Matou loved school.
It was the one place where the air felt lighter, where her shoulders loosened without her noticing. School was a refuge from the coldness that lived quietly in her foster parents’ home. Within the school compound, she was not the girl who swept floors before sunrise or the child whose name was called only for chores. She was simply Matou — a pupil with books under her arm and friends waiting for her laughter.
Every morning, while sweeping the dusty yard of the Owens household before dawn, the thought of school gave her energy. Her broom moved faster than usual, the rhythmic swish against the ground keeping time with the excitement building inside her. She imagined the path to school, the chatter of children gathering by the gates, the small moments of freedom that waited for her there.
More than anything, she looked forward to seeing her friends.
Haddy Gadjo and Yassin Faal were the two people who made the long school days feel short. Haddy was quick-witted and fearless, always the first to speak her mind and the last to retreat from a challenge. Yassin was gentler, quieter, but her laughter came easily, bubbling out whenever something amused her.
Together, the three girls moved like a small constellation around the schoolyard.
At break time they played games that made the dust rise beneath their feet. Sometimes they skipped rope made from braided cloth. Other times they drew squares in the dirt for hopscotch, jumping and laughing as they balanced on one foot. When the sun grew too strong, they retreated beneath the shade of the mango tree near the back of the compound and shared riddles or whispered secrets.
“Matou,” Haddy once teased, nudging her shoulder during a game of hopscotch, “you jump like a goat escaping a fence.”
The three girls burst into laughter. The hopscotch squares scratched into the red earth were already half-erased by the dust of many feet, but they continued hopping between them with fierce concentration, arms stretched out for balance.
Matou landed her last jump with a small stumble and laughed breathlessly, brushing dust from her knees.
“At least goats don’t fall,” she replied, her voice light with mischief.
Yassin clapped her hands, delighted. “That one is true!”
Haddy threw her head back and laughed, the sound rising above the chatter of the schoolyard. She was taller than most girls in their class — long-limbed, awkward in the way adolescents often are when their bodies grow faster than their confidence. Her elbows seemed too sharp, her knees too knobby, her stride sometimes too wide. When she ran, her limbs moved with exaggerated swings that drew attention even when she wished to disappear.
The other children noticed.
And children, as children do, rarely missed an opportunity to tease.
“Long stick!” some of the boys would shout when she crossed the yard.
“Careful, Haddy, your head will hit the sky!”
Sometimes they laughed openly. Other times they whispered just loud enough for her to hear.
Haddy pretended not to mind, but the words stayed with her. She felt them in the way she hunched slightly when walking through crowded spaces, in the way she tried to make herself smaller during class, folding her long legs tightly beneath her desk.
But with Matou and Yassin, things were different.
With them, laughter never carried sharp edges. Their teasing came wrapped in affection, the way siblings tease one another when love sits safely underneath the joke. In their small circle, Haddy’s height became a source of play rather than ridicule.
“You see farther than all of us,” Yassin would say sometimes. “When exams come, you will see the answers from the sky.”
Haddy would roll her eyes and swat the air. “You two are foolish.”
Yet she smiled when she said it.
Matou watched these exchanges quietly, her heart warming each time. Haddy’s clumsiness, Yassin’s quick wit, and her own quiet presence fit together like pieces of a small puzzle.
They balanced each other.
Unlike Matou, who was gentle and careful with her words, Yassin possessed a sharp tongue and an alert mind. Nothing escaped her notice. She had a reply ready for almost anything — a clever twist of words, a playful insult, a remark so quick it often left others blinking in surprise.
One afternoon, when a boy tried to mock Haddy again, Yassin stepped forward without hesitation.
“Why are you laughing?” she asked coolly. “If height was intelligence, Haddy would already be headmaster and you would still be sweeping the yard.”
The surrounding children burst into laughter — but this time it was the boy who flushed with embarrassment.
Haddy had looked at Yassin then with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief.
“You always have to talk, don’t you?” she muttered.
Yassin shrugged. “Some people deserve answers.”
Matou had watched the exchange quietly, admiration shining in her eyes. She did not possess Yassin’s quick tongue, nor Haddy’s fearless humor. Her strength lay elsewhere — in patience, in kindness, in the quiet steadiness that made others feel safe around her.
Perhaps that was why they had chosen her.
Or perhaps they simply recognised in one another the unspoken need for belonging.
Together, the three girls created a small refuge in the schoolyard — a space where laughter came easily, where no one had to explain themselves, where differences were softened by friendship.
They shared everything.
During break time, they traded pieces of food from their lunches — groundnuts, small pieces of bread, sometimes a mango slice wrapped carefully in cloth. They whispered about teachers, invented songs while skipping rope, and argued passionately over riddles and arithmetic answers.
