The morning sun had barely stretched its arms across the cracked roofs of Okechi village when little Kamsi stood barefoot on the clay floor of their compound, clutching her slate like it was the most precious thing in the world. Her uniform, a faded yellow gown two sizes too big, hung loosely on her tiny frame. Her hair was neatly braided in cornrows her mother had done the night before under the flickering light of a kerosene lantern. Today was her first day in school—her dream come true. She’d watched other children go past their compound gate year after year, and finally, it was her turn. She couldn’t sleep the night before, too excited, whispering to herself over and over, “My name is Kamsi… I am six years old… I want to be a nurse…”
Inside the small mud house, her mother was tying her wrapper tightly, hiding the anxiety beneath her soft smile. Her husband, Paako, had forbidden Kamsi from schooling, but Mama Kamsi had secretly registered her, using the money she made from hawking vegetables. She knew it was risky. But she also knew what it meant to be a woman who couldn’t read or write—helpless, voiceless, chained. She didn’t want that life for her only daughter. Kamsi stood by the door, beaming. “Mummy, I’m ready!”
Before her mother could respond, the front door burst open violently. Paako stood there, his eyes bloodshot, his breath heavy with palm wine and rage. He looked from his wife to the girl in uniform and his face twisted. “So this is what you’ve done behind my back? You registered her for school? You’ve decided that I’m no longer the man of this house?” Mama Kamsi fell to her knees immediately. “Paako, please. She’s a child. Let her learn. Education won’t stop her from being a good wife later—”
He slapped her so hard she fell sideways. Kamsi screamed and ran to her mother. Paako’s eyes locked on her next. “Remove that nonsense on your body!” he roared. “You think you’re better than your mother? You think you’ll become a nurse? Foolish girl! You will marry Chief Igbudu today!”
Kamsi froze. “What?” she whispered. Her slate dropped from her hand and cracked in half on the ground. “But I’m going to school today… please, Daddy…”
He stormed toward her and yanked off the oversized uniform. “You’ll wear a wrapper like a proper bride. The chief is already on his way. Do you know how much he’s offering? You will not waste my money chasing chalk and paper!”
Her mother held onto her daughter, weeping. “Paako, don’t do this. She’s only six. Don’t destroy her life.”
But the drums had already started outside. Women were ululating, preparing local drinks and spraying perfume in the air. Chief Igbudu’s convoy had arrived—three rickety jeeps filled with loud men and laughing women. Chief Igbudu, a man old enough to be Kamsi’s grandfather, with grey patches on his head and a wide belly that shook when he laughed, stepped out, adjusting the lace around his neck. He grinned when he saw Kamsi. “Ah! My bride is beautiful. Small, but she will grow.”
Kamsi tried to run, but Paako held her. They wrapped her in red and white traditional cloth, covered her tiny feet with beads, and forced her to smile. “Don’t embarrass us,” her mother whispered through tears. “Just endure it. One day, maybe, you’ll find a way out.”
That night, they took Kamsi away.
They said she would be back after the ceremony. But she never returned.
In the early hours of the next morning, one of the chief’s housemaids ran into the village screaming. “She’s dead! The little bride is dead!” Her voice shook the trees. The elders gathered, but no one dared speak against Chief Igbudu. They said the girl was sick. Others whispered about bleeding and pain, about her small body unable to handle what the old man had done. They buried her quickly under the mango tree beside the village stream. No ceremony. No songs. Just silence and shame.
But her slate—what was left of it—was found beside her body. And scratched onto it with trembling fingers were the words:
“I just wanted to go to school.”
