Zaria woke up to the soft whisper of rain tapping against the tin roof. It was still early, but sleep had already abandoned her. The cold breeze from the open window crept into her bones. She curled her legs tighter under the thin sheet, hoping for warmth that never came.
Her stomach ached—not just from the bruises or the lingering soreness, but from emptiness. She hadn't eaten dinner the night before. Sarah said there was no food for lazy girls. Zaria knew better than to argue. So she had gone to bed hungry—again.
The morning dragged its feet. Sarah had left early with Mary Florence to visit a relative in the next village. Claire remained behind, but she barely acknowledged Zaria. That, Zaria thought, was a small blessing.
By mid-morning, she was already in the backyard, washing a mountain of clothes. The soapy water stung the open wounds on her knuckles, but she didn't stop. She couldn't afford to. The clothes had to be done before Sarah returned.
"Zaria," a voice called from the gate.
She looked up and saw Mama Eunice, the elderly woman who lived two houses down. Her graying hair was tucked beneath a colorful scarf, and she held a small basket of vegetables.
Zaria quickly stood and wiped her hands on the hem of her dress.
"Good morning, Mama Natu," she said with a weak smile.
"Good morning, child," the woman replied, stepping into the compound. She stopped and stared at Zaria for a long, quiet moment. Her eyes softened with worry. "Are you okay?"
Zaria hesitated. "Yes, Mama. I'm fine."
Mama Natu looked unconvinced. She walked closer, placed the basket on the ground, and touched Zaria's arm gently. Her fingers were warm, kind, and unfamiliar.
"Child," she said softly, "when was the last time you had a full meal?"
Zaria opened her mouth but couldn't answer. Her throat tightened. She didn't know whether it was the question or the tenderness in the woman's voice that undid her. She looked down at her bare feet, the skin cracked from walking long distances with no shoes.
"You've grown so thin," Mama Natu murmured. "You look like the wind could carry you away."
"I eat sometimes," Zaria whispered, ashamed.
Mama Natu exhaled, clearly holding back tears. "What kind of home is this? What are your people doing to you?"
Zaria remained silent.
Another neighbor, Mama Tendo, arrived at the gate, balancing a jug of water on her hip. She paused when she saw Zaria and Mama Natu, her brows knitting together.
"Is she sick?" Mama Tendo asked, concern flooding her tone.
"No," Mama Natu replied. "Just starved and overworked."
Mama Tendo set her jug down. "God forbid. Look at her arms—just skin and bones."
Zaria backed away slightly, the attention making her uncomfortable. No one had ever asked if she was okay before. No one had ever noticed—or maybe they had, but chosen not to say anything. Now, with two pairs of eyes staring at her with such concern, it felt overwhelming.
"I'm okay, really," she tried to assure them, but her voice betrayed her.
"You are not okay," Mama Tendo said firmly. "You are twelve, and you look like you are eight. What is this?"
The front door creaked open, and Claire peeked out.
"What's going on here?" she asked coldly.
The two women turned to her. Mama Natu straightened, but her tone remained sharp.
"Does your mother know this girl looks like she hasn't eaten in days? That she's carrying the weight of this whole house on her little back?"
Claire rolled her eyes. "She eats what everyone else eats. If she's skinny, it's not our fault."
"Don't play games with us, Claire," Mama Tendo said. "We've seen this girl running around the market like a servant, carrying loads too heavy even for grown women."
Claire shrugged and went back inside.
Zaria didn't know what to say. Part of her wanted to cry, but the other part—the bigger part—was terrified. What if Sarah found out they were asking questions? What if she was punished again for drawing attention?
Mama Natu reached into her basket and pulled out two bananas and a small boiled egg wrapped in a serviette.
"Here," she said, pressing them into Zaria's hand. "Eat. Now."
Zaria hesitated. "I'll be in trouble if she finds out."
"Let her come and find me," Mama Natu said, standing tall. "You are not a dog. You deserve food."
Zaria's lip trembled. She had never been spoken to like that before. Like she mattered.
With trembling fingers, she peeled the first banana and took a bite. The sweetness burst on her tongue, and for the first time in a long time, she ate without fear. The two women watched her silently, and in their presence, Zaria felt something she hadn't felt in years—safe.
Mama Tendo turned to Mama Natu. "We should speak to the local women's council. This child is wasting away in front of our eyes."
"Yes," Mama Natu agreed. "This has gone on long enough. If her father won't protect her, someone must."
Zaria looked up, panic in her eyes. "Please… don't tell anyone. Please."
"You don't have to be afraid," Mama Natu said gently. "No one will hurt you anymore."
But Zaria wasn't so sure. She knew Sarah. If her stepmother felt threatened, things could get worse. Much worse.
The women eventually left, promising to return. Zaria watched them disappear down the road, the half-eaten banana still in her hand. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. She didn't know if what had just happened was a blessing or the beginning of more pain—but she knew something had changed.
Later that evening, as she scrubbed the final shirt from the morning's pile, she looked at the corner of the backyard where Mama Natu had stood. For the first time in years, someone had looked at her and seen a child—not a burden, not a servant, not a mistake.
She sat for a while after the chores were done, resting under the jacaranda tree near the fence. The breeze was cool. Her stomach, though not full, was not empty either. And her heart—just a little—felt lighter.
That night, lying on her mat, she thought about the way Mama Natu's hand had touched her cheek. About the way Mama Tendo had said she deserved more. She hugged herself and whispered into the darkness, "Maybe one day… someone will love me for real."
And for the first time, it didn't feel like a lie.