The morning sunlight filtered through the cracks in the wooden walls, splashing across the thin mat where Zaria lay. The warmth that touched her skin was deceptive—it was not comforting, not soft. It felt like a spotlight shining down on her shame, the bruises on her back a silent testimony of last night's cruelty. She didn't remember when she had finally drifted off to sleep, but she knew she hadn't rested. Not truly.
The house was quiet. Not the peace-filled quiet of a home wrapped in love, but the tense, watching kind—like a predator waiting in the shadows. She knew the pattern. Sarah would be pretending to be busy in the kitchen, but her ears would be sharp, alert, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.
Zaria sat up slowly, wincing as pain lanced through her body. Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't cry. Tears never helped. They only made her feel weaker, and she had no room left for weakness.
As she folded the mat and pushed it to the corner, the door creaked open and Claire stepped inside. Her lips were twisted in a half-smirk, half-sneer—the expression she wore when she was trying to act innocent but failed miserably.
"Mama says you should come and wash the veranda. And don't take forever," Claire added, her voice dripping with glee.
Zaria nodded silently and limped out of the room. Outside, the sky was a pale blue, mocking in its beauty. She gathered a bucket of water and an old rag and knelt at the edge of the veranda. Every movement stretched sore muscles and reopened invisible wounds, but she kept going. Scrubbing. Wiping. Biting her lip to keep from groaning.
She didn't notice Mary Florence until the older girl nudged her with the toe of her shoe.
"You forgot to greet me," Mary said sharply, arms crossed. Her freshly pressed dress and gleaming sandals only reminded Zaria of the secondhand rags she wore.
"Good morning," Zaria muttered, not looking up.
Mary snorted. "You always sound like you've got sand in your mouth. No wonder no one likes talking to you."
Zaria didn't answer. Words were weapons in this house, and she had learned the hard way that silence was her best armor. Mary lingered a few more seconds, hoping for a reaction, then sighed and walked off, her sandals clapping proudly against the tiled floor.
By the time Zaria finished cleaning, her arms trembled from exhaustion. But there was no rest. Sarah was waiting in the backyard, arms folded, brows drawn together in that eternal scowl.
"Did you finish?" she asked.
Zaria nodded.
"Then take these to the market," Sarah said, gesturing to a set of baskets—more than twenty, each filled with raw groundnuts.
"Twenty, Mama?" Zaria whispered before she could stop herself. "Yesterday I carried only fifteen."
"Are you complaining now?" Sarah snapped. "You want to eat for free in this house and still choose how much you work?"
"No, Mama," Zaria murmured.
"You better not. If I hear you didn't sell all of them, you'll eat pepper and cane tonight."
Zaria wrapped the baskets in a worn piece of cloth, tied them securely with string, and hoisted them onto her head. Her body screamed in protest, but she kept her face still.
She walked for more than an hour, her bare feet navigating the rough paths, the weight on her head pressing into her spine. When she reached the market, the usual hustle and noise welcomed her like an old, unforgiving friend. Some vendors waved at her sympathetically. Others ignored her entirely. Most people knew her story, or at least enough to shake their heads when they saw her. But no one ever stepped in.
As the morning waned and the sun climbed higher, Zaria found a corner near a busy path and set down her baskets. She called out to passersby, her voice soft but persistent.
"Fresh groundnuts... sweet and clean... come and buy..."
It took hours to sell them all. A kind old woman bought two baskets and gave her an extra coin. A group of schoolboys teased her before walking away laughing. A young man with kind eyes bought three without haggling. Slowly, the weight grew lighter. Basket by basket.
By the time the last one was gone, her stomach grumbled with hunger. She used one of the coins to buy a small portion of roasted maize. It wasn't enough, but it gave her enough energy to begin the long walk home.
When she reached the compound, dusk was settling, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. She approached the house with slow, wary steps, her ears tuned for danger.
Sarah was on the porch, peeling cassava. She looked up with narrowed eyes.
"You're late," she said.
"I sold all the baskets," Zaria replied, holding out the coins.
Sarah snatched them from her hand and counted each one, then looked at her as if trying to find fault.
"Go and wash the plates from lunch," she said, then turned her back.
Zaria exhaled slowly and went inside. The basin was full. She scrubbed in silence, her fingers shriveled and red by the time she finished.
That night, she lay on her mat again, her stomach half-full and her soul empty. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the laughter from the main house as Mary and Claire joked with Sarah, their voices rising in merriment. For a moment, she let herself imagine a different world. One where her mother had never left. One where her father was home every day. One where the house had love instead of walls.
She closed her eyes and whispered to herself, "One day... this will all be behind me."
No one heard her. But still, she whispered it again. Louder this time.