Chapter One – Whispers in the Village
The sun sinks behind the hills, spreading orange and gold across the wide sky. In the quiet village of Kanyoni, evening comes gently. Smoke rises from clay huts, children laugh as they chase one another in the dust, and goats call out as they are led home. For many, it is an ordinary day. But for Amina, nothing is ordinary anymore.
She walks slowly along the narrow path to the well, her bare feet brushing against the dry earth. One hand rests on her belly, as if it might explain itself. She can already feel the weight of eyes watching, the whispers floating through the air.
Two women stand by the well. When they see her, their voices fall low.
"Look at her," one murmurs, her eyes sharp. "And she walks as though nothing has happened."
The other shakes her head, clutching her pot. "But she swears no man has touched her. How can that be true?"
Amina keeps her head bowed, though each word cuts deep. She pulls the rope of the well, her arms trembling as the bucket rises.
Behind her, a voice calls softly. "Amina."
She turns. It is Yusuf, her childhood friend. His face carries both worry and confusion. His eyes glance at her stomach, then quickly look away.
"You shouldn't come here alone," he says. "People are talking."
Her lips tighten. "They will talk whether I come here or not."
Yusuf shifts uneasily, dust rising at his feet. "Amina, please… tell me the truth. How did this happen? I want to believe you, but—"
Her words cut him short, sharp but trembling. "Do you think I don't ask myself the same question every night?"
Silence stretches between them, broken only by the creak of the rope as the bucket sways. Amina lifts the pot onto her head, standing tall though her heart feels heavy.
"I don't owe anyone an explanation," she says quietly. "Not even you."
She walks away, her shadow long in the fading light. Yusuf remains by the well, torn between faith and doubt.
The women shake their heads. One whispers, "A secret like that cannot stay hidden forever."
The wind stirs through the village, carrying their words into the gathering night.