Zeinab

Zeinab gets up in the morning while it’s still dark. Her mother is sleeping, young twins curved into her body. She is hungry; she eats what is left from last nights dinner, whatever sits in covered bowls. Zeinab sweeps the courtyard, careful not to wake her family. She piles the dust and trash into a large basin, and carries it across the road, jumping carefully to avoid gutters. She starts the fire, blowing on coals black as the night, and her mother stirs, half asleep, holding first one twin then another to her swollen breasts. Zeinab grabs her machete and leaves for the bush. She walks, barefoot, not noticing the unyielding ground below hardened callouses. She finds a small neem tree, leaves at the top reddened, slowly yellowing and turning green as the trunk thickens to roots. At the base she hits it with her machete, careful to hit the same space each time. The tree falls, and like a hunter skinning prey, she removes the branches until just the trunk is left. Finding a second tree is easy; neems litter the bush like trash. She piles the trunks on her head and returns home. The cool water makes her shiver, so she baths quickly; one twin is crying. One twin is always crying. Pulling on her school uniform, orange and brown, she plays with the baby until it coos with happiness. The other becomes jealous, begins to cry. Zeinabs mother sighs and ties her tightly to her back, letting the pressure of her body soothe the baby. Zeinab can hear the boy pounding a tin can in the distance, her call to get to school. She kisses the babies and dodges a swat from her mother. “Hurry up!” her mother yells, but Zeinab is already out the gate, tree trunks balanced on her head. “Run!” the teachers yell from their compound when they see her “fast! Yomyomo!” One hand to steady the trunks, trying not to trip on old shoes, she runs. She works hard, she learns fast. For four hours a day, Zeinab is a star.