My name is Aina, and the day they forced me into that cart, I thought my life was over.
I was given away like payment for a debt, with no choice, no farewell, and no future. The whole village stood and watched in silence, convinced I would disappear into the forest and into a marriage without love.
But destiny does not always arrive with noise. Sometimes it comes quietly, step by step, until one day everything has changed.
That morning, the sun had barely risen when the cart stopped outside our house. My father paced the yard, pretending urgency so he would not have to look at me. My mother sat on the doorstep with empty eyes and a cloth on her shoulder like a white flag of surrender.
I came out carrying a small bundle: one faded dress, a bottle of water, and the last pieces of the life I had known.
No blessing. No embrace. No tears loud enough to stop anything.
As I climbed into the cart, my headscarf slipped off and the wind carried it into the grass. No one picked it up.
That was the moment I understood the truth.
I was not leaving as a bride.
I was being handed over like livestock.
Old Dona Nate, the neighbor, crossed her arms and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “She is going to become a hunter’s shadow.”
No one answered, because everyone knew it was true.
The cart rolled away, and behind me my mother went back inside and shut the door.
Ahead of me sat the hunter.
He was broad-shouldered, hard-faced, and silent. He chewed tobacco and held the reins without looking at me. He did not ask my name. He did not say good morning. He did not tell me where we were going.
He simply drove me into the forest.
w. The floor was packed earth. The roof leaked in one corner. A thin mat lay beside a dying fire.
That would be my place.
No ceremony. No kindness. No welcome.
The next morning, I went to the river before sunrise to fetch water. My hands shook. My whole body felt hollow. I knew no one was coming back for me. I knew the village would forget me quickly, because poor women are easy to forget, especially when they leave in silence.
The hunter lived like a storm waiting to happen. He left early with his bow and machete, returned late smelling of blood and smoke, and drank every night. The bottle of kachaka was more faithful to him than any human being.
He barely spoke. When he looked at me, it was as if he were looking at a tool.
I cooked. I cleaned. I fetched water. I kept my head low.
Fear lived in that house like another person.
The first time he struck me was over a broken pot.
It slipped from my hands at the river and cracked against a stone. It had already been chipped and worn, but that did not matter. When he saw it, he grabbed my arm and slapped me so hard my head snapped to the side. The pain traveled through my shoulder and into my chest.
Then he turned away and went to sleep.
I stayed on my knees beside the broken pot, staring at it until night came.
That was the moment I understood something clearly:
No one was coming to save me.
If I wanted to survive, I would have to learn how.
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