LET'S GO, Book 1:The lost letter

Chapter 1: The Life She Wanted to Escape The village woke up before the sun, but it never truly came alive. It only repeated itself. Dust rose gently from the narrow paths as goats moved lazily between scattered homes. Chickens scratched at the ground like they were searching for answers they would never find. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster cried out too early, as if even time in this place was impatient. Amina sat outside their small mud-walled house, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring at nothing and everything at once. This was her favorite place—not because it made her happy, but because it was the only place where she could breathe without being watched too closely. Behind her, life had already begun its usual rhythm. The clatter of utensils. The low murmur of her mother’s footsteps. The occasional sharp sound of her father’s voice, cutting through the morning like a blade that didn’t need to be seen to be felt. “Amina!” Her father’s voice came from inside the house. She didn’t move immediately. “Amina!” he called again, louder this time. Something inside her tightened. Not fear exactly… something older than fear. Something like resignation. She stood up slowly and dusted off her skirt before stepping inside. The house always felt smaller in the morning. Maybe because the light revealed everything it tried to hide at night—cracks in the walls, faded paint, tired furniture, tired lives. Her father sat at the wooden table, already dressed for the day, already carrying the weight of authority like it was part of his body. He didn’t look at her when she entered. “You are becoming careless,” he said. Amina stopped near the doorway. “I was just outside for a moment.” “A moment,” he repeated coldly, stirring his tea, “becomes a habit. And habits decide the kind of woman you will become.” Amina lowered her eyes. She had learned early that looking directly at him during moments like this only made things worse. Her mother stood near the cooking area, silently preparing breakfast. She moved carefully, almost as if the air itself could punish her for making too much noise. Amina watched her. Sometimes she wondered what her mother used to be before silence became her language. Did she ever dream? Did she ever want to leave? Or had she slowly forgotten how to want anything at all? “A girl your age should be thinking about responsibility,” her father continued. “Not sitting outside like someone waiting for life to happen.” Amina swallowed the words rising in her throat. She wanted to say: Life is not happening here. It is stopping here. But she didn’t. Because in this house, words were not just words. They were consequences. Her mother placed a cup of tea in front of her father. Their hands did not touch. Their eyes did not meet. It was a routine that had been perfected over years—care without connection, presence without voice. Amina turned away and stepped outside again. The sun had risen a little higher now, casting pale gold light over the village. But even the light felt tired here, as if it had given up trying to make things brighter. She walked slowly to the back of the house, where a lone mango tree stood. This tree had been her witness for years. It had seen her cry without sound. It had seen her laugh quietly when no one was watching. It had heard all the things she never said out loud. Amina placed her hand on its rough bark. “I don’t belong here,” she whispered. The wind moved through the branches, but it gave no answer. Her chest tightened. That feeling again. Not sadness exactly. Worse than sadness. The feeling of being alive in a place that did not want you to grow. --- “Amina!” Zawadi’s voice broke through her thoughts. Amina turned. Zawadi stood near the edge of the compound, her face bright as usual, holding a small bag of mangoes like she had stolen sunlight and decided to share it. “You’re doing it again,” Zawadi said as she walked closer. “Doing what?” “Thinking too much. You always look like your mind is somewhere far away.” Amina gave a faint smile. “Maybe it is.” Zawadi sat beside her under the tree, placing the mangoes between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was not uncomfortable. It was familiar. Safe. Then Zawadi picked up a small stick and drew lines in the soil. “You know,” she said casually, “my cousin went to the city last year.” Amina turned slightly. “And?” Zawadi shrugged. “Now she sends pictures. Tall buildings. Bright lights. She says even at night, it feels like daytime.” Amina listened carefully, as if every word was pulling something inside her forward. “Does she look happy?” she asked. Zawadi hesitated. “She looks… different.” “Different how?” “Like she belongs somewhere else now.” Amina looked away. That word stayed in her mind longer than it should have. Belong. Did she belong here? Or anywhere? “What if I left?” Amina asked suddenly. Zawadi looked at her sharply. “Left where?” “The village. This place.” Zawadi blinked. Then she laughed softly, but it wasn’t unkind. It was nervous. “Amina… you always say things like that.” “I’m serious.” The laughter faded. Zawadi studied her face now, really studied it. “You mean you would actually go?” Amina didn’t answer immediately. Because the truth was… she didn’t know how to explain it. It wasn’t just about leaving. It was about escaping something that had been sitting on her chest for years. “I feel like I’m disappearing here,” she said quietly. “Like every day I stay, I become less of myself.” Zawadi’s expression softened. “That’s not true,” she said gently. “You are still you.” Amina shook her head. “No. I’m becoming what they want me to be. Quiet. Obedient. Small.” A long silence followed. From inside the house, her father’s voice called again. “Amina! Where are you now?” She closed her eyes for a moment. That voice always brought her back to reality. A reality she never chose. Zawadi stood up slowly. “Be careful,” she said again, softer this time. “Dreaming too loudly in places like this can get you hurt.” Amina looked up at her. “What if staying hurts more?” Zawadi had no answer for that. She only stepped back slightly, as if afraid of the direction the conversation was going. “I should go,” she said finally. Amina nodded but didn’t move. Zawadi hesitated. Then she added: “If you ever really decide to leave… tell me first.” Amina managed a small smile. “I will.” But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. Zawadi walked away. Amina remained under the mango tree, alone again. The wind moved through the leaves above her, soft and restless. Inside the house, her father’s voice called her name once more. But this time, something inside Amina answered differently. Not her voice. Her decision. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t just hear the command. She questioned it. She stood up slowly, dusted off her hands, and looked at the house behind her. It wasn’t just a home. It was a cage built so carefully that even the door felt like part of the wall. Amina took a slow breath. “I won’t stay like this forever,” she whispered. And even though no one heard her… Something inside her finally believed it. ---