She moved faster than anyone her age, but it was never fast enough.
"Zaria! Are you planning to live in that basin?!"
The sharp voice tore through the silence like a knife. Zaria jumped, soap splashing onto her skirt as she turned. There stood Sarah Jackson, arms folded, eyes fierce.
"You're always dragging your feet! Finish up quickly—I want to send you to the market before it gets dark," Sarah barked. "We've run out of food, and I won't eat excuses tonight."
"Yes, Mom," Zaria replied softly, scrubbing the last shirt harder, her knuckles raw from the cold soapy water.
Sarah stood watching her for a few seconds before turning and walking off muttering, "I don't know what kind of snail this girl was born from."
Zaria blinked the stinging soap from her eyes and picked up her pace. She rinsed the shirt, wrung it tightly, and hurried to the clothesline behind the house. Her fingers worked fast, and within minutes, the basin was empty and washed out, water dumped by the side of the hedge.
She quickly dried her hands on the hem of her skirt and walked barefoot into the house, still breathing heavily from rushing.
Sarah was seated at the kitchen table, scribbling hurriedly on a scrap of paper. She didn't look up when Zaria entered.
"There," she said, pushing the list across the table along with a Shs. 50,000 note. "Buy everything on this list: tomatoes, onions, Royco cubes, posho, salt, half a kilo of sugar, green bananas, cabbage, green peppers, beans, rice, and sunflower oil. If the money finishes before you buy everything, don't come back crying."
Zaria nodded quickly. "Yes, Mom."
Sarah finally looked up. "And don't loiter. Don't even greet anyone. Go straight, come straight. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Mom," she repeated, folding the list and clutching the money tightly.
"Better be quick. I'm already hungry."
Zaria rushed out the door, the heat of the sun meeting her like a wall. The sky had begun to change color—soft orange at the edges—and she knew she didn't have much time before dusk. The air smelled of dust and distant smoke, with children's laughter ringing out from the neighboring compound.
She walked fast along the murram road, heart beating with nervous energy. The list felt long in her hand, the money heavy in her pocket. Shs. 50,000 wasn't a small amount—but with the prices in the market lately, she had to be careful. Sarah would count the change to the last coin.
When she reached the market, it was buzzing with the usual chaos. Vendors called out from wooden stalls, their voices overlapping.
"Cabbage, fresh cabbage! Two for one thousand!"
"Come, come! Onions, five for a hundred!"
Zaria started at the vegetable section. She picked a medium-sized cabbage, firm and green. The vendor chopped off the thick base and handed it to her. She placed it into the black polythene bag and moved on.
She got six tomatoes, a handful of onions, and two green peppers. Then she searched for bananas—selecting half a bunch of small green matoke and negotiated for Shs. 8,000.
Next, she walked over to the dry foods section. She bought a quarter kilo of beans, a small packet of rice, and a 500ml bottle of sunflower oil. The vendor packed everything for her with a quiet nod.
As she was calculating how much she had left, someone called her name.
"Zaria?"
She turned slowly. Her stomach sank.
Bridget.
Bridget from school—dressed in jeans and a pink top, standing near a fruit stall with two other girls who always followed her around. And behind them—Mary Florence and Claire Rina, Zaria's stepsisters.
Bridget smirked. "Still the housegirl, eh? Can't even rest during holidays?"
Claire giggled. "Maybe she should start wearing uniform aprons. At least then people won't confuse her for someone important."
Mary, chewing gum, chimed in, "You'd think she's going to build a hotel with all those groceries."
Zaria said nothing. She clutched her bags tighter and walked on. Her ears burned, but her face stayed calm. She wouldn't let them see how much it hurt.
She reached the last stop and picked up Royco cubes, posho flour, and a small packet of salt. Then she counted her change—Shs. 3,800—and tucked it carefully into her pocket.
Her walk home was slower. Not because her feet hurt, but because her heart did. She hated running into people from school at the market. They always reminded her that she was different—that while they rested or watched TV during the holidays, she was out buying food with money that wasn't even hers.
She passed by a roadside mirror vendor and caught a quick glimpse of herself—dust on her feet, a loose thread on her skirt, and tired eyes that looked older than her age.
But still… strong.
Still standing.
When she reached the gate, she pushed it open gently and walked into the house. The living room was quiet. Sarah must have been in the bedroom, probably scrolling through her phone or napping.
Zaria went straight to the kitchen. She unpacked each item carefully—wiping down the tomatoes, arranging the onions in the basket, and stacking the dry items in the small cupboard above the sink. She laid the change beside the list on the table, right where Sarah could see it.
She washed her hands at the outside tap and stepped into her small bedroom. There, she collapsed onto the bed for just a moment—letting herself breathe.
Then she reached under the pillow and took out her notebook. She opened to a clean page and began to write:
> I bought everything on the list.
They laughed at me again—at the market, in front of people.
My stepsisters joined in.
I didn't cry.
I carried the food, the shame, and the silence.
But I will rise above all of it.
One day, they will call me madam, and I'll carry no one's bags but my own dreams.
She put down the pen, her heart a little lighter than before.
Tomorrow would bring more work, more chores, maybe more mocking.
But it would also bring another chance to keep holding on—to herself, to her dignity, to her dream.