AMINA
CHAPTER ONE;
In Iguagi, a girl could do everything right and still not be loved.
Amina learned that before she learned to braid her own hair.
The morning sun had barely risen, yet the village was alive. Women’s voices echoed from the stream, their laughter mixing with the splash of water against metal bowls. Smoke rose from cooking fires, bending and twisting into the still air like restless spirits. From afar, Iguagi looked peaceful — the kind of place where people lived simply and happily. But peace, Amina had learned, was sometimes only the sound between two arguments.
Her name, Amina, meant “the one who is cherished.” Her mother liked to remind everyone of that when she was born — how the name came to her in a dream, how it meant her daughter would be surrounded by love.
Maybe the dream forgot to come true.
Amina sat on a small wooden stool by the doorway, tying her school sandals. The leather straps had cracked, leaving thin marks across her fingers. From inside, her mother’s voice cut through the morning like a blade.
> “Amina! You’re still there? Do you want to be late again? You think school fees grow on trees?”
Her heart jumped, though she’d done nothing wrong. That was the thing about home; silence could break any moment, and you’d never know why.
She whispered a quiet “Yes, Ma,” and hurried to her feet. Her father was outside, repairing a broken chair. He didn’t look at her. His silence wasn’t cruel — just empty, like a wall she couldn’t climb.
As Amina walked down the narrow path to school, the sounds of Iguagi surrounded her — goats bleating, children shouting, women arguing over borrowed salt. She loved these sounds, yet they felt distant, like music from a room she wasn’t allowed to enter.
Sometimes she wondered if names could lie. Cherished. It sounded soft and golden. But her world was made of rough hands, sharp voices, and long silences.
Still, she carried the name the way she carried her schoolbooks — pressed tightly against her chest, hoping one day it would mean what it said.
