The distant echo of a school bell rang out across the neighborhood, a sharp sound that sliced through the morning air like a blade. For most children in the village, the bell signaled the beginning of another school day—fresh chalk on blackboards, giggles in the corridors, the clatter of lunchboxes. But for Zaria, it was a reminder of everything she was missing.
She sat on the edge of a wooden stool in the backyard, her bare feet caked in dust, hands soaked in soapy water as she scrubbed a basin full of her stepsisters' uniforms. Claire's blouse was stained with ink, and Mary Florence's skirt reeked of perfume and carelessness. Zaria rubbed harder.
She tried not to look at the road, but she couldn't help herself. Just beyond the tall hedge that separated the house from the street, she could hear the footsteps of children walking to school—backpacks bouncing, shoes tapping, voices rising with the kind of joy Zaria hadn't felt in months.
It was the second week of the new term. The second term of the year. And she was still here, trapped in Sarah's house, scrubbing and sweeping while the rest of her age mates studied science and solved math problems.
Her heart ached.
Last term, she had been in school—barely. She had missed days when Sarah needed extra help in the market or at home. But her teacher, Miss Lilian, had noticed her struggles. The kind woman had pulled her aside one afternoon after class.
"Zaria," she had said, kneeling to meet her eye, "you are bright. You always catch on quickly. But you miss so many days. Are you okay at home?"
Zaria had lied at first. She always did. But something in Miss Lilian's eyes had made her speak the truth. The teacher had listened carefully, her face tight with concern. By the end of their talk, she had offered something that Zaria had never imagined possible.
"If your stepmother agrees, you can come and stay with me. I'll speak to the headteacher and get your fees waived. I'll help with your uniforms and food. You just need to focus on your studies."
Zaria had nodded then, eyes wide, hope swelling quietly in her chest. But she hadn't dared to ask Sarah yet. She had waited, praying for the right moment.
Now, as she rinsed the last shirt, she told herself again: Today. I will tell her today.
But fate, as always, had its own cruel timing.
Inside the house, Sarah paced the sitting room, her lips pursed in frustration, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Just ten minutes earlier, she had stepped out to fetch water from the shared tap when she heard voices around the corner of the compound.
"Mama Natu and i gave Zaria some food yesterday," said Mama Tendo. " the child looked like she might faint."
"Poor girl," Mama Natu had added. "You can count her ribs through her dress. And she's always doing chores. What kind of life is that for a child?"
Sarah had stopped in her tracks, her ear tilted toward them, her jaw clenched. Their voices burned into her like hot oil.
"I hear her teacher is even offering to keep her. That says a lot. Clearly, even outsiders are seeing what we've ignored."
Sarah turned on her heel and stormed back inside, her steps quick and thunderous. The audacity. How dare they talk about my household like that? Like I'm some kind of monster?
She didn't care for what the neighbors thought—but the idea that her authority was being questioned, especially by busybodies like Mama Tendo and Mama Natu, enraged her. And what was this nonsense about the teacher offering to take Zaria in?
Sarah's grip on control, thin as thread, was being challenged.
Zaria had just finished hanging the clothes when Sarah called her inside.
"Zaria!" her voice rang like a whip.
Zaria wiped her hands and hurried in, her heart already racing. She entered the sitting room and stood with her hands folded in front of her.
"Yes, Mama?"
Sarah's eyes were narrowed to slits. "You've been talking to people about this house?"
Zaria blinked. "No, Mama."
"You told your teacher that I don't feed you?"
"I—I didn't say that. She just asked if I was okay and I—"
"So you did talk," Sarah cut her off, voice sharp. "You think you're clever? Running your mouth to everyone about what happens under my roof?"
"I didn't mean to cause any trouble—"
"And what's this I'm hearing about her offering to keep you?"
Zaria's throat went dry. "She said she could help with school and—"
"School?" Sarah barked out a laugh. "So now you want to abandon this house? Go and live with a stranger like a beggar?"
"She's not a stranger. She's my teacher," Zaria said quietly. "She said she would help me study. I can be something—"
Sarah stepped forward and slapped Zaria across the cheek. The sting was immediate, sharp, and hot.
"You think life is about dreams?" Sarah hissed. "Who do you think you are? You want to go so you can sit in classrooms while I feed you? Who will clean? Who will sell groundnuts? Eh?"
Zaria held her cheek, eyes glistening. She didn't answer. She didn't trust herself to speak without breaking.
"You will forget that idea," Sarah said. "Forget that woman. Forget school. You belong here."
She turned and walked away, leaving Zaria standing in the silence, the bell of her future ringing fainter and fainter in her heart.
Later that afternoon, Mama Natu stopped by the gate again. Zaria was sweeping the compound, her eyes downcast.
"Zaria," she called softly.
Zaria looked up and offered a faint smile.
"Did you speak to her?"
Zaria hesitated, then shook her head. "I did. She said no."
Mama Natu sighed. "Don't give up, child. Sometimes people say no until God says yes."
Zaria nodded, but the words felt far away, like sunlight on a cold day—warm in theory, unreachable in reality.
When night fell, Zaria lay on her mat staring at the shadowy ceiling. The voices of her classmates replayed in her mind, their laughter bright and distant. She imagined herself back in class, raising her hand to answer a question, flipping through a textbook with pages that smelled like hope.
She pressed her palms together and whispered, "Please, God. I just want to learn."
And though her whisper was small, it carried a weight that only those who had been denied their worth could understand.