After school, there was only one story.
Not homework. Not teachers. Not even the usual playground rivalries.
Yassin.
Her name moved from mouth to mouth like fire catching dry grass in the Savanah. By the time the final bell rang and pupils poured out of their classrooms, the story had already grown beyond its original shape. Some said she had slapped the teacher twice. Others said she had shouted before striking him. A few insisted she had been expelled on the spot and would never return.
No one agreed.
Everyone talked.
Small groups formed under trees, near the water tap, by the school gate. Hands moved animatedly, voices rose and fell, laughter mixed with disbelief. The incident had given the pupils something rare — something that broke the monotony of school life and made them feel like participants in something larger than themselves.
And at the centre of it all were the people closest to her.
Haddy.
Matou.
They were sought out almost immediately.
“Eh, Haddy, you were there!”
“Matou, you sit in front, what really happened?”
“Did she cry?”
“Did Madam beat her?”
“Is it true they expelled her?”
The questions came from all directions.
But the answers —
There were none.
Haddy shook her head, frustrated. “We don’t know. We were in class.”
Matou spoke even less. “They took her to the office. That is all.”
Their lack of detail disappointed some, irritated others. A few looked at them with suspicion, as though they were hiding something deliberately.
But they were not.
They simply did not know.
And that, somehow, made the whole situation feel heavier.
Because what they did know was enough.
They had seen the slap.
They had seen the look on Yassin’s face.
They had seen her taken away.
And that was more than enough to unsettle them.
As the crowd slowly dispersed toward the gate, Haddy and Matou walked side by side in silence. The noise of the other pupils faded behind them, replaced by the dull rhythm of footsteps on the sandy path.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Haddy said quietly, “If she doesn’t come tomorrow… we should go and see her.”
Matou nodded immediately.
“Yes.”
“Friday,” Haddy continued. “It is a half day. We can go after school.”
Matou glanced down at the ground, then back ahead.
“Yes,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “We will go.”
They reached the school gate just as the late afternoon sun began to soften. The crowd thickened there, pupils pushing through, vendors calling out softly from the roadside, bicycles weaving between groups of children.
That was when Jane appeared.
She came through the gate with her usual energy, Margo trailing beside her. Jane spotted Matou immediately and waved.
“Matou!”
Matou forced a small smile.
Jane was Mrs. Owens’ youngest daughter and Matou’s age mate. They sat in the same class, wore the same uniform, followed the same lessons. But their worlds were not the same.
Not even close.
Jane fell easily into step beside her.
“Did you see what happened?” she began, barely waiting for a response.
Margo leaned in eagerly. “We heard everything!”
Matou said nothing.
Haddy shot her a quick glance.
Jane continued, her voice rising with excitement. “In our class, everyone is talking. They say Yassin is finished. Imagine slapping a teacher! What kind of girl does that?”
Something tightened inside Matou.
She kept walking.
Jane was not done.
“They said my mom nearly sent her away for good. Honestly, she deserves it. Who behaves like that? No manners.”
Haddy slowed slightly, sensing the shift.
Matou remained quiet.
At first.
But Jane had a way of pushing — of speaking without noticing the effect her words had on others.
“She has always been like that,” Jane went on. “Too proud. Always answering back. I am not surprised.”
That was when Matou spoke.
Softly, but firmly.
“You were not there.”
Jane blinked.
“What?”
“You were not there,” Matou repeated. “So you do not know what happened.”
Jane tilted her head, amused.
“We all know what happened,” she said lightly. “Samba told us.”
Matou stopped walking.
Just for a moment.
Then she turned slightly toward Jane.
“Samba’s story is not the truth,” she said. “He was not inside the office.”
Jane’s smile widened.
“Ah,” she said, drawing the word out. “So now you are defending her.”
Matou held her ground.
“I am saying we do not know everything.”
“Just because she is your friend?” Jane teased, her tone playful but pointed.
Behind them, her brothers and cousins had caught up. They fell into step, listening, sensing entertainment.
“Eh, Matou is serious today,” one of the boys laughed.
“She wants to fight for Yassin,” another added.
Margo giggled.
Matou felt the familiar heat rise in her chest — the one that came when she was being watched, tested, pushed.
But this time, she did not shrink.
“She was embarrassed,” Matou said, her voice steady now. “Anyone would be.”
Jane shrugged. “That does not mean she should slap a teacher.”
“No,” Matou agreed. “But it does not mean she is a bad person.”
The group reacted instantly.
“Ah!” one boy exclaimed. “Hear her!”
“You think you are her lawyer?” another teased.
Jane folded her arms, enjoying the moment.
“You talk like you were inside the office,” she said.
Matou shook her head.
“I was not. And neither were you.”
The words landed.
For a brief moment, the teasing paused.
Then it returned – louder, sharper.
“Eh, she is defending her like a sister!”
“Maybe she will also slap teacher tomorrow!”
“Careful, Matou!”
Laughter followed.
But Matou did not laugh.
She kept walking, her steps steady, her face composed.
Inside, something had shifted.
She had spoken.
And she had not taken it back.
Beside her, Haddy smiled faintly — not mockingly, but approvingly.
