Chapter Thirteen

The Kind Ones and the Cold

I entered the village with nothing but my broken spirit and an empty stomach.

The first few huts I passed smelled of roasted maize and boiling soup, scents that made my stomach twist painfully. I had not eaten in days. My body felt weak, my lips dry and cracked.

I needed food.

I needed kindness.

But kindness was rare for people like me.

I stopped at a woman pounding yam outside her hut. She looked strong, her wrapper tied tightly around her waist as she raised the pestle and slammed it into the mortar. My heart pounded. I didn't want to beg, but hunger had stripped me of pride.

I stepped closer.

"Please, ma... I haven't eaten in days."

She paused, looking at me from head to toe. Her gaze was cold, filled with something I couldn't name.

"Whose child are you?" she asked.

I swallowed hard.

"I... I have no one. My mother is gone."

For a moment, I thought she would pity me. That she would scoop a little of the steaming yam into a leaf and place it in my trembling hands.

But instead, she clicked her tongue.

"There are many mouths to feed already. I can't add another stray."

My throat burned, but I nodded and stepped away.

The next house.

And the next.

And the next.

Some ignored me. Some shut their doors before I could even speak. One woman threw a handful of dirty water at me, muttering curses about bad luck.

And then there were those who spat.

"Filthy child," one man sneered, his spit landing near my feet. "Go back to wherever you came from."

Another woman muttered, "She looks like an omen of death."

Their words cut deeper than a knife.

Was this what I had survived for?

To be treated like trash?

---

Not everyone was cruel.

An old man sitting under a tree waved me over. His clothes were old and patched, but his eyes were kind. He handed me a small piece of roasted yam and a cup of water.

"Eat, my child," he said softly. "You look like the wind might carry you away."

I grabbed the food with shaking hands, whispering my thanks before shoving it into my mouth. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.

A young girl, no older than me, sneaked me a piece of meat when her mother wasn't looking.

"Hide it," she whispered, her eyes darting around. "If my mother sees, she'll beat me."

I clutched the meat in my dirty hands, tears stinging my eyes.

Even in a world filled with cruelty, there were still small pockets of kindness.

But kindness didn't fill an empty stomach for long.

I needed more than scraps.

I needed a way to survive.

And as I curled up in the corner of an abandoned hut that night, my stomach still growling, my body shivering from the cold, I realize

d something:

If I wanted to live, I would have to fight for every single bite.