The days pass slowly, each one heavier than the last. Amina no longer finds comfort in the places that once felt like home. The marketplace, once full of laughter and greetings, now feels like a battlefield. Every voice seems like a weapon, every glance like a blade.
One afternoon, she sees Halima, her closest friend since childhood. Hope flickers in Amina's chest, maybe Halima will stand by her. She quickens her step.
"Halima," she calls gently.
But Halima stiffens. She clutches the basket in her hands, avoiding Amina's eyes.
"Why do you run from me?" Amina asks, her voice cracking.
Halima's eyes finally lift, but they are not soft as before. They are guarded, almost cold.
"Amina," she says, "I tried to defend you. But people laugh at me. They say I am a fool to believe you. My father has forbidden me to speak with you again."
The words hit harder than any insult. Amina's lips part, but no sound comes. Halima shifts uncomfortably, then turns and walks away. The bond of years breaks in a single moment.
Back at home, tension grows as well. Her mother's sighs grow heavier each night, and her younger siblings whisper when they think she cannot hear. At dinner, her brother mutters under his breath, "She has brought shame to this house."
Amina looks at her mother, hoping for comfort, but Mariam only lowers her gaze.
That night, lying awake on her mat, Amina stares at the ceiling. She feels as if the walls themselves are closing in on her. She remembers her dreams of the city, lights that never dim, streets where no one knows her name, a place where she might build a new beginning. The thought burns brighter now, as if the city itself is calling her.
Her heart whispers: You do not belong in this prison of shame. You must leave.
But doubt fights back: Where will you go? How will you survive?
Still, Amina knows one truth. Staying means slowly dying inside.
As the night deepens, she places her hand on her belly and whispers, "I will find a way. For you, for me. We will not end here."