Morning drifted into the house like a hesitant guest, touching the broken windows and settling over the cracked floor where Amina slept. She barely rested that night. The robbery from the week before still haunted her, and the cold breeze that slipped in through the patched roof made her bones ache.
Her grandmother was already awake, humming a soft prayer in the corner as she folded the worn clothes they shared. "My child," she whispered, "today will not swallow you. Walk with your head up."
Amina tried to smile, but her heart was heavy. Today was the day of her scholarship interview — the chance she had been praying for. Her stepmother knew it too, and that alone was enough trouble.
She stepped into the living room only to find her stepmother standing there with a smirk sharp enough to cut. "And where do you think you're going dressed like that?" the woman asked, her arms crossed over her chest.
Amina swallowed. "To school… I have an interview—"
"I know," the woman snapped. "And you're not going."
Amina froze. Her stepmother held up a piece of paper — Amina's interview slip — torn clean in half.
"You think I'll watch you become something my children are not?" she hissed. "Do you think you deserve a better life? Not in this house."
Amina's throat tightened, but she didn't cry. She refused to. Her grandmother rushed forward, her voice trembling with anger. "Leave the girl alone! Let her chase her future!"
The stepmother snorted. "Future? She has none. Not while I'm living."
Amina forced herself to breathe. The slip was gone, but her grandmother squeezed her hand. "Go," she whispered. "Even without that paper. Go and let God defend you."
With shaking legs, Amina stepped outside. She walked fast, almost running, the morning sun chasing her shadow. Every step felt like rebellion — like she was finally learning to fight back.
When she reached the school hall, the receptionist frowned. "Where's your interview slip?"
Amina opened her mouth, but no words came. The humiliation, the fear, the disappointment — all of it choked her.
Before she could speak, the head examiner stepped out. "What's going on here?"
The receptionist sighed. "She has no slip."
The examiner studied Amina's worn shoes, her neatly kept books, her trembling hands. Then he looked into her eyes — the exhaustion, the hunger, the fire.
"What's your name?" he asked gently.
"Amina… sir."
"You're the girl with the top score in the last assessment, right?"
She nodded.
He sighed. "Bring her in. Slip or no slip."
Amina's heart jumped. For the first time in a long time, she felt the faintest spark of hope. She took a seat inside the hall as the interview began — but the relief didn't last.
Halfway through the session, the doors burst open.
Her stepmother stormed in.
The teachers gasped. Amina froze.
The woman pointed at her like she was pointing at a criminal.
"THIS GIRL DOES NOT BELONG HERE!"
Everything stopped. Every eye turned to Amina.
And just like that, the thin thread of hope she held began to tear.