Matou mulled over her dream over and over again as she swept the backyard in the early morning light. The rhythmic sweep of the broom was almost meditative, but her mind was far from quiet. It felt like yesterday when their house in Jeshwang fell apart. The memory of it clung to her with the vividness of something that had truly happened only moments ago. The way the mud walls cracked and split, the echo of her mother’s voice shouting for them to run, the cold rain falling on their heads as they stood barefoot and helpless in the open — it was all still alive inside her.
The trauma hadn’t lessened with time. If anything, it had hardened into something deeper, heavier. When the rains came down that day after the collapse, they offered no comfort, only cruelty. Their neighbour, the Alkali of Jeshwang, kind and unhesitating, had taken the entire family into his modest home, offering shelter as her father and granduncle waited out the rainy season to begin rebuilding. But something in Matou had broken that day. She had seen how quickly security could vanish, how easily home could become rubble. And now, in this new place, stripped of the people she loved, that ache had risen again.
She swept harder, pushing her pain into the motion. But it wouldn’t go away. Her heart felt like a fist clenched too tight for too long.
When the backyard was finally cleared to Aunty Bae’s satisfaction, the old woman led her around to the front of the house. There, the task grew harder.
“You must not only sweep here,” Aunty Bae instructed sternly, her voice as cold as the morning air. “But also sieve the sand. We must have it even and fine.”
She handed Matou a battered raffia palm basket. Matou looked at it, confused at first, but quickly understood. She would have to scoop the sandy earth, shake it through the basket to separate stones and leaves, and then level it out with her hands. She had seen her mother do the same back home. She shook the palm basket of sand, trying to copy the way Borogie did it — though it felt strange doing it alone.
Her fingers stung as she worked. The raffia scraped against her skin, leaving small, red lines. Her knees ached from crouching. Several times, she had to pause, her chest heaving from the strain, her body already exhausted though the day had barely begun. But she did not dare complain. She knew better than to anger Aunty Bae.
By the time the work was finished, the sun had begun to stretch its rays across the rooftops. Matou’s clothes clung to her thin frame, damp with sweat and dust. Her arms hung limply at her sides. From inside the house came the familiar sounds of a family waking — the clink of cups, the laughter of children, and the gentle hum of morning radio.
Anna, the househelp, came in just after seven in the morning. She bustled through the kitchen preparing breakfast. The aroma of frying onions mixed with the scent of kinkilibaa tea reached Matou where she stood, and her stomach twisted painfully with hunger.
“Go and bathe,” Aunty Bae said shortly, appearing once more and jerking her thumb toward the back of the compound.
Matou trudged to the outdoor toilet used by the visiting gardener and househelp. A bucket of water stood there, uncovered and icy cold. When she poured the first bowlful over her head, her entire body recoiled. The cold felt like punishment. At home, Borogie always made sure their water was warm, heated lovingly over the fire. It was such a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like the difference between being loved and merely tolerated.
She bathed quickly, her teeth chattering. Then she returned to the bedroom where her few belongings were neatly folded in the corner. She dressed in her uniform, the fabric rough against her skin, the hem a little too long.
She did not have time to sit and think before she was sent out to buy bread from the corner shop, gripping the few coins in her hand as if they might vanish. When she returned, Aunty Bae handed her a quarter loaf of bread stuffed with poached eggs and stir-fried onions. Matou accepted it with quiet gratitude, even though her stomach growled for more. She sat apart from the family, on a low bench by the kitchen door, eating quickly and quietly as they chatted and laughed around the dining table.
No one asked her how she had slept.
No one asked if the water was too cold, or if she liked her breakfast.
She was a shadow in the home — present, but unnoticed.
When breakfast ended, Mrs Owens, the school mistress got up and wiped her hands.
“Come,” she motioned to Matou, heading out of the house.
They left the house together, joined by three of the Owens children and their two cousins, Martha and Margo, all headed to Bakau School. The walk was short, the road dusty and lined with tall grass and morning vendors arranging their goods. Matou kept her eyes low, listening to the children chatter among themselves in tones she did not yet understand. Their world felt closed to her, even though she walked beside them.
The school gates appeared up ahead, painted blue, with clusters of children streaming inside. For the first time that morning, something stirred in Matou’s chest. A small flicker. School had once been her place of refuge — a space where she was bright, where teachers smiled at her, where classmates were friends.
But as she approached, her steps slowed.
She was not the same Matou. Not the one who had laughed barefoot with Bubel, who had knelt beside Nata to pound millet, who had danced with Khadjel under the rain. That girl had been left behind in Jeshwang.
Now she was just a shell of herself, fragile and homesick.
Even the school uniforms here were different. The children seemed taller, louder, more confident. Matou felt invisible in her oversized dress and worn slippers. Her heart pounded as they reached the assembly grounds. A teacher with a kind face approached Mrs Owens, who introduced Matou with a dismissive wave.
“She’s staying with me and my family now. Put her where she belongs.”
And just like that, she was handed over.
The teacher smiled gently at Matou, but she was too overwhelmed to return it. After the assembly — which passed in a blur — she followed her classmates to their classroom, walking in line behind their teacher. She took her usual seat at the back, near the window.The wooden desk wobbled. She placed her raffia bag beside her, holding it close. Inside, wrapped in the corner of a lappa, was the cowrie shell. Her link to home. Her link to love.
The day dragged on in a blur of lessons and whispers. Teachers spoke. Students laughed. Matou answered when called, but her voice was faint. Her mind drifted often—to the muddy puddle Bubel used to splash in, to the smell of Borogie’s stews, to Nata’s teasing smile.
She missed them all with a yearning so deep it made her chest ache and her eyes glisten with tears. Every laugh in the classroom that didn’t include her echoed her isolation. Every teacher’s compliment that went to another child reminded her she was starting from nothing.
When the bell rang for the end of the day, Matou was the last to rise. The others spilled into the courtyard, reuniting with siblings and friends. She stepped out slowly, her feet dragging.
Mrs Owens was waiting just outside the gates. She turned without a word, and Matou followed.
As they walked back home, Matou stared at the ground. The shadows of buildings fell long across the street, stretching like fingers pulling her further into a joyless world. With every step, she felt her heart sank.
There was no warmth waiting at home.
There was no one to ask how her day went, to listen, to care. The house would be bustling with chatter, yes, but not the kind that saw her. Not the kind that made space for her.
She dreaded it.
The thought of returning to that house made her stomach churn. She imagined the chores waiting, the cold bath, the scraps for dinner, the hard floor at night. Her heart longed for Jeshwang, for her mother’s voice, for Nata’s steady hand, for the safe chaos of her own family.
Mrs Owens glanced back briefly.
“Hurry,” she snapped. “We don’t have all day.”
Matou nodded and quickened her pace, but inside, she was shrinking. A little more each day.
Her memories were beginning to fade, the laughter of her siblings, the songs Borogie hummed while cooking, even the way their home smelled after rain. She was terrified that if she stayed here too long, she would forget them altogether.
She clutched her school bag tighter.
She could not afford to forget.
Even if everything else was lost, she had to remember who she was. Because if she didn’t, then this house—this place without love, without joy, without kindness—might swallow her completely.
And Matou wasn’t ready to be lost. Not yet.
To be continued.
