Amina flinched and rose quickly to her feet. She knew better than to delay. In this house, delay was seen as rebellion. She hurried to the corner where a large plastic basin sat filled with dirty clothes that did not belong to her—shirts, wrappers, children’s uniforms—all dumped there without care.
Ramona appeared at the doorway, arms folded, eyes hard and unwelcoming. “You will wash everything before the sun gets hot,” she said. “And don’t let me hear any complaint from the owners. If one cloth is dirty, you will answer me.”
“Yes, Ma,” Amina replied softly, lowering her eyes.
As she bent to lift the basin, Ramona’s gaze fell on the small necklace resting against Amina’s chest. The chain was thin, old, and dull. Yet Amina never removed it.
Ramona hissed in irritation. “That useless thing again. One day, it will be the reason for your trouble.”
Amina’s fingers instinctively closed around the pendant. “It was my mother’s,” she whispered.
Ramona scoffed. “Your mother is dead. That should be dead with her. Now move.”
Amina did not reply. She balanced the basin on her head and stepped out of the compound, her bare feet meeting the cool earth of the village path. The sky was pale and sure of itself, and mist hung low over the fields.
As she walked, villagers passed her without greeting. Some looked at her with pity, others with annoyance, and a few with open contempt. She was used to it. In Odama, Amina was not just poor—she was unwanted.
They called her names when they thought she could not hear: orphan, burden, bad luck. Some said her mother died because she offended the spirits. Others believed Amina carried a curse. Nobody remembered that her mother had once been kind, gentle, and respected. Death had erased that memory, leaving only cruelty behind.
The river greeted her with its familiar smell of wet soil and green leaves. It flowed calmly, indifferent to human suffering. Yet it was the only place Amina felt safe. Here, nobody shouted at her. Here, water listened without judgment.
She knelt at the riverbank, rolled up her sleeves, and dipped her hands into the cold water. The shock made her inhale sharply, but she did not pull back. She began to wash—scrubbing, rinsing, twisting, beating the clothes against a flat stone. Her fingers were rough, cracked from years of work, and small wounds opened easily. Soap burned her skin. Yet she continued.
The clothes belonged to people who barely acknowledged her existence, but she washed them as if they mattered, because in her world, effort was her only value.
As the sun climbed higher, the riverbank became busier. Women arrived with basins on their heads, laughing and chatting. Some greeted Amina, many ignored her, and a few whispered behind her back. Two young girls about her age passed by, their hair neatly braided, slippers clean. One laughed softly.
“See how she lives here like river property,” the girl said. “Who will marry that one?”
The other replied, “Only hunger follows her.”
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