Every pebble, every dry twig left a mark on her soul as if to remind her that there was no soft place for her there. The sack nearly dragged on the ground, scraping and leaving a trail in the dust. Zoadi leaned forward, hugging the load with her thin arms, and still the weight insisted on pulling her down. Sweat started to run far too early, even before the sun had risen, forming on her forehead, trickling down her temples, burning her tired eyes.
On the road to the market, the first people began to appear. An old man named Baraka, who often sold potatoes nearby, glanced quickly, adjusted his hat, and pretended to be busy with his cart. Two women, Asha and Jumok, whispered to each other, noticing the girl nearly dragging herself along, but quickly looked away. “Not our business,” one of them murmured softly like someone trying to push away an uncomfortable thought.
No one asked who the child belonged to. No one offered a sip of water. No one was outraged by the sack bigger than she was. Zawadi felt the silence like a wall. Everyone saw her, but it was as if she were made of wind. The sweat now ran down her skinny neck, mixed with the dust that rose with every step. Her small hands trembled from gripping the sax’s fabric so tightly, trying to hold on so it wouldn’t slip.
Her shoulder burned as if on fire. Her back ached, but Sawadi didn’t let go of the burden. Bintter’s voice echoed in her head echoed Bintter’s voice. If you drop it, you’ll come back for more. If you’re late, you go to bed hungry. That’s how the girl had learned to keep quiet, hiding the pain in her chest like a secret no one wanted to hear.
As she passed by Donna Hale Lima’s house, she caught the smell of hot tea and bread baking. For a moment, her stomach twisted in knots, remembering she had left home without even a sip of water. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw children her age chasing a rag ball, laughing out loud, tripping over their own joy. None of them carried sacks.
None of them had calloused hands. For a second, Zawadi imagined what it would be like to sit on a little porch, to laugh, two, to have someone say her name with affection. But reality returned as the sack slipped slightly, pulling her to one side and nearly throwing her to the ground.
With every step, the idea of being invisible was confirmed. The whole village seemed to accept that the girl was just part of the scenery. A skinny shadow, a bent little figure, a dustcovered blur no one bothered to truly see. The sweat kept running down her narrow face, mixed with the occasional tear that escaped without asking permission.
Zawadi wiped them away quickly with her shoulder, as if even her tears didn’t deserve to be seen. And while the cassava sack nearly dragged along the ground, her heart was learning day after day what it meant to carry a weight that wasn’t just of the body, but also of the soul. When Zawadi returned from the market that afternoon, the sun was already setting behind the mango trees, casting a golden light over the village like an old cooking pot.
But in the house where she lived, nothing was shown. The yard was silent and bent, her arms crossed, her face hard as a grinding stone was waiting at the door. As soon as the girl stepped inside, she heard the same sentence she already knew by heart, spoken in a tone that pierced the skin. Can’t even do that right.
It was always the same. It didn’t matter if the sack had arrived intact. If she had walked for miles hungry and overheated, toba zawadi would never be enough. The girl lowered her head, gripping the fabric of her skirt to stop her hands from trembling. The stepmother paced in circles, muttering about how everything in that house depended on her, while her own children munched on warm fritters in the shade of the porch.
The smell of food made Zav’s stomach twist, but she knew she’d only eat if there were leftovers, and there almost never were. The eyes of one of the boys, Tano, met hers for a second. He quickly looked away like someone afraid of being caught showing compassion. Later, when Knight had fully fallen, Binta shoved a half-filled bucket of water toward her and pointed to the backyard.
Zadi washed pots, scrubbed the floor, and picked up cassava peels that the roosters were pecking at. The cold wind cut her face, still sweaty from the long walk, and every time she bent over to pick something up, her whole body protested. But Bintter moved nearby like a heavy shadow, watching, waiting for any excuse to yell again.
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