The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, baking the murram road and pressing its heat into Zaria's already aching back. She moved with effort, her feet dragging as she balanced the heavy basket-load with a piece of old cloth tied across her forehead. Her shirt clung to her back, soaked with sweat and dirt, while the road dust clung to her legs like a second skin.
It was the third week since her body collapsed beside the water path. Though the fever had eased, the cough still gripped her chest like iron fingers. Yet, she had to keep walking—selling baskets was no longer optional. Sarah had now demanded she sell 30 baskets a day or go without food.
As she approached the roadside near the highway—a place where travelers occasionally stopped to buy food or small crafts—she spotted a sleek silver car slowing down. A dark-skinned woman, dressed in a clean purple dress and large sunglasses, leaned her head slightly out of the window. She looked elegant, powerful—someone with a scent of perfume, someone who belonged in another world.
Zaria's eyes narrowed at the car. Something about the woman stirred her chest—an echo, a whisper from a place she had buried long ago.
The car pulled closer, easing onto the roadside shoulder. The woman removed her sunglasses for a brief moment. Their eyes met.
Zaria felt a strange pull. Her footsteps slowed.
She could not explain it—but the woman's face felt… familiar. Not from the market. Not from the village. Deeper.
The woman looked at her too—intently, silently. Her lips parted slightly, and for a second, time stood still. Zaria's fingers clutched the edge of the basket tightly.
Then, without a word, the woman slipped the sunglasses back on and turned her face away. The engine growled back to life. And slowly, the car began to roll forward.
Zaria panicked. She rushed forward, nearly tripping over her own feet, waving her arms.
"Madam! Please! Buy a basket! Just one!" she cried, her voice raw with desperation.
The car didn't stop.
"Please!" she shouted again, now running. "They're good quality. Handmade. Please help me!"
But the silver car picked up speed and sped off, vanishing into the stretch of road ahead like a dream denied.
Zaria stood there, winded, confused, her chest heaving. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them down. Her legs wobbled. Her soul trembled.
She had forgotten what her mother looked like. But that woman—something inside her screamed—that was her.
The shape of her nose. The sharp curve of her jaw. The way she looked—almost startled at the sight of Zaria.
And yet she drove away.
Not a word. Not a second glance.
Just silence, and the sound of tires fading.
Zaria slowly sank to her knees, still gripping the baskets. She was no longer thinking about customers. She wasn't thinking about home. Her mind spiraled back into a deep hole—a hole that had never fully closed.
So she's alive. She saw me. And she left.
She looked up at the sky, blinking.
Why, God?
A loud honk startled her back into reality. Another car zoomed past, spraying dust into her face. She coughed, shielding her eyes, and stood up again.
Just a few meters ahead, she saw a woman standing beside a boda-boda stage. Zaria quickened her pace.
"Madam, can I interest you in a basket?" she called out.
The woman looked at her, hesitant. "What's the price?"
"Only five thousand," Zaria said softly. "But I can give you at four if you buy now."
The woman smiled faintly, about to respond—until a friend of hers arrived and whispered something in her ear.
"That's the girl who aborted," she murmured.
The smile vanished. "I'll buy later," the woman said stiffly.
She climbed onto the waiting boda and rode off without looking back.
Zaria lowered her eyes again.
It was always like this. Whenever hope sparked, someone nearby stomped it out.
By the end of the day, she had sold only 8 baskets out of 30. That meant no supper. No rest. Sarah would scream. She would beat her. Again.
She sat under a tree as twilight approached, hugging her knees. Her stomach grumbled, and her body ached. She hadn't eaten since morning porridge—barely half a cup.
From her spot near the road, she watched as cars drove past—some fancy, some dusty, some packed with children laughing through the windows.
She imagined herself inside one of those cars, dressed in a school uniform, bag on her back, laughing with friends on her way to boarding school.
But imagination didn't feed you. And dreams didn't sell baskets.
As she prepared to rise again, a boda stopped nearby. A boy she didn't know pointed at her.
"Are you the Zaria from Bright Light Primary School?"
She turned slowly. "Yes… why?"
He shrugged. "Just asking. People still talk about you. That PLE girl."
Then he rode off, leaving dust and silence behind.
Zaria didn't smile. That name—PLE girl—felt like a ghost now. A reminder of the life she almost had. The scholarship. The celebrations. The dream.
But now, she was just a girl with broken slippers, a hacking cough, and a load of unsold baskets.
By the time she returned home, darkness had fallen. Sarah was already fuming at the door.
"Why do you come back this late?" she snapped. "Do you think you're a tourist?"
"I tried," Zaria said, placing the unsold baskets down. "But people didn't buy."
"Don't lie to me!" Sarah barked. "You sold and ate the money, you thief!"
"I didn't—"
Slap!
"Get out of my sight! No food for you!"
Zaria didn't cry. She simply picked the remaining baskets and walked to the store.
As she sat in the corner, rubbing her sore cheek, her thoughts wandered back to the woman in the silver car.
Was it really her? My mother?
And if it was, how could she look at me like that… and just leave?
But the deeper part of Zaria already knew the answer.
The world had never loved her. Not her family. Not her neighbors. Not even the woman who gave birth to her.
She was the child no one claimed.
Yet somehow, the more they pushed her down, the more something inside her refused to die.
Maybe it was foolishness. Or maybe it was strength.
But Zaria whispered to herself that night, teeth clenched and heart trembling:
They may drive away from me. But one day, they will know my name again. Not as shame—but as power.