The rooster crowed long before dawn. But Mojisola hadn’t slept. She lay on the thin mattress beside Dayo, who, as always, had wriggled out of his wrapper during the night. He was curled up like a cat, eyes twitching beneath their lids, occasionally making humming sounds.

Her husband, Femi, had taken to sleeping in the other room “for work focus.” But they both knew what it really meant. The distance between them had grown—not just physically, but in every word left unspoken.

Mojisola’s days had become an exhausting loop of struggle and survival. The market. The stares. The whispers. The judgment. The unspoken question in people’s eyes: “What kind of woman gives birth to a child like this?”

But the worst was the silence.

Dayo had still not spoken a single word.

Three years. Not even “Mama.”

Wounded Faith
Sunday came, and Mojisola forced herself to church, tying Dayo onto her back with the same ankara wrapper her mother had once used for her. The praise songs felt hollow. The words of encouragement bounced off her. She didn’t go to hear a sermon. She went because she was afraid that not going might invite more judgment. Or worse, more spiritual warfare.

After service, she knelt for prayers. The women gathered around, hands shaking, oil dripping.

“Loose him, oh Lord!”
“Spirit of backwardness, come out!”
“Autism is not his portion!”
“Amen!”

She nodded, wept, and clung to their words like lifelines—but deep down, she felt like she was drowning in quicksand.

Her baby didn’t need exorcism.

He needed understanding.

But no one seemed to see that.

The Shattered Glass
It was a Wednesday evening. She had returned from the market, carrying her wares and Dayo on one hip. Her back ached. The landlord had come by to demand rent again.

Inside, she set down her goods, unwrapped Dayo, and poured water into a plastic cup.

That’s when it happened.

The neighbor’s child—Kenny—ran in with his usual noise. A balloon in hand. Laughing loudly.

Dayo screamed.

A high-pitched, glass-breaking shriek.

And in one terrifying motion, he threw the plastic cup with all his might. It smashed against the wall. Shards flew. Water sprayed. Kenny cried. Dayo rocked back and forth, covering his ears and banging his head.

Mojisola froze.

The crack wasn’t just in the cup.

It was in her heart.

She knelt beside him, sobbing into her palms. “What have I done wrong, Lord?”

The Search Begins
That night, long after the world had gone to bed, Mojisola searched Google on her cheap secondhand phone:

“Child not talking at 3”

“Why is my child screaming?”

“What is autism?”

Each link was a punch to the stomach. She read symptoms, signs, therapies, causes. She saw the word “Autism Spectrum Disorder” more times than she could count.

Videos of white families in America helping their children talk, play, grow.

She cried again—not because she found answers—but because she realized just how alone she was in Nigeria.

But amid the fear, something changed.

For the first time, she saw hope.

Cracks Let Light In
The next morning, she approached a school she had once passed by many times. It had a tiny sign: “Inclusive Learning Centre – For Children with Special Needs.” The woman at the gate was kind. Her name was Mrs. Adefolake. She listened. She didn’t judge. She even smiled at Dayo and gave him a biscuit.

They spoke for an hour. About early intervention. About therapies. About acceptance.

About love.

Mojisola cried again. But this time, they were not tears of shame.

They were tears of relief.

Tears of a mother realizing that though the road ahead was long and narrow, it wasn’t completely dark anymore.

To Be Continued in Part 3

📩 For Trainings:

As a non-profit organization, we provide both virtual and in-person behavioral training for parents and caregivers of children diagnosed with autism.  For families who may need more personalized support, we also offer individualized Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) services. These services focus on promoting socially significant behavior change—supporting skill acquisition, behavior modification, and reduction programs designed to enhance the development, abilities, and independence of children on the autism spectrum.

Email us at:
📬 info@hope4autismfamilies.com

You are not alone. 💙

Disclaimer:

The characters in this story are fictional; however, the events and situations depicted are true to life.