Jenny had learned the meaning of hardship long before she understood the meaning of happiness. At 18 years old, her back was already slightly bent from years of carrying heavy water pots and baskets of firewood. Her palms were rough like an old woman’s, though her face was still soft and youthful. If anyone looked closely into her eyes, they would see a quiet sadness hidden behind patience.
She was an orphan.
Her parents had died when she was very young, taken by a strange sickness that swept through the village like a bad wind. From that day on, Jenny’s life became a borrowed one. She was taken into her aunt’s house, not out of love, but out of obligation. The villagers praised her aunt for helping an orphan.
But inside that house, Jenny knew she was not family.
She was labor.
Her aunt’s house stood at the edge of the village, a clay building with a zinc roof that rattled loudly when the wind blew. The compound was always dusty, and weeds grew freely around the walls. Every morning before the sun rose, Jenny was already awake.
She slept on a thin mat in the corner of the kitchen, close enough to the firewood that smoke sometimes burned her eyes at night. When the first rooster crowed, she rose quietly, careful not to wake Fiona, her cousin, who slept comfortably on a soft bed inside the main room.
Jenny’s first duty was to fetch water.
The river was far, and the path to it was narrow and winding. She balanced the empty clay pot on her head and walked barefoot, feeling the cold morning earth under her feet. Sometimes she would stop by the riverbank and look at her reflection in the water—her face tired, her hair tied in a loose knot, her school uniform already worn thin from years of washing.
By the time she returned home, the sun would be rising. That was when her aunt’s voice would cut through the morning air like a whip.
“Jenny, have you brought the water? What are you waiting for? Cook the food!”
“Yes, Auntie,” Jenny would answer softly.
She would light the fire, fan it with a piece of cardboard, and begin to cook. She prepared porridge or yam or cassava meal, depending on what was available.
Fiona never came near the kitchen.
She stayed inside, stretching lazily on her bed.
“Jenny!” Fiona would shout from inside. “Bring my uniform!”
Jenny would wash, iron, and fold Fiona’s uniform while Fiona sat and braided her hair slowly, humming songs. Sometimes Jenny watched her cousin and wondered what it felt like to live without fear of shouting, without fear of hunger, without fear of being sent away.
After cooking, Jenny swept the compound, washed plates, and scrubbed the floor with water and sand. Only when everything was done was she allowed to prepare herself for school.
Often she was late.
Fiona, however, was never late. Her aunt made sure of that.
At school, the difference between them was even clearer.
Fiona walked proudly with her friends, laughing loudly and swinging her arms freely. Jenny followed behind, carrying Fiona’s bag along with her own.
“Why does she follow you like that?” some girls once asked Fiona.
“She is my cousin,” Fiona replied proudly, “and my house girl.”
They laughed.
Jenny heard them. She pretended she did not.
In class, Jenny tried her best to listen. She loved learning. Books gave her a small escape from her life. When she read stories of brave girls and kind queens, she imagined herself as one of them, just for a moment.