They arrived at the Owens’s home just as the sun hung high in the sky, a little past midday. It was Sunday, and the Owens children, all dressed in their best Sunday clothes, eagerly rushed out of the car as soon as they arrived. Matou hesitated as she climbed out, feeling a mix of uncertainty and curiosity. Catherine, the oldest of the Owens children, likely around eighteen, kindly closed the door behind her with a soft click.
Matou followed the children as they trotted ahead, trailing behind Mr and Mrs Owens. The house was no stranger to her, as she had visited a few times before with Mrs Owens, the headteacher at her school, when she had come to help out during those long, quiet afternoons without a maid. As they walked through the back door, Matou was greeted by the sight of the indoor kitchen— immaculate, almost too perfect. The counters sparkled as if touched by magic, the floor gleamed like polished marble, and the scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air. There was none of the soot-stained pots or the smell of open firewood that she was used to back home. This kitchen felt like it belonged in her wildest imagination.
Kate, as Matou would come to know her, gently took her hand and led her down a long corridor, the walls lined with three rooms on either side, and two bathrooms — one for the children, the other for the grown-ups. At the end of the hall, she stopped at a modest room with a single window and a large metal-framed bed. Kate placed Matou’s small bundle—carefully packed by her mother and elder sister—on the floor, neatly arranging the worn slippers, a faded wrapper, and the old school books wrapped in newspaper. “This will be your room,” Kate said, her smile warm but unsure. “You’ll share it with Granny and the other girls. I’ll come get you later.”
The simplicity of the room, paired with the kindness in Kate’s voice, made Matou’s heart feel a little lighter.
Matou nodded silently. She felt the dryness in her throat grow heavier.
After sitting in the room for a while, Matou decided to go out and explore what would be her new home. Despite the uncertainty, something about this place made her feel like she might just find a piece of home here.
She walked out of the bedroom into the adjacent sitting room, where all the family were gathered—Mr and Mrs Owens, their five children, their two nieces who lived with them, Martha and Margo, and grandmother, Beatrice, whom they affectionately called Aunty Bae. Aunty Bae’s eldest son, Uncle Sam, was the owner of the house and father to Martha and Margo. Divorced with sole custody of his two daughters, his house was big enough to accommodate his sister and her entire family. Rather than rent, he encouraged her husband to come live with him and his mother, which he happily did.
The sitting room was full of chatter and the sound of clinking china cups. A radio played gospel hymns in the background, and the children laughed among themselves. Everyone seemed to have something to do, somewhere to be, something to say—everyone except Matou.
As soon as she stepped into the room, Aunty Bae rose from her seat, her sharp eyes scanning Matou from head to toe. Without a word of welcome, she nudged her arm with surprising firmness and motioned her to follow. Matou obeyed silently. They walked through the corridor and out into the backyard, where a large heap of dirty utensils was piled on a wooden table near the outdoor tap.
“Wash all of this,” Aunty Bae said brusquely, not meeting her eyes. “Use the soap in that tin.” And just like that, she turned and walked away.
Matou stared at the pile. Bowls crusted with dried rice and sauce, spoons sticky with bits of stew, greasy cooking pots, and plastic cups stained with sorrel drink. She rolled up her sleeves and began working, her small hands barely managing the large pans. The midday sun bore down on her bare neck as sweat trickled down her back. Her fingers hurt, her stomach growled, but she said nothing.
A few moments later, as the sound of plates clanked, chatter drifted through the windows. The family was eating at the dinning room. Matou continued scrubbing, her small frame bending and twisting to reach the bottom of the largest pot. She wondered what Nata was doing. Maybe she was cooking lunch at home, maybe feeding Bubel or rocking Khadja Bobo to sleep. A pang of longing struck her chest.
By the time she finished the first pile, a second had been brought out — the dishes from lunch. Her arms trembled, her stomach twisted in hunger, and her throat ached with thirst. Still, she scrubbed.
