Zaria paused and looked out through the tiny window of her bedroom, watching as dusk began to stretch its arms across the sky. The clouds were tinged pink and lavender, the kind of evening that once would have made her mother sing softly while braiding her hair. But that was long ago—before her mother had packed a suitcase, kissed her goodbye with dry eyes, and left without ever looking back.
Her hand gripped the pen a little tighter.
> Sometimes I wonder if she ever regrets leaving. If she ever looks at the child in her new life and thinks of me. But maybe she really did move on, just like everyone else seems to have done. I'm the only one still here. Still waiting. Still trying.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp, barking voice she had come to dread.
"Zaria! What are you still doing in your bedroom? Don't you know you're supposed to be preparing our dinner?"
The words slammed through the walls like gunfire. Zaria jumped, her pen leaving an accidental streak across the paper.
"Yes, Ma! I'm coming!" she replied, hurriedly stuffing the diary back beneath her pillow—the only private space she had left in the world.
She pushed herself up from the thin mattress, her feet touching the cool concrete floor. Her legs ached from walking to the market and standing in long lines, but she ignored the exhaustion and bolted out of the room, brushing past the peeling paint of the narrow hallway as she moved.
The house was dim inside. Faint light spilled in through the mesh windows, and the stale air smelled of old dust and something vaguely sour—like forgotten leftovers. She didn't stop. She made her way out through the back door and into the open air of the backyard, where the makeshift kitchen waited: a three-walled structure of uneven bricks and rusted tin roofing. A place that spoke of survival, not comfort.
She dropped her market bags on the wooden bench and began unpacking quickly. Cabbage, onions, two tomatoes that were already bruising, a small bag of rice, and a modest portion of minced meat wrapped in thin, see-through plastic. It wasn't much, but it had to stretch.
She picked up the machete and began to slice the cabbage into fine strips, her movements precise despite the anxiety still clinging to her skin. The sun was almost gone now, casting long shadows across the ground. The soft hiss of the nearby fire pit filled the silence as she added more wood and blew gently to keep the flames alive.
Behind her, the screen door to the house creaked open.
Sarah appeared, leaning on the frame with her arms crossed.
"You always find a way to waste time. Did you think dinner would cook itself?"
Zaria didn't turn around. "No, Ma. I'm on it."
Sarah sneered. "Don't overcook the cabbage like last time. Mary almost threw up. And this meat better not taste like rubber."
"Yes, Ma."
Sarah stood there for a beat too long, as if looking for something else to criticize, then turned and disappeared back inside.
Zaria exhaled slowly.
She began by boiling water for the rice, adding a pinch of salt and a drop of oil to keep the grains from sticking. The smell of smoke and steam soon mixed with the fresh scent of chopped cabbage. Her hands moved rhythmically—cutting onions, slicing tomatoes, seasoning the minced meat with the little spice she had managed to borrow from the neighbor last week.
She'd learned to cook like this—under pressure, without praise—from a young age. After her mother left and her father was forced to work long contracts far from home, it was Sarah who stepped in. At first, things were calm. But once her father's visits grew fewer, and her letters went unanswered, Sarah's mask began to slip.
The kitchen had become her domain. Her duty. Her punishment.
The meat was sizzling now, releasing its aroma into the cool evening air. Zaria added the onions and tomatoes, stirring carefully. She fried the cabbage last, folding it into the mixture like a woman desperate to stretch a meal into more than it was.
In the distance, she could hear Mary and Claire laughing loudly from inside the house, the television blasting some reality show they had seen a hundred times. She wondered what it must be like to live without the weight of responsibility. To eat food that someone else cooked. To be waited on and never questioned.
The food was ready. She scooped the rice into a large bowl, ladled the cabbage and minced meat onto a plate, and placed them all onto a serving tray. The weight wasn't heavy, but it felt burdensome nonetheless.
Inside, Sarah was already sitting at the table, her phone in hand. Claire sat next to her, scrolling through pictures. Mary leaned on the wall near the fan, redoing her braids in front of a mirror.
"Put it there," Sarah ordered without even glancing up.
Zaria did, setting the tray gently on the table.
"There's no juice?" Claire asked with a pout.
"There wasn't enough money for that," Zaria answered, her voice soft.
"Ugh. Then go and make tea," Mary snapped. "And make sure you don't use too much sugar. Last time it tasted like syrup."
Zaria hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Ma. I'll do that."
She returned to the backyard, boiling water on the same fire she had just cooked dinner with. The flames were lower now, flickering in defiance of the darkness settling over the compound.
She didn't cry. She hadn't cried in years. But something stirred in her chest as she stood there, alone with the fire.
She thought again about the scholarship notice she had seen on the school's community board. They were offering places to girls from disadvantaged homes. All she needed was a teacher's recommendation—and a way to get the form printed. It wasn't much, but it was a thread of hope.
She stirred the tea slowly, watching the steam rise into the night sky.
This isn't forever, she reminded herself.
When the tea was done, she brought it inside and placed it on the table.
"Go and wash the plates after this," Sarah said. "And Claire needs her uniform ironed. Don't burn it again."
"Yes, Ma," Zaria said, the familiar words now tasting like ash in her mouth.
But that night, after everyone had gone to bed and the house had grown still, Zaria returned to her diary.
> I cooked. I served. I obeyed. But today I made a promise—to myself. One day I'll leave this place. And I won't look back.
She closed the book gently, her heart beating a little faster in the dark.
Outside, the embers of the fire still glowed faintly in the backyard. A reminder that even in silence, something could still burn.