06/07/2025
“I Worked as a Nanny for Their Twins — But, 18 Years Later, Those Same Twins Paid for My IVF Treatment.”
2005. Orile, Lagos.
I was 24.
Fresh from Imo State.
Jobless. Hopeless.
Heartbroken after three miscarriages and a husband who walked away.
I came to Lagos with a nylon bag and two wrappers.
I slept on my cousin’s floor for three weeks — until she told me about a nanny job.
The family was wealthy.
A banker couple.
Strict. Polished. Reserved.
They had just welcomed a set of twins — Chizoba and Chidinma.
They gave me a uniform.
A room in the boys’ quarters.
₦20,000 monthly.
I accepted it with gratitude.
But they treated me like a shadow.
I wasn’t allowed to sit in the parlor.
Couldn’t eat their food.
I wasn’t called by name. Just:
> “Nanny, come here.”
“Nanny, clean that.”
But the children?
They saw me.
I held them when they cried.
Fed them when Madam was too tired.
Sang lullabies. Told bedtime stories.
They called me “Aunty Ngozi.”
I stayed with them for 8 years.
Taught them how to tie shoelaces.
Took them to PTA meetings when their parents traveled.
Prayed for them before their WAEC year.
In 2013, Madam called me to the kitchen.
> “We’re relocating to Florida. We’ll find another nanny there.”
She handed me an envelope.
₦70,000.
> “Thanks for your service.”
That was it.
No farewell hug.
No proper goodbye from the children.
Just… dismissed.
I returned to Owerri.
Started sewing uniforms.
Built a small tailoring shop.
Tried to start a new life.
But something was still missing.
2021.
At age 40, I got married again.
A kind widower named Kenneth.
But after two years of trying…
The doctor said:
> “Your tubes are blocked. Only IVF might work.”
The cost?
₦2.6 million.
We didn’t have it.
We cried.
We prayed.
Then… a miracle walked in.
A private number called.
> “Hello? Is this Aunty Ngozi?”
> “This is Chizoba… your boy from Lagos. Do you remember me?”