The sting on her back hadn't faded, and her knees still wobbled from the weight of exhaustion, but Zaria sat on the low kitchen stool, hugging herself in the cool night air. Tears clung stubbornly to her cheeks, but she made no effort to wipe them away anymore. Crying had become as natural as breathing—quiet, hidden, and constant.
The pile of firewood she had gathered lay untouched beside the blackened hearth. The fish, wrapped in a banana leaf, was still waiting. For a moment, Zaria considered just sitting there until sleep took her, but then a thought pierced through her sorrow like a hot knife.
What if they come again? What if they beat me for not cooking dinner?
Her chest tightened. The pain of seven strokes hadn't even dulled yet. Another punishment—so soon—would be unbearable. She forced herself up, wincing as she stretched her sore limbs, and shuffled toward the basin. Her fingers worked slowly, methodically, as she began to scale and clean the fish. The small paraffin lamp flickered beside her, casting long shadows on the cracked kitchen walls. With every movement, her back protested, but Zaria didn't stop. She couldn't afford to.
As the fish sizzled on the fire and the stew began to bubble, her mind drifted to the one soft spot her life had known in recent months—Teacher Lilian.
The thought of her teacher brought warmth to her heart, a warmth she had learned to cherish in secret. That evening, Teacher Lilian had called her aside when she meet her in the market and knelt to her level. "Zaria," she had said gently, brushing a lock of hair from her dusty face, "you're one of the brightest girls I've ever taught. You can do great things, but you have to be in school. We can't lose you again."
Zaria remembered the way Teacher Lilian had squeezed her hands—firm but kind—and how her eyes were filled with both concern and belief.
"Please don't stay home again," she had added. "You belong in that P7 classroom, not in someone's kitchen."
Zaria blinked, trying to push away the fresh tears that threatened to spill. She had missed two whole years of school already. If not for that, she would have been preparing for her national exams like the other twelve-year-olds. Instead, she was in P5—older than most of her classmates, always behind.
But Teacher Lilian hadn't judged her for it. She had listened patiently when Zaria explained that school requirements—books, uniforms, even a pair of shoes—were always out of reach. That even though the school was government-aided and the fees were small, her stepmother often claimed there was no money.
Teacher Lilian had placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "If it's the school fees and the requirements, let me talk to the headteacher. We'll help you. But only if you're allowed to stay. Could you ask your parents to let you come live with me during the term? I can talk to them too."
The idea had seemed like a dream too fragile to hold. To live with Teacher Lilian? To wake up each morning without fear? To go to school every day, wear clean clothes, and eat enough food?
But will they allow it?
Zaria stirred the stew gently, her heart beating faster with both hope and anxiety. She had seen how her stepmother looked at her—like an inconvenience, like an unwanted burden. If Sarah agreed, it wouldn't be out of kindness. It would be because Zaria was finally out of the way.
But that was the problem. What if they don't want me to leave—not because they love me, but because they need someone to do all the work? Who would scrub the floors, clean the dishes, cook the meals, and carry the firewood if Zaria wasn't there?
Her stepsisters certainly wouldn't. They were the "queens of the house," as Sarah proudly called them. Mary Florence and Claire Rina never lifted a finger to help. They sat and waited to be served. They were dressed in nice clothes even when they weren't going anywhere. And when Zaria passed by, they looked at her like she was dirt clinging to their shoes.
Would they let her go? Would Sarah release her from her prison?
Zaria sighed and lowered the fire beneath the pot, letting the stew simmer as she folded her arms around her chest.
She could already imagine how the conversation would go.
"Live with a teacher? You think this is a charity house? You want to embarrass us in front of the community?"
She would try to explain. She would beg. "Please, Mama. I just want to finish school. I want to be someone."
And they'd laugh. Or worse—beat her for being "too forward."
But somewhere deep in her chest, buried beneath layers of fear, a small voice whispered: You have to try.
Even if it meant another round of punishment. Even if Sarah shouted or threw her out. At least you tried. At least you showed Teacher Lilian that you believe in yourself too.
The fish was almost ready. Zaria carefully removed the pot from the fire and covered it. She didn't eat. She had learned to wait until everyone else was done—if there was anything left.
She stood up and wiped her hands on her skirt, her thoughts still heavy. Her gaze wandered toward the stars now visible through the open kitchen window. She had always loved the stars. They were distant, free, untouched by the cruelty of her world. Looking at them made her feel that maybe—just maybe—her life could change too.
That night, after dinner was served and the dishes were washed, Zaria tiptoed back to the kitchen and curled up in the corner beside the firewood pile. Her mattress had long since been taken by one of her stepsisters, and the cold floor had become her bed.
But before she drifted off to sleep, she whispered a promise to herself: Tomorrow, I will ask her. I will talk to Mama. And if she says no... I'll ask again. And again.
Because Teacher Lilian believes in me. And maybe—just maybe—I can believe in me too.