Then came Aunty Bae’s voice, slicing through the quiet. “When you finish washing the utensils, you can eat my remains, which I have left over in this plastic bowl. I barely touched my food, so I’m sure it would be enough for you.”
Matou looked up and saw the old woman placing a faded blue plastic bowl on a bench nearby. She gave a slight nod. Having learned some English at school, she understood well enough. Hope flickered briefly in her heart.
What felt like an eternity later, Matou placed the final spoon on the rack. Her stomach roared as she approached the bowl. Inside was a mixture of everything — bones with scraps of meat, overcooked rice, bits of okra stew, and even a few pieces of sliced cucumber already turning brown. She stared at it, a lump rising in her throat. Her hunger overpowered her revulsion.
She picked up the bowl and headed toward the kitchen to sit at the dining table, like the others had done. Just as she stepped inside, Aunty Bae sprang up from a chair.
“Before you eat, please sweep and clear the table,” she ordered with a scowl. “Also, eat outside. The dining room is only for family to eat. You ‘yeh ree’?”
Matou froze, the bowl trembling in her hands. She gave a slight nod, placed her bowl down and began to clear the remnants of the meal on the dinning table. She swept the floor clean and wiped the table back to its pristine state. Back outside, she swept a small spot near the wall, under the avocado tree, where she had just finished washing the kitchen utensils and sat down on the dry floor. She ate slowly, the food dry and salty, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks. The world felt heavy and hollow.
After eating, she washed her bowl, placed it back with the others, and went back to the bedroom. It felt colder now. She sat on her bundle of clothes, her small body hunched in silence. Her thoughts drifted home. She removed the raffia bag her mother had sewn for her and took out the cowrie shell Nata had placed there. The shell, warm from her touch, seemed to whisper her sister’s voice: “Don’t forget who you are.”
She held it tightly, pressing it against her chest.
Voices drifted in from the sitting room — the laughter of children, the hum of conversation, the clinking of cups. She didn’t understand what they were laughing about. She didn’t even feel like trying.
Evening crept in slowly. The sun dipped below the compound walls, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. A call came from the sitting room.
“Come and eat!”
It was Margo.
Matou walked in, expecting a place at the table. Instead, a covered plastic bowl was handed to her. Inside were scraps once again — fish bones, leftover pap, and half-chewed meat.
“Make sure you wash everything after,” Margo said casually, walking back to join the others.
Matou said nothing. She returned to her corner, ate quietly, and cleaned the dishes. Her legs ached, her back felt bruised from working all day. Still, no one asked her how she felt. No one offered her a smile or a kind word.
When she returned to the bedroom that night, she found Aunty Bae, Martha, Margo, and Ronkeh, Mrs Owens’ younger daughter who was about her age, already on the bed. The room smelled of pomade and sweat, and the fan whirred loudly above.
Aunty Bae threw a thin piece of cloth toward her. “Lie on the floor. We don’t have space on the bed for you. I’m sure this is what you’re used to. Anyway, this floor is tile. That’s an upgrade for you. Your house had mud floors, right?”
There was a mocking chuckle in her voice. Matou did not understand most of what she said, but somehow she felt her mockery. She picked up the cloth, spread it on the floor, and lay down. She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her voice was buried beneath the weight of all she had seen and felt that day.
She clutched her raffia bag and the cowrie shell once again. As Margo turned off the light, darkness wrapped around her like a shroud.
And then she cried. Quiet sobs muffled by the cloth. Sobs of confusion, of longing, of a pain she didn’t yet have the words for. She had never felt so little.
She wanted to go home. Home where she could sit by her mother, talk to Nata, hold Bubel and Khadja Bobo. Home, where she was known. Where she was loved.
The thought of staying in this house until she finished school made her chest tighten with dread. She would rather be unschooled, poor, barefoot — but unloved.
These were her final thoughts as sleep finally took her, her small body curled on the cold tile floor, a cowrie shell clutched in her hand like a lifeline to the world she left behind.
To be continued.
