NIGERIA: My War As A Child Laborer

From child labor and stolen innocence to university graduation, Eniola Oluranti survived what should have broken her. Now she's using everything she earns to send other children to school.

"I recently settled and made peace with the fact that my childhood was stolen from me."

My name is Eniola Oluranti, and this is the story of how I rose above sexual assaults, child labor, childhood trauma, and verbal and emotional abuse to earn a degree from one of the most prestigious universities in Nigeria.

I am from what we may perhaps call the most humbling background—we were a family of nine living in just one room. I was only seven years old when my grandmother came to take me away from my parents because of my constant illness. She took me away because she believed that was the only way I could live.

My maternal grandmother was also struggling, and the only way we could make ends meet was through her petty trades. She sold seasonal fruits, daily necessities, and any goods she could find to make money.

At the age of eight, I was introduced to child labor, too young to understand there was even a word for it, but I remember clearly how my grandmother had me do the same work adults did just to put food on their tables.

My routines were simple: either I was doing menial jobs, or I was hawking whatever goods she had to sell.

I started school on the condition that I would work each day to earn money for the next day’s schooling. This may sound like an adult's reality, but my grandmother raised and trained me as one. She believed the world was too cruel, and the only way I could survive was if she trained me in that way.

I hawked at every corner of my street and its neighboring streets. Some adults were nice, some were mean, some treated me with kindness, but others did not. Some bought from me, and some stole from me. Men old enough to be my uncle or father spanked my butt on countless occasions. Even though they were strangers, they would tell me I was like their child, and claimed they had the right to scold me.

This life of hustle and strife went on for a couple of years. My grandmother was a lover of education, but she didn’t have enough to sponsor me through school. It sank into me that if I wanted a quality education, I had to work.

My grandmother taught me how to read and write, bought me prose fiction in the Yoruba language, and made me write letters to my father whenever she visited my parents.

I didn't get to grow up with my siblings, build family bonds, or share any meaningful childhood memories with them.

My grandmother died in 2005, marking the beginning of a life spent moving from one family to another. My childhood and teenage years became even more chaotic. It was much harder to go to school after she died; living with different families was an entirely different experience.

My days in secondary school were rough. I won't bore you with details of how I would trek miles to school on an empty stomach, or sit on the classroom floor because I couldn't afford to bring my own chair to school.

On one particular occasion, I was raped while trying to look for a job. The man who had promised me work didn't have any job to offer me; he only lured me there to have his way with me. On another occasion, my boss assaulted me in his office, and I lost my job a few days later because I refused to sleep with him.

I paused my education for a few years after secondary school to work and save money so I could help set my younger siblings up with vocational skills to empower them. The sacrifice caused me to sweat and bleed, but it was worth it.

I struggled to enter university, but the troubles didn’t end there. I worked hard to make ends meet, juggling small businesses to keep myself in school. I received some help here and there, but much of it came with conditions I refused to accept.

The sexual assaults didn't stop—they worsened, with lecturers willing to take advantage of the academic power they held.

My first semester in my final year was traumatic: a powerful lecturer wanted to have his way with me and threatened to make me fail with everything he had in his power. I went to bed countless nights, soaking my pillows in tears. I could barely eat. I became a shadow of myself. I couldn't tell my friends because I didn't know what would happen if I did.

I endured deep emotional and mental torture. I had worked so hard and sacrificed so much for my education to get where I was, and yet a man’s inability to control his sexual urges would have cost me all those years of hardship and hard work.

I managed to graduate with my classmates, but it was a war.

I have recently settled and made peace with the fact that my childhood was stolen from me.

For as long as I can remember, I have taken it upon myself to send a child to school from whatever income I earn. I started by buying basic school materials and later moved on to paying school fees. My goal has always been to make sure that any less privileged child who crosses my path has access to quality education.

The greatest step we can all take is to ensure that every child has access to quality education without the barriers I faced.

Today, I support three children in secondary school and another in university. While I don't yet have the resources to build the free school I dream of, I have started with what I have.

My dream is to build the biggest free school in the world, so that every out-of-school child on the street can have access to both formal and vocational education.

Against all odds, I became an education champion!

STORY AWARDS

This story was published as part of World Pulse's Story Awards program. We believe every woman has a story to share, and that the world will be a better place when women are heard.