Before Amina could ask another question, he turned and walked away quickly, his shoulders tense.
She watched him disappear down the path, her hands shaking. The river continued to flow—calm and unchanged. But Amina stood frozen, clutching her necklace, knowing that something in her life had shifted. The past had spoken, and destiny had taken its first step toward her.
Amina did not sleep that night. Even after the village went quiet and the frogs began their chorus near the stream, her mind kept replaying the stranger’s wounded eyes fixed on the necklace as if it carried a name he had buried alive. She lay on a raffia mat in the corner of Ramona’s sitting room, staring at the soot-darkened ceiling. Each time she closed her eyes, she heard his voice again: I should have returned. Returned from where? Return to whom?
At dawn, Ramona’s foot nudged her side. “Get up, lazy thing. The compound is a pigsty.”
Amina sprang up, folding her mat quickly. She swept the red dust, fetched water, lit the firewood, and stirred watery pap for Ramona and her two children. The smell made her stomach twist, but she knew better than to ask for a cup. When they finished, the pot was empty. Amina rinsed it anyway, licking a thin smear from the wooden spoon when nobody was looking.
That morning, Ramona sent her to Madame Bi’s house with a basket of washed clothes. Madame Bi was one of the richest women in Odama—big voice, big pride, big contempt. When Amina arrived, Madame Bi stood on the veranda chewing bitter kola and inspecting her like she was dirt.
“So, you are the one washing my children’s uniform,” Madame Bi said. “If I smell dampness, you will pay.”
“Yes, Ma,” Amina replied.
Madame Bi’s eyes dropped to Amina’s chest. “That necklace again? Where did you steal it from?”
Amina’s heart jumped. “I didn’t steal it, Ma. It belongs to my mother.”
Madame Bi snorted. “Your mother that died with nothing. Poor women don’t wear gold.”
She grabbed the pendant and pulled. Pain shot through Amina’s neck. Amina cried out, holding the chain with both hands. “Please,” she begged. “It’s all I have.”
Madame Bi tugged again, harder, until the chain dug into Amina’s skin. “Then give it to someone who deserves it.”
Amina did the only thing she rarely did. She resisted—not with fists, but with desperation. She clung to the necklace like it was her mother’s hand, tears spilling. “Please, Ma, don’t.”
Madame Bi’s face tightened with irritation. She shoved Amina backward. Amina stumbled off the veranda and fell, the basket tipping. The neatly folded uniform spilled into red dust.
Madame Bi hissed. “See, clumsy goat. Gather my clothes now.”
Amina knelt quickly, brushing dust from the fabric with shaking fingers, apologizing until her throat burned. When she finished, Madame Bi tossed her a sachet of water. “Take. Don’t say I’m wicked.”
Amina held the sachet, unsure whether to cry or laugh. Even mercy in Odama came with humiliation attached.
On her way back, Ramona noticed the raw red line on Amina’s neck. “What happened here?” she snapped, stepping closer.
Amina’s palm covered the pendant instantly. Ramona’s eyes sharpened, hungry. “So you were fighting over that necklace. Remove it and hand it over now.”
Amina shook her head, fear tightening her throat.
