gently. “Beauty isn’t in the face, my child,” he’d say. “It’s in the heart.” He toiled over broken engines so she could chase dreams at school, but there, hearts seemed blind.
The children mocked her relentlessly. “Look at her face!” they’d giggle. “She looks like a broken pot.” But none was crueler than William, the golden boy—rich, popular, heir to the town’s biggest supermarket. With the finest clothes and an entourage of admirers, he turned cruelty into sport. “Why do you even come to school, Dirty Amarachi?” he’d sneer. “Did your father fix your face like his old cars?” His friends howled, but Amarachi swallowed the sting, her chest heavy as stone. She walked tall, but inside, she burned.
One sweltering lunch hour, the cafeteria buzzed with the aroma of jollof rice and beans. Amarachi clutched her tray, her week’s savings buying a rare treat: fried rice and chicken. Unseen, William’s gang had slicked her chair with water. She sat—splash. Cold soaked her skirt, clinging like shame. Silence fell, then William’s voice boomed: “Big Amarachi peed herself!” Laughter erupted, merciless waves crashing over her. “Like a baby!” a girl pointed. “Scared of her own reflection!” a boy jeered. Amarachi’s fingers gripped the table, ears aflame. Slowly, she rose, locking eyes with William. “I may be wet,” she said steadily, “but at least I’m not drowning in arrogance like you.” The room froze. Whispers rippled; his grin twisted to fury. She walked out, back straight, but her spirit cracked.
The torment escalated. After a rainy morning, puddles of thick mud dotted the yard. As Amarachi hurried, books hugged close, William and his crew blocked her path. “Where you going, Big Scar?” he smirked. She turned to flee, but they shoved—splat. She plunged face-first into the muck, mud caking her hair, clothes, scar. “Now your ugly face matches the ground!” William crowed, his gang’s laughter echoing like carrion birds. Amarachi rose, dripping, tears pricking but unshed. She walked away, unbroken in step but fracturing within.
That evening, behind the school, she curled against the wall, knees to chest, tears silent. Soft footsteps approached. “Why are you crying, child?” It was Mrs. Ella, the aged cleaner, silver hair tucked in a scarf, hands rough from endless scrubbing, eyes warm as hearthfire. Amarachi confessed William’s cruelty, the scar’s curse. Mrs. Ella sighed, pulling a small jar from her bag—earthy, herbal-scented. “Rub this on your scar every night,” she whispered. “And when they insult you, say ‘thank you.’ They will face the consequences.” Amarachi frowned—such odd counsel—but exhaustion won. She nodded, pocketing the jar, hope flickering faint.
That night, under moonlight’s sliver, she unscrewed the lid. The ointment’s bitterness tingled her skin, ants marching across her scar. She sighed, dreaming of battles yet to come.
Morning brought William’s sneer anew: “Hey, Big Amarachi—has your face melted off yet? You look like a witch!” Laughter poised to unleash. But Amarachi smiled, eyes meeting his. “Thank you.” Silence. His smirk faltered. “What?” She shrugged. “I said thank you.” Calm, she passed, leaving him twitching, chest tight, unease gnawing.
School dragged on, but William’s seat emptied the next day. Whispers stirred: overslept? Sick? By break, concern brewed. Teachers noted his absence—the loud troublemaker, gone. Days blurred to a week; the principal dispatched a note home—silence. Panic set in. A staffer visited: William lay bedridden, voice stolen, body frail, face swollen, lips cracked. His parents, once proud, wailed. “This is no ordinary illness!”
Desperation drove them everywhere. The finest doctor poked and prodded, prescribing pills and shots—nothing. The grandest church saw the pastor anoint and shout healings—still, William writhed. An imam chanted verses, bound charms—futility. Charity flowed to the poor, yet fever clung. A village herbalist brewed potions under moonlight—failure. Fortunes drained; hope withered. William’s mother, hollow-eyed, trudged to market, basket heavy with despair.
There, amid shouts and bleats, an old beggar woman clutched her wrist, eyes abyssal. “Your son’s curse is not natural,” she hissed. “He offended a powerful girl. Only her forgiveness heals.” Grip released, woman vanished. Heart hammering, she raced home. Who? William had trampled many souls.
His father stormed the school. “My son offends someone—must be forgiven!” The principal sighed. “Amarachi. The scarred girl. Years of torment.” Ice gripped them. To her home they flew, rough roads blurring. Amarachi’s father, spanner mid-turn on an engine, wiped grease-streaked hands. William’s mother knelt: “Please—our boy wastes away. Forgive him!”
Amarachi stood doorway-bound, arms crossed, storm-tossed. This monster-boy, now prey to his own venom? Her father knelt beside her. “No one deserves such suffering, even enemies. Forgive, child.” Gazing at his kindness-forged eyes, at the kneeling pride-broken parents, she exhaled. “I forgive him—but he leaves school forever. No more bullying. And fund my education through university.” They nodded fiercely. Eyes shut, she whispered, “I forgive you, William.”
Dawn’s first blush kissed the horizon. William stirred, eyes fluttering. “Mama,” he rasped. Tears cascaded; strength surged. By day’s end, he walked; by week’s, he thrived—as if illness a fevered dream. Schoolbound no more, his father decreed: “Never harm another.” William, humbled by bed’s abyss, vowed silence on cruelty.
At school, winds shifted. Whispers turned reverent; eyes held awe, not scorn. Amarachi, once mocked, now commanded respect—the scarred girl with unseen power. The town murmured her name, not in pity, but wonder. Beauty, indeed, dwelled in the heart—and hers, fierce and forgiving, scarred the bullies deepest.
