Sara

Chapter Three

The next morning, I woke up before the sun.

My eyes were swollen from crying from the night before, but I didn't have time to feel sorry for myself. As Chioma said, the market wouldn't wait, and hunger was already scratching at my belly like a rat in a wall corner.

I washed my face, tied my scarf tight around my head, and picked up my cooler of pure water.

The streets were quiet at this hour, left for few early risers and the distant church echoing through the grey morning. I walked fast, my slippers slapping against the concrete, with my mind fixed on one thing, make enough money to survive another day.

When I got to the market, the traders were just beginning to set up their goods.

I made my way to my usual spot near the entrance, the place I'd been standing for almost a year now. It wasn't much, it's just a small space near a stall that sold secondhand shoes, but it was mine.

The shoe seller knew me and the customers knew where to find me. It was the only thing in my life that felt like something I could count on.

But when I turned the corner, I stopped dead.

There was a girl standing in my spot.

She was about my age, maybe a little older, with a cooler of drinks on the ground. She was already calling out to customers, her voice loud as if she owned the place.

I felt a hot anger rise up in my chest. I walked up to her, my cooler still on my head, and stopped right in front of her.

"Excuse me," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "This is my spot."

The girl looked at me, her eyes moving up and down my body as if she was sizing me up. Her lips were pressed into a thin, hard line.

"Your spot?" she said, her voice dripping with mockery.

"You buy this spot? You pay rent for here? Abi na your father's land?"

"I've been selling here for almost a year," I said.

"Everybody knows this is where I stand. The shoe seller behind you, ask him. He knows me."

"I don't care who knows you," the girl said. "I got here first today. First come, first serve. So go find another place."

"Please," I said, my voice cracking despite myself.

"I'm not looking for trouble okay. I just need my spot back. I've had a very hard week, and I just... I just need to sell my water."

The girl laughed. The sound was mocking, the kind that made you feel small.

"You think you're the only one who has 'hard week'? Everybody in this market is suffering. You're not special. Now carry your cooler and leave this place, before I do something you'll regret."

I should have walked away. Just found another spot and let it go. But something inside me, that had been pushed and beaten and broken for too long, just snapped.

"No," I said, and my voice was quiet but firm.

"I'm not leaving. This is my spot. And you need to go."

The girl's eyes narrowed. She shifted her cooler to the side.

Then she stepped toward me, so close I could smell the sweat on her skin and the onions on her breath.

"What did you say to me?" she hissed.

"I said you need to go," I repeated.

"This is my spot. I was here first. Just because you got here early today doesn't make it..."

She shoved me.

It happened so fast I didn't have time to react. Her hands hit my chest hard, and I stumbled backward, my cooler slipped from my head and crashed to the ground. The lid popped open, and pure water sachets spilled everywhere, rolling into the dirt.

For a moment, I just stood staring at them. My water. My livelihood was lying in the dust like mere garbage.

And then something in me broke completely.

I launched myself at her.

I didn't think. My body just moved on its own, years of frustration and pain and helplessness poured out of me like a uncontrolled flood.

I grabbed her hair and she screamed. Her nails raked across my face, and I felt the sting of my skin breaking. We fell to the ground together, rolling in the dirt, pulling and scratching and hitting like wild animals.

"Leave my spot!" I screamed, my voice raw and broken.

"Leave it! Leave it! Leave it!"

"Crazy girl!" she shouted back, her knee digging into my stomach.

"You're mad! You're completely mad!"

I could hear the shoe seller's voice somewhere in the distance, but I couldn't make out his words. All I could focus on was the girl beneath me, with her face twisted with rage, and her sharp nails still clawing at my arms.

And then, suddenly, I was being pulled off her.

Strong arms wrapped around my waist and lifted me into the air. I kicked and thrashed, still blind with fury, until I heard Chioma's voice right in my ear.

"Sara! Sara, stop it! It's me! Stop!"

I went limp. The fight drained out of me all at once, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, shaky exhaustion.

Chioma set me down gently, her hands still on my shoulders, her eyes wide with shock.

"What is wrong with you Sara?" she demanded.

"I come to market and I see you rolling on the ground like a street girl! This isn't you. What happened?"

I pointed at the other girl, who was being helped to her feet by two other traders. Her weave was half torn off, and there was a scratch on her cheek. I hoped that hurt.

"She took my spot," I said, my voice shaking.

"I asked her to leave. She refused. And she pushed me first."

Chioma looked at the girl, then back at me. Her expression hardened.

"Which one be your spot?" Chioma said, stepping toward the girl.

"Because I know this girl, and she's been selling here since before you even knew this market existed. So I'm asking you nicely, Go. And. Find. Your Own. Space. Now."

The girl glared at Chioma, but she could see what almost every one around here knows. Chioma was not someone you wanted to fight.

There was a steel in her that didn't come just from muscles. But from a life that had tried to break her and failed.

"This market is for everybody," the girl muttered, but she was already bending down to pick up her cooler. "I don't have time for all this nonsense."

"Then go," Chioma said flatly.

"Before I give you something to really complain about."

The girl shot me one last look of pure hatred, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. The spectators began to drift off, clearly disappointed that the show was over.

I stood there in the dirt, my scarf hanging loosely around my neck, my face stinging, looking at my overturned and empty cooler.

Chioma turned to me. She didn't say anything at first. She just looked at me, her eyes full of half pity and half frustration.

"Sara," she said quietly.

"This is not you. Fighting in the dirt like a common street girl. What is happening to you?"

"The money is gone," I whispered holding my tears.

"Mama Basira took almost everything. I can't pay the rent. In two weeks, I'll be on the street. And now this girl just came out of nowhere and took my spot, the only thing I have left, and I just... I couldn't... I couldn't let her take that too."

Chioma's face softened. She bent down and began picking up my fallen water sachets, dusting them off and placing them back in the cooler.

"We'll figure it out," she said.

"I told you before. If the worst happens, you can stay with me."

"Your room is barely big enough for you, Chioma. There's no space for two people."

"Then we'll make space. We'll manage. That's what we do, abi? We manage."

I knelt down beside her and started picking up the rest of the sachets. Some were burst, and seeping into the dry ground. I counted the ones that were still good. I'd lost almost half my stock.

"I'm so tired," I said, and my voice came out so small I barely recognized it.

"I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of being hungry. Chioma, I'm tired of waking up every morning and wondering if today is the day that I finally give up."

Chioma reached out and took my hand. Her palm was rough against mine, calloused from years of work.

"Don't give up," she said. "Not yet. Something will change. I know it will. God never give you a burden you that's beyond you."

"I'm not sure I believe in God anymore," I said.

"Then believe in me," Chioma said. "Believe that I won't. let you fall. Okay?"

I looked at her, this girl who had nothing and still found a way to give everything. And I nodded.

"Okay."

We finished picking up the sachets.

Then I stood in my spot, the spot I had fought for, and started calling out to customers. My voice was hoarse, my face was scratched, and my heart was heavier than it had ever been.