The drought did not arrive loudly.
It crept in like an unwanted guest, staying longer than expected, eating everything in sight, and refusing to leave.
At first, the villagers believed it was temporary. Seasons changed; rain always returned. But days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months. The sky hardened into a dull, merciless blue. Clouds passed without stopping, as though the land beneath was unworthy of their mercy.
The rivers were the first to surrender.
What had once been laughing streams where children played barefoot became narrow, muddy lines that smelled of decay. Women woke before dawn to dig deeper into dry riverbeds, hoping for a miracle. Most returned with cracked lips and empty containers.
Then the crops died.
Maize curled inward like frightened animals. Groundnuts shriveled beneath the soil. Fields that once fed generations became graveyards of broken stalks. Cattle collapsed where they stood, ribs pressing against skin, eyes dull with hunger.
That was when fear truly arrived.
In one homestead on the edge of the village lived a man with nine children.
Eight were born of one woman.
The ninth came from another.
Her name was Tariro.
She was the youngest, smaller than most children her age, with a thin frame shaped by scarcity rather than sickness. Her eyes were large and observant, always watching, always learning. She spoke little, not because she lacked words, but because she had learned early that silence invited less trouble.
In that household, she was different.
Not just because her mother had died when she was still learning to walk, leaving her to grow under the roof of another woman—but because her father loved her openly.
And love, when unevenly distributed, breeds hatred.
Her stepmother never beat her. That would have drawn questions. Instead, she mastered subtler cruelty. Tariro ate last. She fetched more water. She worked longer in the fields. Mistakes made by others were blamed on her. Praise given to her was dismissed as favoritism.
The siblings followed their mother's example.
They whispered when she entered a room. They shared food among themselves, then told her it was finished. They mocked her quiet nature, calling her weak, calling her the other one.
Only her father stood between her and complete rejection.
He walked with her to school when he could, even when hunger gnawed at his own stomach. He listened when she spoke, even when her words came slowly. On nights when food was scarce, he shifted his portion into her bowl without a word.
"Eat," he would say gently.
She never forgot that voice.
As the drought tightened its grip, arguments filled the household. There was no grain left. No livestock to sell. No neighbors to borrow from—everyone was drowning in the same suffering.
One evening, the elders gathered under the dry fig tree.
"There are trading routes to the south," someone said. "Food passes there."
"But it's far," another replied. "And dangerous."
Silence followed.
Then a decision was made.
The children would go.
All nine of them.
They were young, but strong enough to walk. If they stayed, they would starve. If they left, there was at least a chance.
That night, Tariro packed her few belongings: a worn dress, a cracked calabash, and a small cloth bundle her father pressed into her hands.
Inside was a piece of dried meat and a string bracelet he had made when she was born.
"Stay close to them," he whispered, holding her face. "No matter what happens, stay close."
She nodded, trusting him. Trusting them.
At dawn, they left.
The road stretched endlessly before them, dust rising with every step. The sun climbed quickly, burning skin and patience alike. By midday, tempers flared.
"You're slowing us down," one sister snapped when Tariro stumbled.
"I'm trying," she said quietly.
By the second day, feet blistered and throats burned. Hunger sharpened every word into a weapon. Old jealousy surfaced, fueled by resentment that had waited years for an excuse.
"She's always been the favorite," the eldest brother muttered.
"And for what?" another added. "She's useless."
Tariro walked behind them, pretending not to hear.
On the third day, they saw him.
A man traveling with guards and wagons stacked high with sacks of grain and barrels of water. His clothes were clean. His shoes untouched by dust. Wealth surrounded him like a shield.
His eyes moved over the children, assessing.
Then they stopped on Tariro.
"She looks obedient," he said calmly. "Strong enough. I need a servant."
The siblings exchanged glances.
That night, while Tariro slept beneath the stars, exhausted and trusting, a decision was made without her.
Coins exchanged hands at sunrise.
When she woke, rough hands pulled her upright.
"What's happening?" she asked, fear crawling into her chest.
"You're staying," the eldest said, unable to meet her eyes.
Before she could scream, the guards were there. The wagon doors closed.
Her cries followed them down the road.
"Wait! Please! You're my family!"
No one turned back.
The eight continued their journey.
Weeks later, they returned home with food—and a lie.
"She didn't make it," they said.
"She was too weak."
"She died on the road."
Her father collapsed.
And the land mourned a girl who was still alive.