The sun had long begun its descent when Zaria finally arrived at the gate of their compound, the evening air tinged with smoke and the scent of supper being prepared. She gripped the small basket tightly, her arms aching from the weight of the fresh fish inside. Her feet, dusty and sore from walking the long distance, dragged along the worn path. Despite the fatigue pressing down on her, she quickened her pace when she heard the sound of laughter coming from inside the house.
It was a full, joyful kind of laughter—the kind that danced freely, bouncing off the walls and filling the air with warmth. For a brief moment, Zaria stopped at the edge of the kitchen door, her heart clenching painfully. That laughter, that joy, it never quite reached her. She wasn't included in the warmth of the living room, where Sarah and her daughters sat around the small television set. She wasn't the one whose hair was braided gently while stories were shared. She wasn't the one being asked about her day or whether she was hungry. She was just... Zaria. The house's shadow. The outsider in her own home.
Without a word, she slipped into the outside kitchen—a small, soot-darkened room built from uneven bricks and covered by a rusted iron sheet. She placed the fish down gently on the wooden table and wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve. The fire had already been extinguished, the ashes cold. She could feel the tightness of tears threatening to spill, but she blinked them away. Crying never helped.
After placing the fish in a covered pot, she wiped her hands and made her way toward the main house, trying to steady her breathing. She knew she had to report back, as expected. Every errand had to be accounted for, every item inspected. Her stepmother Sarah didn't tolerate laziness—or what she perceived as disobedience.
Zaria walked in quietly, standing just at the entrance to the living room. The laughter had died down now, replaced with the hum of the television. Mary Florence and Claire Rina sat curled up on the couch, snacking on roasted maize. Sarah sat upright in her chair, her sharp eyes flickering to Zaria the moment she stepped inside.
Zaria opened her mouth to speak, to say she had brought the fish, but her words caught in her throat. On the table in front of Sarah lay three canes—thin, smooth, and fresh. Her heart sank.
"I sent you to pick fish, Zaria," Sarah's voice was low and cold, tinged with a venom Zaria knew all too well. "Where did you go?"
Zaria swallowed hard. "Mama, I went where you sent me. I—"
"You're fifteen minutes late!" Sarah's voice rose, silencing the room. Even the television seemed quieter now. "Do you think I have time to wait on your laziness? Do you think firewood collects itself? Eh? When you walk in here late, who do you expect to go to the forest next?"
Zaria's lips trembled. "Mama, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be late. I had to wait at the fish stall because mama Noreen hadn't returned yet. I didn't waste time, I promise. I ran all the way back."
Sarah stood up slowly, grabbing one of the canes. "Lay down," she said firmly, pointing to the center of the room.
Zaria's knees weakened, and for a moment, she couldn't move. Her eyes welled up with tears. "Please, Mama. I'm sorry. I will never be late again. Please forgive me."
"Do as I say," Sarah snapped, her voice louder now, filled with fury.
Zaria lowered herself to the floor, lying on her stomach as the tears began to fall freely. She didn't scream. She had learned not to. She had learned that screaming only fed the fire in Sarah's eyes. She gritted her teeth, holding onto her own sorrow as the first stroke lashed across her back.
One.
Two.
Three.
The pain burned, searing into her thin skin like fire. Mary Florence and Claire Rina didn't look away. They never did. They watched in silence, without pity. Sarah's hand moved without hesitation.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Zaria's small body shook with sobs as she pressed her forehead against the floor, whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over, hoping the words would soften her stepmother's rage. But they never did.
When it was over, Sarah tossed the cane aside and pointed toward the door. "Now get up and go fetch firewood. And don't you dare come back without it."
Zaria lifted herself slowly, her limbs heavy and aching. She wiped her tears with her sleeve and walked out of the house into the dimming twilight. It was almost night, and the forest edge where they gathered firewood wasn't safe after dusk. She was only twelve, just a child, and yet she had to walk alone into the growing darkness.
As she made her way down the narrow path behind the house, Zaria bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying again. She didn't want the neighbors to hear her. She didn't want them to see. She'd learned to carry her pain quietly—like an old scarf worn close to the chest.
The tall grass scratched against her legs as she moved through the thinning light. The path grew narrower, the trees overhead casting long shadows that danced across the soil. The forest loomed ahead, dark and whispering. It was a place even the older children feared at night, filled with insects and the unknown. But she had no choice. Not going meant another beating. Maybe worse.
She collected what she could—broken branches, a few dry logs, anything she could carry. Her hands trembled, her back stung, but she moved quickly, determined to get back before it got completely dark. She didn't want to become one of the missing girls whispered about in stories. She didn't want to disappear.
By the time she returned, the stars were beginning to appear in the sky. She walked past the house silently, going straight to the kitchen where she dropped the firewood in a heap. She sat down on the low stool and hugged her knees, the bruises on her back throbbing with every breath.
Inside, the laughter had returned. The girls were watching a movie now, and Sarah's voice rang out in amusement. No one asked where Zaria had gone. No one asked if she was okay. No one even noticed she had returned.
She sat there in the dark for a long time, her thoughts tangled like the branches she had just gathered. She was tired. Not just in her body, but deep in her spirit. She was twelve, but her soul had known pain far beyond her years. She longed for love—not the kind that was forced or feared, but the soft, safe kind. The kind that made you feel like you belonged.
But in that house, the house that never loved her, such love was just a dream. And Zaria had learned not to dream too loudly.