The morning sun was already hot over Aduka, bright enough to make the red dust on the road look like powdered fire. Joy and Tracy walked fast, their school bags bouncing against their backs, their breath coming short because the bell could ring any minute.
Tracy kept talking like the world owed her silence.
“Joy, hurry up. If we enter late again, Madame Rose will disgrace us. I’m not kneeling today,” she snapped, pulling Joy forward like time itself was chasing them.
Joy didn’t argue. She almost never did. She was the kind of girl who noticed the small things—an empty water bucket by a neighbor’s door, a child with torn slippers, an old man sitting too long under the shade. Tracy, on the other hand, noticed only what was sharp: insults, opportunities, anything that could make her feel bigger than the village she wanted to escape.
When they reached the big Ioko tree by the roadside, they saw her.
An old woman approached from the opposite direction, bent nearly in half, trembling as if her bones had carried too many years without rest. A heavy bundle of firewood was tied to her head with rough rope. Sweat ran down her face even though it was still morning. Her feet were bare, her wrapper patched. She paused in front of the girls and breathed like she was begging with her last strength.
“My daughters,” she whispered, voice thin, “please help me carry my firewood to my house. I’m so tired.”
Tracy’s face twisted as if she’d been slapped.
“No,” she snapped. “Old ugly woman. We can’t help you. We’re going to school and we are already late. Why are you disturbing us? Go and find your children.”
The old woman blinked and lowered her eyes.
But Joy stepped closer, concern softening her face.
“Mama, don’t worry,” Joy said gently. “I will help you carry it.”
Then she turned to Tracy.
“Please go to school. I will join you later. Let me help her.”
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