EPISODE 8
548 Words
The night was cold. The generator had gone off, and silence swallowed the house.
Amara lay on her small mat, the driver gave her, curled up like a leaf. Her thin wrapper barely covered her tiny body. Mosquitoes buzzed around her ears, but she didn’t have the strength to swat them.
Her stomach groaned again.
She hadn’t eaten anything all day.
Aunty Rose had whispered, “Today is not your turn to eat,” and walked away without looking back.
Tears formed in Amara’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She was tired of crying. Tired of hoping. Tired of this life.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps approaching outside.
Her heart skipped.
She sat up quickly, holding her breath.
The wooden door creaked open slowly.
A flashlight beam hit her face.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
“It’s me,” the voice said.
It was the driver.
He stepped in and gently closed the door behind him.
Amara’s hands shook. “Did I do something wrong?”
He shook his head. “Shhh. I just wanted to check on you.”
She said nothing. She just looked at him.
He took something from his pocket.
A bread roll and a sachet of pure water.
“I saw how they treated you today. You haven’t eaten. Here,” he said.
She stretched her hands and collected the bread with both hands, as if it was gold.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He stood by the door and waited as she ate.
She took small bites, slowly, carefully, as if afraid it would vanish too fast.
“You remind me of my little sister,” the driver said suddenly. “She died when she was ten. From hunger.”
Amara paused, looking at him with big eyes.
“I don’t want to see that happen to you,” he added.
Amara looked down. “Sometimes I feel like running away.”
He crouched beside her. “But where will you go?”
She didn’t answer.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, careful not to scare her. “Listen… I don’t have much power here. But I’ll help you the little way I can. I have been trying to see if I can take you out from here, or call the human rights, or those who rescue kids from hard labour, but I don't have the money and connections. There must be a way out. Just stay strong. Okay?”
She nodded.
Then she did something surprising.
She hugged him.
It wasn’t tight. It was weak and trembling. But it came from somewhere deep.
“Thank you,” she said.
He stood and walked to the door. “Lock your door from inside. And hide the bread wrapper.
If Madam sees it…”
“I know,” she said softly.
He smiled sadly and left.
Amara locked the door, then sat back down.
The darkness didn’t feel so heavy tonight.
She held the sachet of water close and whispered, “Mama… someone helped me again.”
She opened her bag, brought out the old letter, and read the faded words again.
“Let no one take your light.”
Amara smiled.
It was faint.
But it was real.
And in that broken, cruel world, a tiny hope was growing.
- Writer