Sometimes they sat beneath the mango tree and imagined their futures.
“I will become a teacher,” Haddy once declared boldly. “And I will make the boys sweep the classroom.”
Yassin laughed. “I will become a lawyer and defend them.”
“And you, Matou?” Haddy asked.
Matou hesitated.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted softly.
But in truth, she rarely allowed herself to imagine the future too far ahead.
Her present required too much attention.
Still, those moments — simple, playful, ordinary — became treasures she held tightly inside herself. In their laughter, she found temporary relief from the heaviness waiting for her at home. The warmth of their friendship wrapped around her like sunlight, gentle but real.
For a few precious hours each day, she could forget the coldness of the Owens household.
She could forget the sharp voice of Aunty Bae.
She could forget the restless nights and the endless chores.
At school, she was not merely a foster child.
She was a friend.
A classmate.
A girl who could laugh freely.
But even in that refuge, reality sometimes found its way back to her — slipping quietly into the classroom, reminding her that the freedom she felt there would always end when the final bell rang.
The week before, she had been called to the front of the classroom by her Grade Five teacher, Mr Bojang.
Mr Bojang was a thoughtful man, tall and deliberate in his movements, with a voice that carried authority without harshness. His chalkboard lessons were always clear, his questions direct. He noticed things other teachers overlooked — the quiet struggles of certain pupils, the sudden improvement or decline in a child’s work.
That afternoon, after class had ended and the other pupils began gathering their books, he called softly.
“Matou, stay a moment.”
Her heart tightened.
She approached his desk slowly, clutching her exercise book.
“Yes, sir?”
Mr Bojang adjusted his glasses and looked down at the stack of papers before him.
“I have been studying your work,” he said calmly. “Sometimes your grades are very good. Other times… they fall sharply. Do you know why this happens?”
Matou hesitated.
Her eyes drifted toward the classroom door. Beyond it she could hear the voices of other children running toward the yard.
“I… I don’t know, sir,” she replied quietly.
Mr Bojang studied her face for a moment.
“Matou,” he said gently, “you are capable. When you prepare, your answers show it. But preparation requires time.”
Her fingers tightened around her book.
She knew where this conversation might lead.
And she was afraid.
Her foster mother was not just a parent in that household — she was the headmistress of the school. Speaking about the home environment felt dangerous, like stepping onto ground that might give way beneath her.
Mr Bojang noticed her hesitation.
“You may speak freely,” he said softly. “I am asking as your teacher.”
Matou swallowed.
At first her words came slowly, carefully.
“Sometimes… I have time to study,” she began. “And sometimes… I don’t.”
“Why not?”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“At home… there is a lot of work.”
Mr Bojang nodded slightly, encouraging her to continue.
Matou lowered her eyes.
“I must sweep. Wash dishes. Fetch things. Help with many chores. Sometimes by the time I finish… it is already late.”
The words came more easily now.
“And… my parents are poor,” she added softly. “They cannot pay for my school things. That is why I stay with my foster family.”
Mr. Bojang leaned back in his chair, absorbing what she had said.
For a moment he remained silent.
Then he spoke carefully.
“You must not give up your education, Matou. It is the one door that cannot be easily closed once opened.”
She looked up slightly.
“But how can I study, sir?” she asked. “There is always something to do.”
Mr. Bojang tapped the desk lightly with his pencil.
“Then you must change the time you study.”
She frowned, confused.
“After your chores,” he continued, “go to bed early. Pretend you are asleep.”
Matou blinked.
“And when the house grows quiet — when everyone else has fallen asleep — wake again. Use that silence to read your notes.”
The idea surprised her.
“If you remain awake while the household is active,” he said, “people will continue giving you errands. But when the house sleeps, the demands stop.”
Matou nodded slowly.
The suggestion made sense.
She thought immediately of the endless small commands that filled her evenings.
“Matou, bring the water.”
“Matou, fetch my sandals.”
“Matou, sweep again.”
Sometimes Aunty Bae would even call her simply to hand over something that sat right beside her.
“Matou, give me that bottle,” she would say — pointing to a bottle already within her reach.
It often felt as though the household could not bear to see her idle, even for a moment. Her hands always had to be moving. Her feet always had to be responding.
She had never questioned it.
Until now.
Mr Bojang’s advice felt like a secret key.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Matou replied quietly.
“Good. Try this method. And remember — your education is yours. Protect it.”
Matou left the classroom that day carrying something new.
Hope.
Not loud or dramatic — just a quiet possibility that perhaps, even within the small corners of her life, she could carve out space for herself.
To be continued…
