VESSEL

AMENA “As you go to this new school, do not forget the daughter of whom you are,” her aunt’s voice rang loudly through the phone. “Do not follow boys, yes, I said boys,” her uncle added firmly. “Because it is only boys that will distract you. A true man, a Godly man, will let you be excellent.” “Amena, listen well in school,” her brother joined in.  “We are doing our best to make sure you have what you need. Keep away from bad friends. Join a Bible-believing church when you settle in. And call us as soon as you reach your room. Do you hear me?” All three voices blended into one steady stream as Amena dragged her two heavy luggage down the narrow hallway of the off-campus hostel. The one-room space she had paid for was just ahead, yet she still hadn’t seen the University of Tenja everyone in Gumba always talked about so proudly. That would come soon enough. “Yes, Aunty… yes, Uncle… yes, Brother Taye… I’m at the door now. Let me freshen up first, then I’ll call you back.” “Hallelujah...

  MENA The beauty of her father’s farm lived in the quiet confidence of his cows and the healthy robustness of his chickens. Dawn had barely stretched across the sky when Mena adjusted the feed trays inside the chicken cages, watching with soft amusement as the birds hurried toward the grain, pecking joyfully as though celebrating a feast. Her father’s booming laughter rang across the farmland,  “Haaa, my Chief! This is the best price you will get for these five cows. I am giving you the offer of a lifetime!” Mena peeked out from behind the chicken house, her gaze lingering on the well-adorned native attire that sat so gracefully on her father’s lean frame. Anyone hearing his voice without seeing him would imagine a robust man with a round belly and heavy shoulders. But Papa Mena was the exact opposite; tall, wiry, and effortlessly elegant in his simplicity. “Excuse me, Papa. I am done feeding the chickens,” she said quietly, holding up the empty feed sack. Her father’s eyes s...

 ZIBA “You are waiting for me to call you the fourth time, abi?” Mama Ziba shouted from the stuffy, clay-built kitchen, her voice filling the entire compound. Ziba scowled. She had heard her mother clearly the first time and already knew exactly what she was being summoned for. Still sprawled across the bamboo mattress, she grumbled, “I am coming, maaaaa.” “It is your father that you are dragging that ‘maaaaa’ for,” Mama Ziba muttered, grabbing the wooden spoon Mama Tiwa had gifted her during the last yam festival. With the stealth of a cat, she crept toward her daughter, who remained deeply engrossed in a shriveled old novel—the kind that had clearly survived several lifetimes. Mama Ziba didn’t miss her target. The spoon landed squarely across Ziba’s back. Ziba yelped, leapt to her feet, and dashed straight into her mother’s room to pick up the dirty plates that needed washing at the stream. “Why did you run? No, come back and tell me ‘maaaaa’ again. You are blessed—my mouth will ...