The sky darkened early that evening. The clouds hung low, heavy with warning. But Zaria had no time to read the sky's language—she still had 10 baskets to sell before returning home.
The streets were emptier than usual, the markets quieter. Even the bodaboda riders huddled in groups under awnings, murmuring about the coming storm. Zaria's stomach rumbled with hunger, but she pushed through, calling out her usual plea:
"Beautiful baskets! Handmade! Strong and affordable!"
But no one answered.
The rain came just after six—sudden, fierce, angry. She barely made it under a shop's old verandah, already soaked through. Her hair clung to her forehead, her dress was wet and heavy. She hugged the baskets tightly, hoping to protect them.
An old woman standing beside her clicked her tongue. "Why does your mother let you walk like this, eh?"
Zaria didn't answer.
Another woman, shielding her baby, added sharply, "She's not a child, that one. Didn't you hear what she did?"
Zaria turned her back to them.
Their voices continued behind her, but she blocked them out. She had become an expert at shutting the world out—shutting it away from the bruises, the hunger, the cold, and now, the rain.
When the storm finally passed, she walked the last stretch home in mud. Her slippers got stuck, so she carried them, barefoot on the jagged stones. Her legs trembled. Her head burned. But she knew the price of coming home late.
She arrived at the gate with 7 baskets unsold.
Sarah was waiting.
"You think I won't beat you because it rained?" she hissed. "Are you the only one who sells in the rain?"
Zaria opened her mouth to explain, but the slap came first.
"You're cursed!" Sarah shouted, striking her again. "Ever since you entered my home, there has been no peace. No joy!"
Mary Florence and Claire Rina peeked from the window, laughing.
"She's pretending to be tired again," Claire sneered.
Sarah didn't stop with her hands. She grabbed the stick kept behind the kitchen door. It came down hard on Zaria's back, her arms, her legs.
"Say sorry!" she barked with every hit. "Say sorry for ruining our lives!"
Zaria bit her lip to keep from screaming. But when the stick landed across her shoulder, she crumpled. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed on the floor, gasping.
Then she vomited.
Not food—there was none in her belly—but bile and water, right there on the tiles.
Sarah stepped back in disgust. "Now she's vomiting in my house!"
She stormed off, leaving Zaria in a heap.
Linda sneaked in later that night, through the back.
Zaria could barely raise her head.
"Oh God, Zaria…" Linda whispered, kneeling beside her. "What happened now?"
Zaria only blinked, unable to speak. Her body throbbed, her voice had gone hoarse, and her lips were cracked.
"I brought you porridge," Linda said, tears in her eyes. "You must eat something. Please."
Zaria took a slow sip from the plastic bottle. The warmth soothed her, but her stomach twisted painfully.
"They… said your mother came," Linda whispered. "Is it true?"
Zaria gave the faintest nod.
"She didn't even stop?" Linda asked, shocked.
Another nod.
"I'm sorry," she said, hugging her tightly. "I'm so sorry, Zaria."
When Linda left, Zaria curled into herself, the porridge still settling slowly in her belly. Outside, the wind howled again.
But the storm hadn't finished with her yet.
The following day, something worse than pain arrived—shame.
A picture had been taken by someone when she was running after the silver car. Dirty, barefoot, her baskets on her back, arms outstretched.
The caption? "The mighty girl who scored Aggregate 5 now begs on the roadside."
It went viral across village WhatsApp groups and school alumni forums. Even teachers who once clapped for her now forwarded the photo with mocking comments.
Sarah, of course, saw it too.
"You've shamed me enough," she said the next morning. "You will stop selling these baskets today. You will no longer leave this compound."
Zaria blinked. "But—how will I survive?"
"Not my problem," Sarah hissed. "From now on, you'll only work here. No selling. No moving around."
"But I want to go back to school…" Zaria whispered.
Sarah stepped closer. "You? School? Don't even dream. You were born to suffer."
And just like that, Zaria's small freedom—her only means of leaving the compound, of perhaps running into help—was cut off.
No more market. No more road.
She was a prisoner again.
For two days, she was locked inside the compound, working endlessly. Cleaning, cooking, washing, digging, scrubbing.
On the third day, her fever returned. Her cough turned bloody.
She collapsed again while washing clothes.
This time, Sarah dragged her by the arm and threw her into the store like garbage.
"You want to die? Die from there!" she spat.
---
That night, Zaria lay in the corner of the store, her lips whispering something that wasn't quite prayer. Her eyes fluttered open to the crack of moonlight sneaking through the broken wall.
In her haze, she saw herself—small, happy, in a school uniform again.
Teacher Lilian was beside her, clapping.
But the image faded quickly.
She blinked, coughing blood into her hand again.
She had spent more time suffering than smiling.
And somehow, through it all, she still whispered:
"I'm not done yet."