The exam hall was far behind her now, but Zaria's heart had never felt heavier.
The PLE vacation had begun. Other children her age laughed in open fields, discussing how they'd soon join secondary school or attend holiday coaching classes. Linda had been taken to visit her grandmother upcountry. Teacher Lilian had gone for a short training workshop. And Zaria?
Zaria returned to being invisible.
The moment she stepped back into her stepmother's house, the warm encouragement, secret teachings, and brief taste of hope faded into shadows. She was once again the girl who slept in a storeroom, the girl who served others, the girl who didn't matter.
Her fingers bore fresh wounds from scrubbing, and her arms ached from carrying water jerrycans and firewood. Sarah was harsher now, always suspicious, as if sensing that something had happened during her absence.
"You think you're clever these days, don't you?" she said one evening, eyes narrowing. "The way you speak… who's been teaching you, eh?"
"No one, Mama," Zaria answered quietly.
But Sarah had already turned away. "You'll spend this whole holiday working. You'll never see those stupid school walls again."
And she meant it.
Zaria's daily routine became more brutal. She was woken before dawn, cooked meals for everyone, cleaned the compound, fetched water, then sent off to the roadside to sell baskets until late. Her bones never got a chance to rest. By nightfall, she was too weak to even hold her torch, let alone study.
She missed Linda. She missed Teacher Lilian. But above all, she missed believing that she had a future.
---
One cold morning, as she scrubbed muddy clothes in the basin behind the house, she overheard Mary Florence talking on the phone inside.
"Yeah, our maid is back," Mary scoffed. "That one—Zaria—my stepfather's mistake. She walks like a lost goat. You should see her hands, like a grandmother's. I don't know why they keep her."
Zaria felt her breath tighten.
She wasn't their daughter. She was a mistake. A burden.
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she silently kept scrubbing, the soap stinging her raw knuckles.
---
One afternoon, while on her way back from selling baskets, Zaria passed by the edge of the school field. It was deserted, only the wind moving through the grass. She sat quietly under the acacia tree where Teacher Lilian once taught her how to draw a map of Uganda.
She pulled out her journal and began writing:
> "Sometimes I think I dreamed all of it. The exams. The books. The torchlight. Maybe I was never meant to escape. Maybe girls like me just disappear."
---
Days passed. Weeks dragged. The pain of waiting gnawed at her like hunger. One day, she dared to ask Sarah:
"Mama, when will PLE results come out?"
Sarah turned with a mocking laugh. "So you think you're one of them? You think you did anything worth checking for results? Don't joke with me, Zaria."
Zaria lowered her head. "Sorry, Mama."
"Sorry for what?" Sarah snapped. "For being born? For always making people pity you? You should be. I wish your real mother had taken you and left for good."
Zaria didn't cry. Not then. She had learned to cry silently.
---
That night, she didn't sleep. Her body lay curled up in the storeroom, but her mind drifted through memories of better nights—of Linda's laughter, of Teacher Lilian's kind voice, of eating real food at someone's table.
She looked up at the rafters and whispered, "God, are you still there? If you are… please don't let my story end here."
---
One Sunday morning, as she swept the compound, a neighbor's radio blasted across the fence.
"…and the Ministry of Education has released the Primary Leaving Examination results…"
Zaria dropped the broom.
She froze.
Results. Today.
Her heart raced. She turned to run toward the neighbor's home, but a slap caught her cheek before she moved a step.
It was Sarah.
"Where do you think you're going?" she growled.
Zaria shook her head, tears forming. "I— I heard— the results—"
"You're not going anywhere!" Sarah shouted. "What results? You're not a student. If you take one more step, I'll beat the school out of your bones!"
Zaria nodded, trembling. The pain on her cheek spread like fire. She resumed sweeping, heartbroken.
---
That evening, as she prepared supper, someone knocked quietly at the back gate. Zaria looked around. No one saw her. She tiptoed over and opened it.
It was Linda.
Zaria nearly collapsed in relief.
Linda threw her arms around her and whispered, "You passed, Zaria. You passed!"
Zaria gasped. "What?"
"You got Division One. 5 aggregates. The second best in the whole school. You did it, Zaria. You really did it."
Zaria stood in silence, mouth open, hands shaking. Linda reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of the results printout. There it was—her name, printed neatly.
"Zaria Londa Johnson – Aggregate 5 – Division One."
She fell to her knees, weeping uncontrollably.
Linda knelt beside her, holding her tight. "You're not nobody, Zaria. You're not a mistake. You are someone. You've proven it."
---
When she returned to the storeroom that night, Zaria held the paper against her chest like it was a piece of her soul.
She didn't eat that night.
She didn't sleep.
She just sat there, tears flowing silently, whispering over and over: "I passed. I passed. I passed."