Zaria walked quietly to the kitchen, her feet dragging slightly with exhaustion. The evening had settled over the compound like a tired sigh, painting everything in a shade of dull blue. She hadn't eaten all day—only the smell of lunch earlier had reminded her that she had even cooked it. Now, long after everyone else had eaten, she finally had a chance to check if anything was left for her.
She lifted the lid of the blackened saucepan slowly, her heart tight with the usual dread. Inside, sitting at the very bottom, were three pieces of matooke—barely enough to make a full meal, but more than she often found.
Zaria stared at them for a second, then smiled faintly.
"Thank God," she whispered to herself.
It was a quiet victory. Most days, when she cooked and left the food for the family, she returned to empty pots and crumbs—if she was lucky. There were no plates left for her. No one called to ask if she had eaten. She existed in the background of the house, cooking, cleaning, working, and yet rarely considered.
But today, three pieces of matooke had remained. Small mercies mattered.
She sat on a low stool in the smoky kitchen, ate in silence, and drank a cup of water from a tin cup that still smelled faintly of ash. The katogo had thickened over time, but it was still rich with the taste of groundnuts. Her stomach calmed, and her chest warmed slightly. Even if it wasn't much, it was something. And that was enough for now.
After eating, Zaria stood and began washing the plates, some of which had food still clinging to the edges. Her stepsisters, Claire and Mary, never scraped their plates before leaving them behind. They expected Zaria to handle it all—and she always did, without a word.
The cold water stung her fingers as she scrubbed each dish, and she worked steadily, lost in the rhythm of it. The frogs had begun their evening chorus in the distance. The air smelled of damp soil and woodsmoke.
She was rinsing the final plate when she heard her stepmother's voice call out from the front yard.
"Zaria!" Sarah barked. "When you're done, come here. I want to send you."
"Yes, Mom," Zaria answered instinctively, placing the last plate in the rack to dry. She wiped her hands on a faded towel, straightened her wrapper, and walked toward the front yard.
Sarah was seated on a plastic chair under the veranda roof, her phone in hand, deeply absorbed in a WhatsApp conversation. Her thumb moved quickly across the screen, her brows furrowed in amusement. She didn't look up when Zaria arrived.
After a moment, Sarah finally spoke, eyes still locked on her screen. "Go to Mama Noreen in the market and tell her I've sent you. She'll give you fish. Bring it straight home."
Zaria nodded. "Yes, Mom."
Without delay, she turned and started walking.
The road to the market was familiar, lined with maize stalks and dusty footpaths. The evening breeze tugged at her scarf, and the rustling leaves whispered stories she often imagined were meant only for her. She adjusted the bag slung across her shoulder and moved with the steady pace of someone used to errands that never seemed to end.
As she neared the outer stalls of the market, she heard a cheerful voice behind her.
"Zaria!"
She turned—and her face lit up.
It was Linda, her childhood friend. They hadn't seen each other in weeks.
"Linda!" Zaria called, her tired face breaking into a genuine smile.
The two girls ran to each other, giggling and hugging tightly.
"You've grown thin!" Linda said, taking a step back and looking her over.
Zaria laughed. "And you've grown taller."
They both laughed again, the moment a rare and beautiful break from routine.
"I was just sent to the market by Mum," Linda said, walking beside her.
"Me too," Zaria replied.
They began walking together toward the vendor area, their steps lighter now, voices full of youthful chatter.
"You know what?" Linda said excitedly. "Since it was the holidays, my mom took me and my siblings to the village to see our paternal grandparents. We had such a good time!"
Zaria's smile wavered slightly. "Lucky you."
Linda turned quickly, realizing too late what she'd said.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice now careful and concerned. "I forgot… You have that evil family that doesn't treat you well."
Zaria fell quiet. The street noise faded for a second, and all she could hear was the faint humming in her own chest. After a moment, she said quietly, "My mother said I won't study this term."
Linda stopped walking. "What? Why?"
"She says there's no money," Zaria replied, trying to keep her voice steady. "So I'll stay home until… maybe next term."
Linda's mouth dropped open. "But you're one of the best students in class! This can't be fair."
Zaria gave a weak smile. "Fair isn't something I get much of."
Linda touched her arm gently. "You deserve better, Zaria. Honestly, you do."
"I know," Zaria whispered. "But knowing doesn't change anything."
They kept walking, their earlier laughter replaced by the quiet weight of truth. Still, Linda's presence was a small comfort—proof that not everyone in the world ignored her or treated her as invisible.
At the fish stall, Mama Noreen greeted Zaria warmly.
"Ah, Sarah's daughter. I was expecting you," she said, handing her a wrapped package of smoked fish. "Tell her I'll pass by tomorrow."
Zaria thanked her and tucked the package into her bag. She and Linda walked together a bit more before parting ways.
"I'll visit you," Linda promised. "We'll find time, okay?"
Zaria nodded. "I'd like that."
As she turned to walk back home, her heart ached with two things at once: the sting of her circumstances, and the quiet warmth of having someone who cared, even a little.
By the time she reached the compound, the stars had begun to blink into the sky. The laughter from inside the house greeted her, but none of it was meant for her.
Still, she had done what was asked.
Still, she had smiled.