Morning arrived, but Zaria did not rise.
Her body, stiff and bruised, refused to respond. The fever had not broken through the night—instead, it worsened. Her head pounded like drums of thunder, her throat felt like sandpaper, and every breath came with sharp pain.
Still, the moment the store door creaked open, Zaria sat up slowly. Her eyes were sunken, her lips pale and dry. But she knew better than to show weakness. In Sarah's world, sickness was laziness in disguise.
"Why are you still lying down?" Sarah barked. "The sun is already out!"
"I… I feel dizzy," Zaria mumbled.
Sarah snorted. "Then faint after finishing the work!"
Zaria forced herself up. Her joints screamed. Her legs wobbled. But she shuffled out to start the chores.
She boiled water for tea, then began sweeping the compound. Halfway through, she leaned on the broom for support, feeling like she might collapse again. But just then, Claire Rina passed by and laughed mockingly.
"You walk like you're drunk!" she said. "Are you going to give birth soon, Miss Smart Girl?"
Zaria didn't answer. She couldn't. Her mouth was too dry to form a word.
After breakfast, she was ordered to scrub the pit latrine area, sweep the backyard, and collect firewood. She moved like a machine—slow, broken, and automatic. Sarah, unimpressed with her pace, slapped her when she spilled water while boiling beans for lunch.
"Don't you know how to hold a saucepan properly?" Sarah yelled. "Or maybe now your belly is too heavy?"
Zaria winced but remained silent. She had learned that talking back only made the beatings worse.
Linda had not come the previous night, and that absence weighed heavily on her. Linda was her only connection to hope, the only friend who still looked at her with eyes that saw the real Zaria. Without her, the world felt colder.
By late afternoon, Sarah handed her the basket sack.
"Don't come back with even one basket," she said. "You hear?"
Zaria nodded weakly, then carried the bundle on her head and headed into the village. The sun was merciless, and the road felt like it stretched farther than ever before. She knocked on doors, one after another, begging people to buy.
Most turned her away. A few pitied her and bought out of kindness.
By the time she had sold the last basket, it was past 7 p.m. She panicked and began to run home—but her body wasn't built for running anymore. Her legs gave out halfway, and she fell hard onto the dusty road. Her elbow scraped against a rock, blood oozing.
Still, she rose.
She limped the rest of the way home, entering the gate just as Sarah opened her mouth to yell.
"You're late!" Sarah screamed. "Always late! What's wrong with you?"
Zaria tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. She simply handed over the small notebook with the sales.
Sarah grabbed it, scanned it, then slapped her hard. "Your laziness will kill you! Is this all the money you made?"
Zaria staggered but didn't fall. She held onto the wall.
"I—I fell," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
Sarah slapped her again. "Your excuses are endless. One day you'll fall and stay there!"
That night, Zaria cooked while bleeding. She didn't ask for medicine. She didn't expect care. After serving everyone, she retreated to the store and cried silently.
The next day, things only worsened.
As punishment for the previous night, Sarah refused to give her food all day. "Maybe when your stomach is empty, you'll learn how to respect time," she said.
Zaria worked with nothing in her belly but water. She washed clothes until her fingers were raw. She swept the compound again, coughing constantly. The cough had become deeper and more painful. She sometimes coughed up small traces of blood but wiped them quickly, hiding them from the world.
The family dog was treated better than she was. At least it was fed and allowed to rest in the shade.
Days blurred into each other. Zaria stopped counting them. Each morning she woke up with the same thought: "Just survive today."
There were moments—tiny ones—that nearly broke her completely. Like the time a boy her age, in a clean school uniform, pointed at her in the market and shouted, "Look! The pregnant girl who passed PLE! She's now a vendor!"
Or when a teacher she once respected walked past her without even a nod, pretending not to see the same girl who used to lead the class.
Zaria swallowed her pride every day. But even pride, when swallowed too often, starts to rot inside.
One evening, as she fetched water at the well, she suddenly blacked out. Her vision went black, her knees gave out, and she collapsed. When she woke up, it was dark, and someone had poured water over her face. She didn't see who. They were gone.
She walked home silently, dreading what Sarah would say.
She was met with a slap before she could even explain.
"You think collapsing will stop the work?" Sarah shouted. "You want me to believe you're dying? Don't tempt me, girl."
Zaria didn't flinch. She was too numb now.
In the stillness of the night, she whispered her prayer once more:
"God… please… I'm still here."
But this time, her voice sounded far away, like it didn't belong to her anymore.