MARIAM THE GOOD GIRL.

My name is Maimuna James. I am the firstborn child of my parents, who had only two children in total—me and my younger sister, Elina. Our parents were farmers in a somewhat lively village that had at least some development; electricity had reached there, though the real comfort our parents enjoyed was at the local bar, not a fancy one—just a place where they drank local brews and ate grilled meat as entertainment after farm work. Life at home was ordinary. I never saw anything better than what we had. We ate food grown by our parents and meat from the livestock they raised, like chickens that foraged freely—they'd go into the coop in the evening, we’d lock them up, and they’d find their own food and breed during the day. Goats were our main responsibility—my sister and I herded them from a young age. When I was 7 and Elina was 5, we were already herding goats. My parents took me to start Standard 1 with brand-new uniforms, a big Rambo backpack as my school bag, and I felt really clean because I wasn’t the only one with that style. So I began school while still coming home to herd goats after classes. Life went on like that. Time passed, and eventually I reached Standard 3. One day after school, my father told me to open the goats early, lock them in the pen, cut banana leaves, and feed them while they were inside. He said they were going to talk with friends and would leave early today. I said okay. My mother said she had already cooked kande (mixed beans and maize), it was in the pot in the kitchen, so make sure your little sister eats and is full. I said okay. They prepared themselves, I went to open the goats and lock them, and my father called me again: make sure you lock the door properly, and as I always tell you, Mai, don’t open the door for anyone you don’t know, okay? I said okay. He said love each other a lot with your sister, Mai—you have no other sibling besides her. I said okay, Dad. They left smiling happily. I was happy because I knew our parents loved us very much. I did what they told me, served the kande, and we ate happily with my sister. By then it was dark, so we went to sleep in the bedroom, and I locked the door. Like typical kids, we didn’t sleep right away—we played on our old mattress until sleep overtook us. I woke up startled hearing people crying loudly outside in our compound. My sister asked, “Sister, what’s wrong?” I said, “I don’t know.” There were many people coming and crying. Then the door was knocked. I asked, “Who is it?” I heard: “Open the door, you children—your parents have left you. Open the door so we can prepare the mourning.” It was the voice of our neighbor, Mama John, a friend of my mother whom I knew. I opened the door, not understanding at all what she meant. When I opened, I saw many people outside. When they saw me and my sister, the crying grew louder, and they hugged us. Others came with mats and started spreading them inside the living room and outside. I had to ask our neighbor, Mama John: “What’s wrong? Where are Dad and Mom?” Mama John just cried and hugged me. I didn’t understand. People kept coming all night, crying until dawn. I didn’t sleep at all. The next day, more people came crying. My mind started to clear, and I realized there was mourning—why couldn’t I see Dad and Mom? Had they died? Right then I burst into tears, calling for Dad and Mom, and others cried too. My grandmother arrived from the village. When she saw us, she cried bitterly, saying: “Oh God, after I die, you bury me, old woman—you go ahead, my children. These kids are left alone? You left me with only them? I have no other children—all have left me with these two. Who will I be a guest to?” She cried in deep pain. The bodies of our parents were brought, farewell rituals were done, then they said they were transporting them to grandmother’s place for burial. We traveled, and our parents were buried at grandmother’s. The cause of death was said to be sudden illness after eating poisonous mushrooms at the bar. After the burial, a meeting was held. We were told we would stay with grandmother while waiting to inherit our parents’ town property. But while the chairperson was speaking, one man stood up and said the land and house had already been sold to him by our father because he wanted to move to town. Grandmother said: “That’s not true—stop lying. My child would never sell his property.” The man brought transfer papers and photos—they had taken pictures together while signing and handing over. Grandmother cried because the photo was really of Dad. Another man said Dad owed him a lot of money, so he would take all the goats. Another said Dad owed him, so he would take the chickens. Grandmother said: “Take everything, just leave our souls.” The house owner said: “Please remove your things—I want to renovate the house.” Grandmother said okay, no problem. We stayed four days, then went home and removed what we could. Then we had to go to school, so we moved to grandmother’s place, which was very rural compared to our original home. Grandmother raised us well—we farmed as usual, so we never lacked food. I studied and finished Standard 7 safely. Results came out, but grandmother couldn’t afford to send me to secondary school, so I stayed with her on the farm. Time passed, my sister also finished Standard 7 safely, and we joined forces on the farm—pure farming life. One Sunday after church, we were roasting peas to ripen them for cooking with ugali. Grandmother stayed behind talking with others. Elina, my sister, told me: “Sister, I want to leave this village and go work in town.” I asked: “What work? You haven’t studied?” She said: “I’ll figure it out ahead. Life here farming has defeated me.” I said: “I don’t advise it, but it doesn’t seem good.” She said: “Sister, are you completely satisfied with this village life? We are very poor—if we don’t farm, we don’t eat. Others leave for town and come back with phones and nice clothes. Look at us wearing torn old clothes, living in a grass-thatched hut with no windows, sleeping on mats. I’m tired, I want to live well. You stay if you want.” I said: “I believe one day we’ll succeed by farming and selling crops.” She said: “You’re fooling yourself—who has succeeded with farming here in the village? I’m leaving.” I said: “Talk to grandmother, but know I don’t allow it.” She said: “Even if you don’t allow me, you’re not my mother—I don’t need your permission. Leave me alone.” She spoke and went outside. I was very hurt. Elina had become a different person—lazy in the farm, stubborn, and even when left home alone, she cooked and ate by herself—no love at all. The peas ripened. I added onions, salt, sunflower oil, pounded them, put ugali on the fire. Suddenly Elina came running, panting. I asked: “What’s wrong with you?” She said crying: “Sister, grandmother... grandmother... grandmother...” I asked: “What? I don’t understand.” Before she finished, three men came in carrying grandmother, followed by many women crying...