CRIES OF A LITTLE MAID

EPISODE 9

The rooster crowed, but Amara was already awake.

She had barely slept. Her eyes were swollen from crying the night before, but her hands were ready for work. By 4:00 a.m., she was outside with a broom, sweeping the compound just like Aunty Rose had taught her.

The air was cold and sharp against her skin, but she didn’t complain. She swept in silence, her small hands moving fast, trying to finish before Madam Stella woke up.

It had been TWO YEARS since she came to the city.

She was now ten years old — still a child, but her heart had aged in pain.

By 6:30 a.m., the house was coming alive. Madam Stella’s children were getting ready for school. The big kitchen was noisy with the clanging of pots and shouting of orders. Amara helped Aunty Rose with cooking — fetching water, peeling onions, and cleaning the gas cooker.

But her stomach was twisting and turning.

The bread the driver gave her yesterday helped a little, but it wasn’t enough. She hadn’t recovered from the hunger of the past days.

Then it happened.

As she bent to scrub the kitchen floor, she felt something warm trickle down her thighs.

She froze.

She looked down — her heart skipped.

A reddish stain was spreading on her dress.

Her hands began to shake. Her breathing changed. She looked around, frightened. Had she hurt herself? Was she dying?

She quickly grabbed a rag and tied it around her waist. Then, shaking, she ran to the small bathroom behind the kitchen.

Her legs wobbled beneath her. She wiped herself and stared at the blood, confused and terrified.

“Why am I bleeding?” she whispered. “What did I do wrong?”

She was too young to understand.

Too young to know what menstruation was.

To Amara, it felt like her body was punishing her again, just like the hunger, the beatings, the loneliness.

Aunty Rose came outside to throw water away and saw her crouched by the bathroom wall.

“What are you doing there?” Aunty Rose asked sharply.

“I’m… I’m bleeding,” Amara stammered.

“Bleeding?” Aunty Rose walked closer. “Where?”

Amara pointed with trembling fingers to her dress. Aunty Rose looked, then let out a deep sigh.

“You’re seeing your period.”

“My what?” Amara asked, eyes wide.

“You’re growing up. It’s normal. Don’t be afraid,” Aunty Rose said quickly, but her voice wasn’t kind. It was tired.

She turned to go, but Amara called after her.

“What should I do now?”

Aunty Rose paused. “I’ll give you cloth to use. Just wash yourself. And listen — don’t stain Madam Stella’s chairs. If you do, you will see fire.”

Amara nodded, her eyes full of fear.

Aunty Rose returned with a piece of folded cloth and a wrapper.

“Change. Wash that dress quickly. And don’t tell anyone. Just stay clean.”

Amara took the cloth and cleaned herself the best she could. Her small hands trembled as she wrapped the cloth around herself and changed into the wrapper.

As she washed the blood from her dress, tears rolled down her cheeks.

Not because it hurt.

But because she was tired.

She didn’t understand why everything kept happening to her — hunger, hard work, beatings… and now blood?

She looked at herself in the broken mirror beside the bathroom. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks are thin. Her heart is heavy.

Then, in a shaky whisper, she said:

“God… are you still there?”

Just then, she heard footsteps. It was the driver.

He had always been the only one who showed her a little kindness. He leaned close and whispered so no one else would hear.

“Amara,” he said, “I’m going on a two-day leave to visit my sick mother.”

Amara looked at him, afraid he was going for good.

But he smiled softly.

“I’ll try to use those two days to find your mother. Or at least find someone to help you.”

Amara’s eyes widened. Her heart skipped again.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, almost too scared to hope.

He nodded and walked away.

And for the first time in many... months, a little spark lit up in Amara’s chest.

A small, gentle spark called hope.