The hall was a stark, functional space with a layer of dust coating the floor.
Nazma stepped into the crowd, bracing herself to deliver the message Ziko had entrusted to her.
In the center, chairs were arranged in a tight circle. The elders sat there, their expressions carved into masks of solemnity.
Overhead, a ceiling fan whirred with a rhythmic, metallic clatter—a frantic sound that did nothing to stir the stagnant, heavy air. Nazma had come alone.
Her mother had stayed behind, dismissing the effort with a remark about how voices like theirs were never heard anyway.
With her father still held up at work, the responsibility rested squarely on Nazma's shoulders.
She was tired of feeling so small; in her own neighborhood; she needed to believe that her presence mattered. She took a seat on the outermost chair, keeping her spine straight and her chin up. She watched the backs of the adults in front of her, refusing to look down.
There was a quiet pride in the way she held herself, knowing she was there as her family's representative. Her presence did not go unnoticed. Several women exchanged pointed glances, and a low murmur began to snake through the rows.
"A kid? Seriously?"
"Look at that little sprout."
"What on earth is she doing here?"
"Isn't that Ziko's girl? Good grief—are we really letting a youngster handle a village meeting?"
"The nerve! They actually sent a child to speak for them?" Nazma didn't flinch. She kept her breathing steady and tightened her grip on the edge of her seat.
Her eyes remained fixed on the Village Head at the center of the circle. She wouldn't budge until her goal was met.
Ziko's instructions were clear: "Try to bring up the alley behind the house, alright? The mothers need to pass through there without slipping." The Village Head tapped the back of his pen against the wooden table three times.
The chatter died down instantly. He adjusted his glasses and flipped open a thick folder, signaling the start of the session. "Alright, everyone. Let's talk about the clogged ditch and that broken alleyway. Any ideas on how to fix this?"
Several men raised their hands. They offered the same tired suggestions—organizing a basic cleanup that wouldn't last, or simply "sitting tight" until the government funds eventually arrived.
These were the same dead-end arguments that had been circling for years without any real change.
As the discussion hit a stalemate, Nazma raised her hand.
Firmly. Every head turned. The room fell into a sudden, heavy silence. "Yes, Nazma? Do you have something to say?" the Village Head asked.
Nazma spoke, her voice clear and unwavering. "My father has a suggestion, Sir. The small alley behind the house is dangerous; many women have fallen there. Waiting for village funds could take forever. My father suggests that the residents chip in for gravel now. He's offered to level it out himself after he gets home from work." A hollow silence followed her words. Then, the shifting began. An older woman in the front row covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking slightly as she whispered to her neighbor.
A short, sharp scoff echoed from the corner, followed by a chorus of clicking tongues. "Chipping in?" an old man barked.
"What does a kid know about money? This is an adult meeting!"
"Exactly!" a woman chimed in.
"That broken road isn't her concern. Tell her daddy to show up himself if he wants a seat at the table!" Nazma didn't back down. "My father is working, Ma'am. I'm here to deliver the message. Chipping in is the fastest way to make that road safe."
"Enough!" the old man cut her off.
"Don't get smart with us. Adult business is complicated." Nazma countered instantly. "If it's so complicated, why has the problem been ignored for so long, Sir?"
The hall erupted. Some men laughed mockingly, while the women's eyes widened in shock.
The Village Head cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the files on his desk. However, a few younger men in the room stayed quiet, their faces thoughtful. One of them finally raised his hand.
"Actually... Nazma's point makes sense. Chipping in is more reliable than waiting for funds that might never come." The room buzzed again.
A few people nodded, but many others refused to agree simply out of pride—the idea had come from a child, and they couldn't stomach that. "Hmph. That's definitely her father's idea. No way a kid figured that out on her own."
The Village Head let out a long sigh. He tapped the table once more and closed the folder. "That's enough," he said firmly.
"We are adults here. Let's not act like children by mocking someone who offers a solution."
He looked at Nazma. "Tell your father I heard him. We'll discuss the logistics of the gravel money tomorrow. Meeting adjourned." One by one, the residents pushed their chairs back and then headed for the exit.
They walked past Nazma as if the outermost chair were empty. Nazma stood up slowly. She smoothed out her shirt, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. She walked out with a steady stride, moving through the crowd that ignored her.
That afternoon, Nazma walked home with the events of the meeting playing in her mind.
Adults always talked about how "complicated" their world was. But if it was truly that complex, why had a tiny alleyway stayed broken for years?
She walked that road; she saw the mothers slipping. Her experience was real.
The room hadn't gotten loud because the idea was bad.
It got loud because they felt threatened by the voice of a child.
Nazma realized then that people often cared more about who was speaking than what was actually being said. For the first time, the silence behind her didn't feel like loneliness; it felt like power.