Zaria's body had grown weary. But weariness wasn't allowed in Sarah's house. Not for Zaria.
It began with small things—slaps for forgetting to rinse a cup properly, a cane across the back for failing to sweep behind the kitchen door. But as days wore on, the punishments grew more frequent, more violent, more unpredictable.
One evening, she returned from selling baskets a few minutes past 7 p.m. The final buyer had delayed in giving her change, and Zaria had run as fast as she could to make it home. But Sarah was waiting—her arms folded, her eyes like fire.
"You think I'm stupid?" she hissed, dragging Zaria into the compound. "You went to meet boys, eh? You're already used to men's things, right? That's why you were late?"
Before Zaria could even explain, Sarah picked up a stick by the door—a long, smooth guava branch—and beat her across the arms, her back, and thighs. Zaria screamed, not from the pain, but from the heartbreak of once again being unheard.
"I was selling baskets! I swear!" she cried.
But Sarah only beat harder. "You'll learn to obey time! You hear me?"
Mary Florence and Claire Rina stood nearby, watching as if it were a show. No one stopped it. No one even flinched.
The next morning, Zaria woke with swollen legs and a fever. Her skin was hot to the touch, and her head pounded like someone had lit a drum inside her skull. She lay still, hoping maybe—just maybe—Sarah would see her pain and offer mercy.
But mercy was not a language spoken in that house.
"Get up!" Sarah barked, kicking the door open. "You think food will cook itself?"
"I don't feel well…" Zaria whispered, her lips dry, her voice weak.
Sarah stepped inside, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her up. "Sick? You think I've never been sick before? Did I stop cooking? Lazy girls become pregnant and then start pretending to be sick!"
Zaria staggered as she moved, her feet heavy, her eyes half-closed. She washed dishes, swept the compound, and boiled water for tea. Her whole body trembled. By lunchtime, she was coughing—a deep, painful cough that made her double over every few minutes.
Still, she worked.
She fetched water in the afternoon, wobbling under the weight of the jerrycans. Twice she slipped and nearly fell. When she returned, Sarah shook her head.
"If you break that can, I will break your head next."
Zaria said nothing.
Later, she went to collect firewood. Her body begged her to stop, to rest. But rest was a privilege for others. Not for her.
By the time she came back with the bundle of firewood, her blouse was soaked in sweat, and her knees buckled with every step. She collapsed briefly by the entrance of the house—but no one helped her up. Mary Florence laughed from the porch. "You look like a ghost!"
Zaria didn't respond. There was no strength left in her.
After preparing supper, she leaned against the kitchen wall, shivering despite the heat from the fire. Her cough had worsened. Her vision blurred. She hadn't eaten the whole day—not that anyone noticed.
Later that night, Linda managed to sneak over.
"Zaria, oh my God—what happened to your face?" she whispered, kneeling beside her.
Zaria tried to smile, but even her lips were too weak to lift. "I think… I'm just tired," she croaked.
"You need to see a doctor!"
Zaria chuckled weakly. "With what money? They'd rather bury me."
Linda's eyes welled up. She looked at her friend—the girl who once stood tall with a report card full of ones—and now she looked like a shadow. Thin. Pale. Tired.
"I'll bring you Panadol tomorrow," Linda said. "And some bread if I can sneak it."
Zaria nodded slowly. "Thank you."
The next day, despite her growing fever and aching limbs, she was forced to continue. Sarah never asked if she was okay. She only barked instructions. "Fetch water. Cook. Clean. Go sell."
If Zaria moved too slowly, she was beaten. If she forgot something, she was slapped. The bruises had stopped healing. They simply layered over one another like battle scars.
One afternoon, as she sat under the sun trying to sell baskets, a woman passed by and shook her head.
"Eh… how the mighty fall," she muttered. "That's what happens to girls who want too much."
Zaria looked away.
By evening, she couldn't walk straight. Her breath came in short gasps, and her body burned like she was on fire inside. She reached home, dropped the empty basket sack, and slumped by the door.
Sarah opened the door, glanced at her, and scoffed. "Don't die there. Go prepare supper."
Zaria didn't move.
"I said—"
"I'm sick," Zaria said softly, for the first time refusing to obey.
Sarah walked over, looked down at her, then bent and slapped her across the face. "You'll cook while standing or cook while crawling. But you'll cook."
Zaria slowly pulled herself up. Tears stung her eyes—not from the slap, but from the pain of being invisible. Of being unwanted. Of being unloved.
That night, she cooked while coughing violently, stirring beans with one hand and holding her side with the other. She served food in silence. She didn't eat.
When she finally lay down, her fever spiked. She was too hot to cover herself, too cold to stay uncovered. Her bones ached, her skin itched, her throat burned.
In the darkness, she whispered, "Mama… where are you?"
And then a louder whisper, "God… if I die, will they even care?"
The store was quiet, but a tear dropped from her eye to the floor like a final exclamation mark to her prayer.