Chapter 9: The Weight of Expectations.

Sarah had a sleepless night. Her body lay still on the bed, but her mind raced endlessly. She tossed and turned, unable to shake off the unsettling thoughts that swirled inside her. At some point, the darkness outside began to lighten. The early morning breeze crept through the gaps in the window, and with a sigh, she threw off her lesu and got up.

She stepped into the compound while the sky still wore its navy blue robe, stars slowly fading. Without wasting time, she picked up a broom and began sweeping the compound. Dust rose behind her as she worked in silence, her motions fast and firm. It was her way of regaining control—cleaning the space, restoring order, and clearing her thoughts.

When she finished sweeping, she headed into the outside kitchen. The morning air still clung to a chill, but the fire she lit quickly chased it away. She placed a sufuria over the flames and began preparing breakfast: maize flour porridge mixed with milk. The thick aroma filled the air, comforting and familiar. She moved on to peel and slice cassava, which she then fried until golden and crisp.

After everything was ready, she set the breakfast on the table. The girls would come and eat, but she wasn't concerned with that. She had other things on her mind today.

Zaria walked in a few minutes later, quietly and respectfully, as she always did. She greeted her stepmother softly.

"Morning, Mom."

Sarah didn't look up. She poured herself a cup of porridge and took a sip, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

"I'm going to the SACCO meeting today," she said flatly. "So I want you to go and sell the fifteen baskets I weaved last week."

Zaria stood still, listening.

"But before that," Sarah continued, "you'll prepare lunch, clean these cups, and then go to the market. Make sure you sell all of them. Not one should return to this house."

"Yes, Mom," Zaria replied in a low voice.

Sarah took another bite of fried cassava and said firmly, "Leave."

Without another word, Zaria turned and walked out.

She didn't complain. She didn't sigh. She simply got to work.

After breakfast, Zaria collected the cups from the table and washed them at the tap in the backyard. The water was cold, but her hands moved quickly. She scrubbed and rinsed until they were spotless, then placed them upside-down on the rack to dry.

Next was lunch.

She walked to the small storeroom near the kitchen and returned carrying a bunch of green bananas (matooke). She set them on a low stool, peeled them carefully, and placed them in a clean sufuria. She then fetched a small tin of groundnut paste (gnuts), mixed it with warm water and salt, and poured it over the bananas.

The firewood crackled as the katogo cooked slowly. The scent of simmering groundnuts mixed with the bananas was rich and familiar—simple food, but filling and nourishing. Zaria stirred it occasionally, making sure the paste didn't stick at the bottom.

She kept an eye on the pot as she folded her wrapper tighter around her waist and checked on the baskets. There were fifteen in total, each carefully woven by Sarah last week. Bright colors, strong handles, and detailed patterns. They would attract attention at the market—but selling all fifteen was still a heavy task.

When the katogo was ready, she removed it from the fire and set it aside, keeping it covered so it would stay warm for her stepsisters.

She wiped her hands on her wrapper, lifted the sack, and began packing the baskets inside. One by one, she arranged them neatly, making sure none would get damaged. The sun was already high by now. She placed the sack over her back and tied it with a rope, then covered her head with a scarf before stepping out.

The journey to the market was long and dusty. She passed fields of cassava and maize, children playing by the roadside, and boda boda riders zooming past. She walked steadily, balancing the weight on her back, and reached the market around noon.

She found an empty spot under a shaded corner and began laying out the baskets. The colors shone in the sunlight—red, yellow, blue, green. She stood behind them and called softly to passersby.

"Strong baskets for sale! Beautiful colors. Come and choose."

A middle-aged woman stopped, admired a blue and white basket, and asked for the price.

"Four hundred shillings, Mama," Zaria said politely.

"Hmm… three-fifty."

Zaria nodded. "Okay, Mama. You can take it."

That was her first sale.

She remained there all afternoon, calling out gently, smiling, and sometimes explaining the weaving patterns. The sun was hot, and her back ached, but she stood firm. By mid-afternoon, more customers came. Some bought two, others bargained harder. A few paid without question.

By 5 p.m., she had only one basket left.

She smiled to herself, wiped sweat from her forehead, and held it up proudly.

"Last basket!" she said.

A young woman with a toddler on her back came over, picked it up, turned it over, then nodded.

"I'll take it."

Zaria handed it over, collected the money, and breathed a sigh of relief.

All fifteen—sold.

She packed up the now-empty sack and began the walk home. Her legs were tired, and her arms sore, but something warm spread in her chest. She had done it. Just like Sarah asked. No mistakes.

As she walked into the compound, the sun had begun to set, painting the sky in strokes of orange and purple. She entered the house quietly. Her stepsisters, Claire and Mary, were in the sitting room watching a local drama on the old TV, laughing loudly and tossing sunflower seed shells on the floor.

Sarah sat in the far corner, flipping through a small notebook, her lips pursed in thought. She didn't look up when Zaria entered.

"I sold all the baskets, Mom," Zaria said respectfully.

Sarah kept writing, then gave a brief nod.

"Mm," she murmured. "You can go."

Zaria turned and walked to her tiny room. She didn't expect praise. She never did. But the silence still stung.

She sat on her bed, hands resting on her knees, eyes staring at the crack in the wall. Outside, laughter filled the house—but inside her, something else stirred.

She had sold all the baskets.

She had cooked the food.

She had kept her word.

The house may not have loved her, but today, she had loved herself a little more.