The second week at Ndemu Mixed Day School was worse than the first. Neema had learned to keep her head down. Her accent—part Luo, part Kiswahili-rich slang—marked her as "different," and her hunger-marked shoes earned her a nickname that stuck like gum: Shosho wa Ndara — Grandma of the Sandals.
She didn't care. Not much, anyway. Not as much as she cared about getting through each day with her pride intact and her notebook pages dry. Because those pages were sacred. They held dreams in the form of sketches: heels, braids, dresses with high necks and open backs, bold colors and clean lines. Fashion that didn't just make you look good—but made you feel invincible.
It was in the second week that Mr. Matu, the tired and sarcastic literature teacher, announced a group project on The River and The Source. "Group of five," he barked. "Form yourselves. I don't care who you pick. I only care about one thing—grammar and good handwriting."
Neema froze. She hadn't made friends. The girls from her village had joined other groups. She stood alone, eyes on the floor, until a soft voice beside her said, "Can I join you?" It was Farhan. She blinked. "You want to join me?" He smiled slightly. "And that makes two. Let's find three more rejects." That was how it began.
Their group, dubbed "The Orphans" by a mocking classmate, included a girl called Makena who spoke too fast and too much, a boy named Kiprotich who only joined because he owed Farhan five shillings, and a shy Muslim girl, Leila, who barely spoke at all.
The five of them sat under the old jacaranda tree during break times, writing summaries, quoting passages, and even laughing—just a little. Farhan was smart. But it wasn't just that. He listened. When Neema disagreed with his ideas, he didn't interrupt her or brush her off. He leaned in, nodded, and challenged her with questions that made her think deeper.
"You're not like the others," he told her one afternoon. "Why? Because I'm not afraid of you?" she asked. "No," he said, grinning. "Because you draw shoes when the teacher's talking about African socialism." Her cheeks flushed. "You were watching?" "I always watch the interesting ones."
Neema found herself looking forward to school again. It wasn't that her problems had disappeared. Her father still struggled to pay her fees. She was sent home twice within a month. Once, she spent two weeks out of class, working at a neighbor's salon, sweeping floors and passing hair clips in exchange for a few coins.
But the salon gave her something else too: exposure. She watched how women came in tired and left transformed. How confidence returned with the right hairstyle. It was magic. She returned to school a week late, unsure if she would be allowed back. But Farhan was there at the gate. "I saved your desk," he said, holding up a faded textbook. "And your chair."
That evening, Neema drew a logo in her sketchbook. Five letters in bold curves and swirls: IMMAD. The 'I' stood taller than the others. The D curved like a ribbon. "Someday," she whispered, "this name will be everywhere." Later that term, a storm hit the village—both literal and figurative.
A fight broke out at school after a stolen phone accusation turned tribal. The boys from one side of the district attacked the others. Neema hid under a desk as the riot escalated. She could hear the shouts, glass shatter ing, chairs thrown. Somewhere in the chaos, someone called her name. "Neema!" It was Farhan.
She crawled from the classroom, breath heaving, and he pulled her by the wrist through the back gate. They ran through the rain—mud splashing their legs, thunder rolling like the drums of fate. They stopped under a tin shelter near the abandoned teachers' quarters. For a moment, they just stood there, soaked and silent. "I was scared you were hurt," Farhan said, brushing rain from his face. "I thought you ran." "I did. But not without you."
Neema looked up at him—this boy with callused hands and eyes full of storms. And before she could stop herself, before she could remember her father's warnings or the rules of her grandmother's church, she leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Quick. Like the drop of rain that begins a flood. Then she pulled away, heart pounding. Farhan stared at her—surprised, breathless—but he didn't step back. "I don't know what this means," she said. "It means we survived today," he replied. But nothing would ever be the same after that kiss. Not their friendship. Not Neema's view of the world. And definitely not her heart.