The sky over Lagos was dimming, the bustling noise of the city slowly blending into the distant hum of nightfall. Mosunmola sat by the window of their modest two-bedroom apartment in Egbeda, her eyes glazed, her hands folded tightly like she was praying—but she wasn’t. She was watching. Waiting. Wondering. Her heart beat not just for herself but for the little boy asleep in the next room—David.

David was four years old and hadn’t said a word since he turned two. Not even “mummy.” Not “water.” Not “I want.” Just silence. A silence that stretched long, like a whisper no one could hear.

But Mosun could hear it. She felt it in the way David avoided eye contact, in the way he flapped his hands endlessly when excited, or how he screamed uncontrollably in the market if a generator was humming nearby. She tried to explain it to her husband, Kunle, but every time she brought it up, he would shake his head and mutter, “The boy is just stubborn. He will talk when he’s ready.”

Mosun knew something was wrong. But in the heart of Lagos, amid the everyday survival hustle, who would listen?

The Burden of a Mother’s Intuition

It started with missed milestones. David didn’t point to things. He didn’t play pretend like other children. At his age, most children in the compound were already singing rhymes and forming tiny sentences. But David? He would sit for hours arranging his toy cars in a straight line. If anyone disturbed that pattern, he’d cry for hours.

Neighbors whispered behind closed doors.

“That boy, abi he no get small madness?”

“Maybe na spiritual problem, she go try deliverance.”

Mosun heard them all. Each word sliced through her like a knife.

The worst part? She was alone. Completely alone.

Even her own mother, Mama Alake, told her to stop bringing shame to the family.
“Na you born am! You go carry your cross. No be everything be oyinbo sickness!”

---

Kunle’s Denial

Kunle loved his son—or at least the version of his son he dreamed of. He believed in tough love. “The boy needs discipline,” he’d say. So when David had meltdowns, Kunle would beat him, hoping to “reset his head.”

The first time it happened, Mosun stood there, frozen, begging him to stop. But Kunle was blinded by fear—fear that his only son was “defective,” that he would be mocked by his friends, that his lineage would be questioned.

He was a man after all. In Nigeria, that meant carrying the weight of perfection—even if it meant denying the obvious.

The School That Didn’t Understand

When Mosun finally enrolled David in a nursery school in Alimosho, she hoped things would get better. Maybe the teachers would understand. Maybe David just needed the company of other kids.

But the school called her after just three days.

“Madam, please come and carry your son. He doesn’t interact. He disturbs the class. He bites other children.”

Mosun broke down in tears right there in the school office.

She had no answers. Only questions.
Was she cursed? Did she do something wrong in her past? Was David being punished for a sin she didn’t remember?

---

The Breaking Point

One night, David had a meltdown so intense that the neighbors called the landlord. Kunle had traveled for work, so Mosun was alone. David was screaming, kicking, slamming his head against the wall. All because the electricity went out and the sudden darkness startled him.

Mosun tried everything—hugging him, singing softly, even praying aloud. But nothing worked.

She sank to the floor, holding her screaming son, rocking back and forth with tears pouring uncontrollably down her cheeks.

The landlord knocked furiously, shouting, “If you can’t control that child, I’ll evict you!”

It was the moment everything cracked.

Mosun realized: No one was coming. No one understood. And she couldn’t do it alone.

A Ray of Light

The next day, still with puffy eyes, Mosun went online and typed:
“Why my child is not talking at age 4 in Nigeria.”

What she found shocked her.

“Autism Spectrum Disorder.”

“Sensory sensitivities.”

“Speech delays not caused by stubbornness.”

“Behavioral therapies.”

“Early intervention.”

“You are not alone.”

She stumbled upon a Nigerian website: Hope4AutismFamilies.com

She saw the smiling face of Dr. Josephine Tope-Ojo, a Board Certified Behavior Analyst with decades of experience supporting African families living with autism.

Mosun reached out. She didn’t expect a reply.

But she got one.

And it changed everything.

📩 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.