Foundations and blue print

Chapter Eleven: "Foundations and Blueprints"

The cracked concrete steps outside her hostel room were soaked in early morning dew. Andra Summers adjusted the strap of her bag, heavy with textbooks, and held Kingsley's tiny hand as they made their way down to the campus gate. The day had barely begun, but her mind was already racing through her class schedule, the blueprint drafts due next week, and how she'd juggle all of it while keeping Kingsley fed, warm, and smiling.

Lindali University sat on the far edge of West Province, known for its hills, sharp winds, and the dense greenbelt that stretched out behind the civil engineering lab. When Andra had first stepped foot there two years ago, she hadn't pictured herself doing it with a child in tow. But life had a funny way of redrawing plans.

She was now in her second year, pursuing a Bachelor of Education in Technology—majoring in Computing, Building, and Civil Technology. It wasn't just a degree for her; it was her escape plan. Her foundation. The way out.

At twenty-four, Andra had stopped romanticizing things. Her classmates often joked about dream jobs and soft lives in big cities. She smiled when they spoke, but her thoughts were more grounded. Hers was a dream of reliability: a stable job, a home where Kingsley didn't have to share a bed with cousins, and someday—maybe—her own workshop where she could teach, design, and build.

"Are we going to the lab again today, Mommy?" Kingsley asked, skipping beside her.

She smiled. "Not today, baby. You're going to stay with Aunty Neema while I go to class."

His face fell, just a little, and her heart pinched at the sight.

Neema, a fellow student in her final year, had become something like an aunt to Kingsley. They'd struck a deal—Andra would help Neema with her final-year thesis in computing, and Neema would watch Kingsley during lectures. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.

As Andra dropped Kingsley off and made her way toward the Faculty of Technology, she thought about home—Makutano Hills. Her parents still lived there in the same weathered brick house where she and her siblings had grown up. She was the third last in a sea of brothers and sisters, and their support had been her lifeline. Every weekend, her mother called to check in, sometimes sending packages of maize flour, sweet bananas, or little care notes tucked into the lining.

"You can't be tired yet," her mother always said. "You haven't even finished the roof of your life."

The lecture hall buzzed with energy as she slid into a back seat. Mr. Mwanzia, their Civil Technology instructor, tapped the whiteboard with his knuckles, his voice echoing through the high-ceilinged space.

"Your site analysis reports are due next Monday. If you don't submit them on time, don't expect to pass this unit. Technology builds nations, not excuses."

Andra jotted the deadline down, already calculating the hours she could squeeze in at night while Kingsley slept. When the class ended, she lingered behind, waiting to speak with him.

"Sir," she began. "I wanted to ask—can I present my report in a digital format instead of printing?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Trying to save printing costs?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

He scribbled something in his notebook. "Fine. Submit it digitally. But make sure it's neat. You're a future educator, not a street hawker."

Andra smiled faintly. That was as close to kindness as he ever got.

That evening, back at the hostel, Kingsley had fallen asleep in her lap, his cheek warm against her arm. She had her laptop open, the faint hum of AutoCAD software filling the room. She worked in silence, the glow of her desk lamp casting soft shadows against the peeling paint on the walls.

Her phone buzzed beside her—Parker. Again.

She didn't answer.

He'd sent a message earlier asking if she needed anything. She didn't trust those questions anymore. They usually led to him asking for something himself.

Instead, she texted her mom.

> Hi Mama. I'm okay. Kingsley is okay too. I'll call on Sunday. Love you.

Her mother replied within minutes.

> You are making us proud. Keep building, little engineer.

Tears welled up, hot and silent. She wiped them away quickly, careful not to wake Kingsley.

She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was building something—one sleepless night, one assignment, one prayer at a time.