Despite Aunty Bae’s cruel ways, Matou still found time to study.
It was not easy. Nothing in that house was easy for her. The day began before the sun had fully lifted itself from the horizon and ended long after the last lamp in the compound had gone dark. By the time her body reached the mat at night, every muscle inside her felt stretched and tired, like rope pulled too long in the rain.
But somehow, between exhaustion and duty, she carved out small islands of time for learning.
After school, while other children scattered toward their homes laughing and free, Matou returned to the Owens household where work waited patiently for her. The house always seemed larger in the afternoon, fuller of tasks that multiplied the moment she arrived.
First came the washing of the bowls and plates used for lunch.
The kitchen area behind the house carried the familiar smells of palm oil, onions, and wood smoke. The bowls were stacked high beside the basin, their surfaces smeared with the thick remnants of soup and rice. Matou rolled up the sleeves of her faded dress, knelt beside the water bucket, and began scrubbing.
The water quickly turned cloudy with grease and soap. Her small fingers moved quickly, scraping and rinsing each bowl until it shone clean again. Sometimes the plates were greasy enough to require two washes, sometimes three. By the time she finished, the skin on her fingers felt wrinkled and soft from the water.
There was rarely praise.
When she finished the dishes, Matou turned to the compound.
The sweeping was never truly finished. It was a task that returned with the stubbornness of the wind. The yard of the Owens household was wide and shaded by several old fruit trees whose branches stretched generously over the compound — mango, avocado, guava, and orange trees planted long before Matou had ever stepped into that house.
Their shade was beautiful.
Their mess was endless.
Leaves fell constantly. Some dried and curled before reaching the ground, others dropped fresh and green, heavy with sap. But it was the mango tree that created the greatest work. In season, the fruit fell with dull thuds in the night, splitting open on the ground, their sweetness attracting ants, flies, and sometimes the neighbourhood goats that squeezed their heads through the gate whenever they could.
By evening the compound was always littered again — leaves scattered across the sand, mango skins half-eaten by insects, guava seeds crushed beneath careless feet.
Matou picked up the long broom of bundled palm ribs and began again.
Her broom moved in slow, steady strokes across the yard, gathering leaves into careful piles. The dry ones rustled like paper. The fresh ones stuck stubbornly to the ground, forcing her to sweep them twice, sometimes three times before they moved.
She worked methodically, the way she had learned to do all things in that household — quietly, thoroughly, without complaint.
The sun would already be lowering itself by then, painting the compound in warm light. The branches above her swayed gently, releasing another soft shower of leaves that drifted lazily toward the ground she had just cleared.
Sometimes she paused and looked up.
The trees seemed almost mischievous, as though they enjoyed undoing her work.
A mango would drop suddenly — thump — and roll across the yard, leaving a streak of sticky juice behind it.
Matou sighed softly and bent to pick it up, before tossing the spoiled fruit toward the rubbish pit near the fence.
Then she resumed sweeping.
The broom scratched rhythmically against the cement path that ran through the compound and across the packed earth surrounding it. Dust lifted in small clouds with every stroke, settling again on her feet and ankles.
It was work that required patience more than strength.
And patience, Matou had learned, was something she possessed in quiet abundance.
By the time she finished, the compound would once again look neat and orderly — the leaves gathered, the ground clear, the space ready for the slow arrival of night.
But she knew the truth.
By morning, the trees would begin again.
***
Then there were errands.
Fetch water. Carry a message. Watch the smaller children for a while. Run to the corner shop.
Sometimes the tasks were reasonable. Other times they seemed almost invented.
“Matou, bring that cup.”
“Matou, close that door.”
“Matou, go check the gate.”
It sometimes felt as if the household could not bear to see her sitting still. If her hands rested too long, someone found a way to fill them again.
But she had stopped questioning it.
Childhood does not offer many choices.
So she worked.
And while she worked, her mind travelled elsewhere.
Sometimes she imagined distant places she had only read about in books. Places where rivers were wider, cities taller, forests deeper than anything she had ever seen.
Other times she imagined herself grown older, walking confidently through those places as though she belonged there.
School had given her that gift.
Learning had opened a door she never knew existed.
Each new lesson made the world feel larger.
Mathematics showed her that numbers could explain patterns hidden inside everyday life. Social studies introduced countries and people she had never heard of. History spoke of people who had lived centuries before her, their lives shaping the world she now inhabited.
Even simple English stories held a strange magic.
The Owens household possessed a small library — a wooden cabinet filled with books the children rarely touched. Most of them belonged to the older Owens boys and girls who had already lost interest in reading them.
But Matou noticed them.
At first she approached the cabinet cautiously, glancing around to ensure no one objected. Then one evening she opened it quietly and removed a thin book filled with fairy tales.
Inside those pages she found castles, forests, kings, and girls who faced impossible trials and survived them.
She devoured the stories.
The words carried her far beyond the compound walls.
While washing dishes she sometimes imagined herself walking through enchanted forests beside brave heroines. While sweeping the floor she pictured distant lands where children rode horses across wide plains or sailed ships across endless seas.
The work continued, but her spirit travelled.
And the more she read, the more she realised something about herself.
She loved learning.
Truly loved it.
Learning felt like breathing fresh air after being trapped in a crowded room. Each new idea expanded the space inside her mind. It gave her confidence she did not yet feel in her daily life.
Her friends — Haddy and Yassin — spoke casually about the futures they imagined. They talked about becoming teachers, nurses, lawyers.
Before school, such dreams would have sounded impossible to Matou.
Now they seemed… distant, but not unreachable.
Books had shown her that the world was larger than the narrow path she walked each day.
And so she protected her time for studying as carefully as a farmer protects his crops.
Night was her ally.
When the house finally settled into sleep, when the last voices faded and the lamps were extinguished, Matou lay quietly on her mat.
She did not move.
She listened.
The night carried many sounds.
The slow breathing of the other children. The creaking of wood as the house cooled after the heat of the day. Occasionally the distant barking of dogs or the murmur of voices drifting from neighbouring compounds.
She waited patiently.
Waiting for the silence.
Waiting for the moment when even the restless sleepers had turned still.
Only then did she rise.
Carefully, she lifted her small exercise book from beneath the mat where she hid it. She moved toward the faint light of the dining room.
The light was weak, barely strong enough to read by.
But it was enough.
She opened her notebook and began studying.
Sometimes she reviewed the day’s lessons — copying arithmetic problems again until the answers came easily. Other nights she practiced English sentences, tracing the words slowly with her finger until their meanings settled firmly in her mind.
When she grew tired, she paused and read from the fairy-tale books she had borrowed.
Those stories strengthened her.
They reminded her that hardship did not always last forever.
That perseverance could change a life.
The hours passed quietly.
Occasionally she yawned and rubbed her eyes, but she continued until her body finally demanded rest. Then she returned the books to their hiding place and slipped back beneath her mat.
Sleep came quickly after that.
Morning would arrive soon enough.
And with it another long day of chores.
But now she carried something inside her that the household could not take away.
Knowledge.
Each page she read, each lesson she mastered, became a small victory.
A quiet rebellion.
And though she did not yet fully understand it, those late-night studies were slowly building the bridge that would one day carry her far beyond the limits of that house.
To be continued…
