Chapter Six: Mama Ladi's House
Age 17 – The Morning After
Alora woke to the scent of something warm and familiar — eggs, spices, and fresh bread.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly. For a second, she panicked, forgetting where she was. The ceiling above her was pale yellow, the light soft. She wasn't at home. There was no shouting. No cold. No hunger gnawing at her ribs.
Just silence.
Safe silence.
She sat up. The small room was cozy — a narrow bed with a patchwork quilt, a second bunk beside her, a small window with sunlight filtering in, and a chipped wooden dresser with a mirror cracked in the corner. On the dresser sat a card that read:
"You are not your mistakes. You are what you choose to become." — Mama Ladi
Alora stared at it for a long time. Words had always held power over her, but no one had ever written something like that just for her to read.
She slipped on her sneakers and padded into the hallway, unsure where to go. The scent of breakfast grew stronger. Laughter trickled in from down the hall — soft, feminine voices. For a moment, she hesitated, suddenly aware of the shadows under her eyes, her tattered jeans, her brittle braids.
But her hunger won.
She followed the sound and smell to a dining area where four women sat at a wooden table. One was pregnant. Another looked barely older than Alora. The third wore a hijab and cradled a sleeping toddler. The fourth had pink braids and an attitude that said she didn't take nonsense from anyone.
Behind them, in the kitchen, stood Mama Ladi — the same woman who'd found her at the bus stop. Today, she wore a bright green wrapper and a "God is Good" apron. She was humming to herself as she flipped plantains in a pan.
"Morning, baby girl," she said without looking up. "Grab a plate."
Alora moved cautiously to the table, unsure where to sit.
The girl with the pink braids scooted over and patted the space beside her. "Sit, girl. We don't bite."
Alora gave a small, shy smile and sat. A minute later, Mama Ladi placed a steaming plate in front of her — eggs scrambled with peppers and onions, sweet fried plantain, and fresh bread rolls.
It was the best meal Alora had tasted in months.
She ate slowly at first, then faster. Her fork clinked loudly against the plate. She only realized how ravenous she looked when the others started watching her with quiet sympathy.
Mama Ladi sat down across from her and poured tea into a chipped mug.
"How long you been out there?" she asked gently.
Alora hesitated. "Not long. Just… things at home got bad. I needed space."
Mama Ladi nodded. "That's what most girls say at first. Doesn't matter. You're safe now."
One of the women — the youngest, with freckles and large eyes — chimed in. "I left after my mom's boyfriend hit me. No one believed me. Not even her."
The others nodded solemnly. Stories like this weren't rare here. They were normal. Pain was the common language.
Alora's throat tightened.
"You don't have to talk," Mama Ladi said, watching her closely. "But I want you to know: this house, it's not a shelter. It's a starting line."
"A starting line?" Alora asked.
Mama Ladi leaned forward. "Everyone who walks through that door is broken in one way or another. But what you do with those broken pieces? That's up to you."
Later that day, Mama Ladi gave Alora a tour.
There was a small library filled with donated books — everything from Maya Angelou to self-help guides to business biographies. There was a quiet room where the girls could write, pray, or just breathe. There were rules — strict ones. No drugs. No bringing in dangerous people. No skipping chores.
"This place works because we keep each other accountable," Mama Ladi said. "You follow the rules, you get your peace. You break 'em, you go."
Alora nodded. "I understand."
Mama Ladi handed her a clean journal. The cover was soft brown leather. On it was stamped in gold:
"Write your truth — even if your voice trembles."
Over the next week, Alora adjusted.
She helped with cooking. She read every evening in the library. She listened to the other girls' stories. Each one was different, but their pain always echoed her own. She started journaling again — not just about pain, but about hope, about dreams.
One day, Mama Ladi found her reading The Power of a Woman's Voice by Iyanla Vanzant.
"You know," she said, "you got a powerful one yourself."
Alora blinked. "My voice?"
"Girl, don't play. I heard the way you talked about your dreams. You ain't meant to stay small."
No one had ever said that to her.
No one had ever seen her that clearly.
One morning, after breakfast, Mama Ladi invited Alora to join a small Saturday class she hosted for women wanting to build life skills — resumes, interview etiquette, budgeting, even public speaking.
"I don't know," Alora said. "I'm not good with crowds."
"That's a lie," Mama Ladi replied, eyes gleaming. "You just ain't been in the right room yet."
And so, Alora sat through the first session — heart pounding, palms sweaty. But she listened. Took notes. Asked questions. By the second class, she spoke up. By the fourth, she was helping another girl format her resume.
Something was shifting.
She was still broken.
Still healing.
But something deep inside her had started to bloom.
That night, back in her room, she wrote in her journal:
I'm still scared.
But maybe I can be scared and still move forward.
Maybe strength isn't loud.
Maybe strength is showing up.
Washing your face.
Tying your shoes.
Speaking your name out loud even when it shakes.
Maybe strength is trying again — even after life tried to convince you not to.
And for the first time in what felt like forever…
She believed her own words.