Zaria was no longer the girl who had made headlines for her academic brilliance. No. In the eyes of the village, she was now something else entirely—a filthy girl, a disgrace, a warning to others.
Children pointed at her and laughed as she passed. Grown women whispered as she walked by, then suddenly burst into laughter when she was out of earshot. Even men—grown men who should have known better—shook their heads in disgust.
"She had such a bright future, eh?"
"Yes, but these girls of nowadays… they have no self-control."
"Poor girl. She's even walking like someone pregnant!"
It didn't matter how loudly the truth screamed inside her. No one would listen. Sarah's lie had taken root, and the village had watered it with gossip until it blossomed into a full-blown scandal.
Even Linda's mother, once kind and warm toward Zaria, now forbade her daughter from visiting.
"You will not be seen with that girl," she warned. "People will start saying you're the same."
But Linda—brave, loyal Linda—still found a way. In the evenings, just after dusk, she would sneak through the back paths, dodging goats and slipping between hedges to reach Zaria. They'd meet behind the old pit latrine where no one dared to go, and there, Linda would hold Zaria's hand tightly and whisper,
"Be strong, Zari. We shall find a way. Somehow… somehow we'll reach Teacher Lilian."
Zaria never spoke much during these meetings. What was there to say? Her eyes did all the talking—red, puffy, tired. Her voice had grown quiet, not because she lacked things to say, but because the world had stopped listening.
At home, the atmosphere was worse than prison. Sarah had fully returned to her old self—only this time more vicious, more determined to break Zaria completely. Now that no one believed in her, there was no need to hide the cruelty.
"You're not going to school," Sarah spat one morning, "so at least earn your keep."
Zaria was now the household's beast of burden. A real horse, as the villagers would say—strong, silent, and overworked.
Each day began at 5 a.m. sharp. No alarm clock. Just Sarah's heavy hand banging on the store door.
"Wake up! Don't sleep like someone who has no responsibilities!"
She would drag herself out of bed—if the torn mattress on the floor could even be called that—and begin the long, brutal cycle.
First: Light the charcoal stove and prepare breakfast. Boil tea, fry cassava or sweet potatoes, sometimes even make porridge from leftovers. She had to make sure Sarah, Mary Florence, and Claire Rina were served before they stepped out of bed.
Second: Sweep the entire compound with a grass broom, scrubbing the corners where dead leaves gathered. Then mop the floors inside the main house while dodging insults thrown from her stepsisters still curled up in beds.
Third: Fill all the jerrycans. Zaria would make countless trips to the community well, walking over half a kilometer each way. She carried two jerrycans—one on her head, another in her hand—and filled every bucket and tank in the house.
Fourth: Wash the dishes from breakfast, and then begin cooking lunch. On some days, Sarah gave her maize flour and beans. On others, just posho and water with a touch of salt. She prepared it all without tasting a bite.
Fifth: Before she could catch her breath, she was sent to the bush. She had to gather firewood—dry twigs, branches, anything that would burn. She tied it all into bundles and carried them home on her back.
Sixth: After setting the firewood aside, she washed clothes—Sarah's, her sisters', and the ones stained from the previous day's work. Her hands were rough, her knuckles cracked from constant scrubbing.
Seventh: She was handed a sack full of baskets—twenty-five in total. Zaria had to sell them all. It didn't matter how tired she was. Sarah gave her a small notebook to keep track of sales. By 7 p.m., she had to be back home—with all 25 baskets sold, or face Sarah's fury.
The sun would be sinking low by the time Zaria reached the last house on her route. Most buyers were kind enough to pay, but some mocked her.
"Eh, now the smart girl is a hawker?"
"Don't come near my children with your bad influence."
When she got home, it wasn't rest she was met with—it was supper preparation. She chopped onions, peeled cassava, boiled beans. If anything was late or undercooked, she was slapped or denied food.
And then, when everyone had eaten and laughed and gone to bed, Zaria would sneak back into the store, lie down, and whisper prayers into the cracked ceiling.
"God… if You're still there, please hear me. I'm not what they say I am. I swear I'm not."
The weight of everything began to wear her down. Her bones ached, her feet blistered, and her spirit dimmed. But she never stopped working. It was the only thing left she could do.
Work. Survive. Wait.
One day, after a long afternoon of selling baskets, Zaria collapsed beside the borehole. The world around her spun like a merry-go-round, and her lips were too dry to form words.
A kind old woman found her and splashed water on her face. "Eh! What is this girl doing alone? Where is your mother?"
Zaria opened her eyes slowly and forced a smile. "I… don't have one."
The woman clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Life is not fair, my child."
But Zaria already knew that.
That night, Linda managed to sneak over again. She brought half a chapati hidden in her schoolbag. Zaria's hands trembled as she took it.
"I asked a teacher about Teacher Lilian," Linda said in a whisper. "They said she's still in Kenya. Her mother's still in the hospital. But… she might return after two months."
Zaria's heart skipped. "Really?" she whispered.
Linda nodded. "We just need to hang on, okay? Don't give up."
And as the moonlight filtered through the cracks of the store roof, Zaria allowed herself one tiny moment of hope. Just one.
Because even when the world screams lies, even when everyone turns away, sometimes a single voice—one that believes in you—is enough to keep you going.