They reached the turn where their paths separated.
Jane and her family continued toward Bakau.
Haddy and Matou slowed.
Neither spoke immediately.
Then Haddy nudged her lightly.
“You spoke well,” she said.
Matou exhaled slowly.
“I just… did not like how they were talking about her.”
Haddy nodded.
“People like stories,” she said. “Especially when they are not theirs.”
Matou looked ahead.
The road stretched forward, quiet now.
“Friday,” she said again.
“Yes,” Haddy replied.
“If she does not come tomorrow… we go.”
They parted ways there.
But the weight of the day did not leave them.
Not the story.
Not the silence.
Not the quiet understanding that sometimes, standing by someone meant standing alone.
And for Matou, that realisation stayed with her long after the laughter of others had faded.
For the taunting did not end at the turn where Matou had parted ways with Haddy.
If anything, it grew louder.
Jane walked ahead with a certain lightness, her voice rising and falling with amusement as she returned again and again to the story. Her brothers and cousins circled the conversation like vultures around something fresh, each adding their own version, their own exaggeration, their own laughter.
“Maybe next time she will slap the headmistress, our mom, too,” Charles said, grinning.
“Or you, Matou,” William added. “Since you are her defender.”
Laughter.
Jane glanced back over her shoulder, smiling in that way she did when she felt she had an audience.
“Be careful, Matou,” she said. “If you defend bad behaviour too much, people will think you are the same.”
Matou’s chest tightened.
“I am not defending bad behaviour,” she said, her voice firmer now. “I am saying we should not speak about things we do not know.”
Jane slowed her pace slightly, letting Matou draw level with her.
“But we know,” she insisted. “Everyone knows. She slapped a teacher.”
“Yes,” Matou said. “But you do not know why.”
Jane laughed softly.
“There is no reason good enough for that.”
The others murmured their agreement.
Matou felt the familiar pull — the urge to retreat, to let the conversation pass, to disappear quietly into herself the way she had learned to do in that house.
But something in her resisted.
Maybe it was the image of Yassin standing in the doorway, covered in chalk dust.
Maybe it was the memory of her voice — small, but steady — explaining why she was late.
Maybe it was simply the unfairness of it all.
“She had a reason,” Matou said.
Jane stopped walking.
Turned fully this time.
“And you know this how?” she asked.
Matou hesitated — just for a second.
But it was enough.
Jane’s smile sharpened.
“Ah. So now you know everything.”
“I don’t know everything,” Matou said quickly. “But I know enough to say we should not—”
“Should not what?” Jane cut in. “Talk? Laugh? Say what is true?”
Matou’s voice rose without her intending it to.
“Say what is true,” she repeated. “Not what Samba said.”
The name hung in the air.
One of the boys whistled softly.
“Eh! Now Samba is also wrong?”
Jane’s eyes lit with something like delight.
“You think you are better than everyone today, eh?”
“No,” Matou said, her voice trembling slightly now. “I am just saying —”
“— that your friend is innocent?” Jane interrupted.
“I did not say that!”
“Then what are you saying?”
“That she was embarrassed!” Matou said, louder now. “And no one is thinking about that!”
The group fell silent for a brief moment.
Not out of understanding.
Out of surprise.
Matou rarely raised her voice.
Jane blinked once, then smiled slowly.
“Ah,” she said. “Now we see.”
And then, lightly, almost teasingly — but with something sharper beneath it —
“You are becoming too bold in this house.”
The words settled uneasily.
They had reached the compound gate.
The familiar yard lay ahead — the wide space shaded by trees, the swept earth, the quiet authority that lived within its walls.
But today, something had followed them inside.
The argument.
The tension.
The raised voice.
Aunty Bae was already seated on the low wooden bench near the verandah, her walking stick resting beside her. Her eyes, though half-lidded, missed very little.
She heard Matou’s voice before she saw her.
Heard it rise.
Heard it challenge.
Heard it stand.
And that —
That offended something deep within her.
In her world, voices had order.
Children did not rise above those of rightful members of the house.
And Matou —
Matou was not a rightful member.
Jane entered first, her expression already shifting into something softer, more controlled. The boys followed, their laughter fading as they crossed into the space governed by Aunty Bae’s presence.
Matou came last.
Still carrying the heat of the argument.
Still breathing slightly faster than usual.
She did not notice Aunty Bae rise.
Not until it was too late.
The old woman moved with surprising speed for her age.
In a single motion, she closed the distance between them.
“What is that voice?” she demanded.
Matou barely had time to respond.
“I — ”
The words never came.
Aunty Bae’s hand shot out.
Her fingers clamped onto Matou’s cheek.
Hard.
Too hard.
Her nails dug into the soft skin, pinching and twisting in one sharp, punishing motion.
Pain exploded across Matou’s face.
Bright.
Immediate.
Her body jerked instinctively.
But the shock—
The shock was worse.
Her breath caught in her throat, the cry that rose choking before it could escape. Her eyes widened, not just from the pain, but from the suddenness of it, the injustice of it, the complete lack of warning.
She had not even been asked.
Not what happened.
Not why.
Nothing.
Just—
Punishment.
To be continued…
