The old woman stopped beside Zawadi, leaning down slowly, unhurried. The girl tried to rise, bumping her elbow on the ground and pushing her weight onto a scraped knee. Pain made her grit her teeth. “I’m fine. I can keep going,” she murmured as if needing to convince someone other than herself. It was the way she always spoke whenever she fell, whenever she cried in secret, whenever life got too heavy.
She never wanted to bother anyone, but the old woman didn’t seem convinced. She planted her staff firmly on the ground and spoke in a voice roughened by time. Yet so steady it seemed to push the very air around them. Those who carry unfair burdens always think they have to walk alone. Zawadi swallowed hard. The words hit her like a soft blow.
Not one that hurt on the outside, but one that stirred something long asleep inside. The woman extended her hand. It wasn’t a fragile hand as her body might have suggested. It was firm, calloused, warm, hands that had needed flour, planted seeds, held children through tears, and buried loved ones. Hands that knew what the world was. Zoadi hesitated.
She looked at the fallen sack, at the cassava scattered across the ground, at the long path still ahead. Then she looked at the hand being offered, as if life were giving her a choice she had never been allowed to make. Finally, the girl placed her trembling fingers into the old woman’s palm. And in that simple touch, something inside her settled.
The woman helped her rise slowly without rush, like someone who knows wounds hurt more when you try to move too fast. Once Zawadi was on her feet, still breathing hard, the old woman gently adjusted the cloth on her shoulder, a small gesture that felt like a mother’s touch. Together, they began to gather the scattered kaspars.
The old woman bent down with difficulty, but insisted on helping, even if her movements were slow. The weight of the just always finds company at the right time, she murmured. So, Wadi didn’t answer. She didn’t know how. She just held the sack while the old woman tied it shut with a firm knot like someone sealing her promise.
They walked to the market side by side. The old woman leaned on her staff, and Zawadi tried not to walk too fast, respecting her pace. The road felt different now. The wind didn’t sting as much. The dust didn’t seem so heavy. It was as if the woman’s presence had softened even the ground. And no one, absolutely no one, had ever walked with Zawadi before.
When they arrived at the market, the old woman took something from within the cloth tied at her waist. It was a simple necklace made of dark seeds polished by time. Zavad’s eyes widened. It looked old, cared for, important. The old woman placed the necklace gently into her hands. When the world forgets who you are, this will remind you. Zawadi was speechless.
She felt the weight of the object. But it was a lightweight, like a good memory. Before the girl could ask anything, the old woman smiled with her eyes. She didn’t say her name. She didn’t explain where she had come from. She simply turned and walked away into the crowd, disappearing among the stalls and shadows as if she had come only for that moment.
Zoedi stood there motionless, holding the necklace against her chest. And for the first time in a long while, she felt she was not completely alone in the world. When Zawadi returned home that late afternoon, the sky was painted in a soft orange, and the wind carried the scent of burning wood from the neighbors kitchens.
She walked slowly, feeling the seed necklace sway against her chest, as if every gentle tap from it confirmed that the encounter hadn’t been by chance. It was too strange a gift to be given freely, and yet so familiar it felt like it was calling her by name. As she stepped into the yard, she found Binta standing near the door, arms crossed and her gaze sharp, the kind that searches for a floor before even seeing what’s going on.
Her stepmother frowned upon realizing Zawadi had arrived earlier than usual. “Why are you back so soon? Been hiding? Who carried the sack for you?” Her voice had the same cold tone as always, but now there was something new in it, a lit spark of suspicion, like an ember catching wind. Zoadi tried to explain carefully choosing her words.
I I tripped on the road. An old woman helped me. She couldn’t finish. Binta took two steps forward, her face twisted in anger. Old woman, since when you walk around with strangers, trying to bring trouble into my life. Before the girl could step back, her stepmother’s hand came fast. A slap that snapped across Sadi’s face and echoed in the silence of the yard.
Zawadi raised her hand to her cheek, feeling the sting rise along with the shame. And in that movement, the necklace slipped from her neck and fell to the ground, making a soft, dry sound as it touched the dirt. The light of late afternoon hit the polished seeds, and the object gleamed like something alive. Binta looked down first with irritation, then with something Zawadi had never seen in her, fear.
Her eyes widened, her face drained of color, and the hands still raised began to tremble. She crouched slowly, almost breathless, and picked up the necklace with the tips of her fingers as if afraid it might burn. She turned the seeds over in her hand, recognizing every detail, every sign of time.
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