Life has a way of throwing unexpected challenges our way, and, for Esther Ifedi, it came in the form of a kitchen accident that changed everything. What started as a normal day turned into a life-altering experience when she suffered severe burns. She speaks with SONIA OKERE
I’m Esther Ifedi, from Anambra State, though I was born and raised in Lagos. If someone had told me a year ago that I’d look and feel the way I do now, I would’ve laughed and called them crazy. But life has its way of surprising us.
It all happened on October 29, 2023. It was a Sunday. We had just come back from church, and, as usual, my mom asked me to prepare lunch. I went to the kitchen, turned on the gas cooker, and put a pot on the stove to heat some palm oil. While waiting, I got distracted—honestly, I can’t even remember by what now. Before I knew it, the oil overheated, and the whole kitchen was filled with thick smoke.
In panic, my first thought was to get the pot outside. My younger sister offered to help, so I held the door open for her. But as she was carrying the pot, the door hit it, and the hot oil splashed all over me.
I still remember the pain like it was yesterday. My face and body were on fire, and I was screaming so loudly. My family rushed me to the hospital, where I spent the next two months fighting to recover.
The long road to recovery
The days after the accident were some of the hardest of my life. My skin swelled up and turned dark before the wounds eventually opened. The pain was unbearable—like nothing I’d ever felt before. My nerves were damaged, and I kept having this shocking, searing sensation that made me feel like I was being burned over and over again.
When I looked in the mirror for the first time after the accident, I broke down
But even in that darkness, my family never left my side. They were my strength when I had none. They took turns staying with me in the hospital, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. When I finally got discharged, I thought the worst was over. But the truth is, the real battle was just beginning.
The struggle with depression
When I looked in the mirror for the first time after the accident, I broke down. The girl I used to know—the one with smooth skin and a bright smile—was gone. In her place was someone I didn’t recognize. My scars felt like a prison, and I couldn’t stop blaming myself.
“If only I had been more careful,” I’d think, over and over again. That guilt stayed with me, eating away at my confidence and happiness. For more than a year, I didn’t step outside. I couldn’t bear the thought of people staring at me or whispering behind my back. Even with my family’s encouragement, I felt so alone. Depression took over my life, making me feel numb and disconnected.
Then one day, I hit my lowest point. I was tired of feeling like a burden to my family. I also convinced myself that the world didn’t need someone like me. So I left the house with the intention to jump off the Lagos Third Mainland Bridge.
On my way to commit suicide, I ran into an old friend. I hadn’t seen her in years, but there she was, like an angel sent to save me. She asked where I was going, and at first, I refused to answer. But she wouldn’t let me go. She insisted on knowing, and something in her persistence broke through my walls.
I once left the house with the intention to jump off the Lagos Third Mainland Bridge
I told her everything—how I felt, what I was planning to do. She didn’t judge me or lecture me. Instead, she just listened and reminded me of all the reasons I had to keep going. She walked me back home and told my family what had happened. So, if not for that encounter, I don’t think I would have been here today sharing this story.
Choosing to heal
After that, my mom took me to see a therapist, and it changed everything. Therapy wasn’t easy—it forced me to face parts of myself I wanted to hide. But little by little, I started to heal. I learned that my scars don’t define me. They’re a part of my story, but they’re not the whole story. Today, I can look in the mirror and see someone who’s strong, someone who survived.
Sure, people still stare sometimes. And yes, there are moments when their comments sting. But I’ve learned not to let those things control me. I walk into public spaces now with my head held high because I know my worth.
I believe God kept me alive for a purpose, and every day I wake up, I’m determined to find it. My scars are a reminder of what I’ve been through, but they’re also proof of what I’ve overcome.
