The sun beat down gently over Hilltop, a quiet town in southwestern Uganda where secrets were often hidden behind half-closed doors, and gossip danced lightly on the lips of the women who fetched water or sold tomatoes at the market.
Sarah moved among them like a woman without a care in the world.
Dressed in her best wrapper and headscarf, she strode past the market stalls with a boldness that only came from someone who believed she had outsmarted everyone. Her words were sharp, her looks sharper—and no one ever dared to question her too deeply.
For months, she had given the same story to anyone who asked:
"Zaria? That stubborn girl ran away from home one night. Maybe she went to look for her mother. Or maybe the street life swallowed her."
She said it so casually, so often, that people eventually stopped pressing. But behind closed doors, the tale wasn't told with such ease.
Sarah had told the lie so many times, it had almost begun to feel like the truth.
But in her heart, she knew better.
---
That cold night months ago still lingered in her memory like a shadow she couldn't shake. She had made her decision with full intent, believing it was the only way to remove the thorn in her side.
Zaria was a problem — defiant, bright, and too full of quiet dreams for her liking. No amount of beatings or insults had dimmed that spark. Sarah feared the day that spark might set fire to everything.
So she had taken steps to silence her.
She hadn't lifted a hand herself. No, she was too smart for that.
She had simply whispered to the right person. Paid a small fee. Gave a small command.
And by morning, Zaria was gone.
Just like that.
Sarah had woken up, folded her bedsheets, and told Mary Florence and Claire Rina that Zaria must have run away in the night. She acted shocked. Played the part of a disappointed stepmother.
No questions were asked.
Her husband hadn't been home in weeks, and when he eventually returned, she gave him the same version of the story.
"She was becoming difficult," Sarah had said. "I think she left to go find her real mother."
He didn't ask further. He rarely did.
---
And so life continued — the chores returned to her daughters, the compound was quieter, and Sarah convinced herself that the chapter was closed.
Until the whispers began.
---
It started at the village borehole, just after midday. Sarah was returning from the market when she passed by four women seated under a mango tree, shelling beans and exchanging laughter.
She heard her name before she saw them.
"...Sarah said she ran away," one woman said.
"But how can a girl disappear like that?" another asked. "No bag, no word, no goodbye?"
"I remember seeing her," the third added. "She looked very sick the last time. Pale, coughing."
"Exactly," said the fourth. "Then suddenly she's gone, and all Sarah says is 'she ran away'? Something doesn't sit right."
They didn't know Sarah was walking past. They didn't know she had stopped just a few meters behind them.
"Even if she had died, we didn't see a funeral. Not even a mat laid for mourning. It's as if the earth swallowed the girl."
Sarah stepped forward sharply.
The women jumped in surprise.
"Talking about me behind my back?" she asked coldly. "Don't you women have anything better to do?"
One woman stood quickly. "No, mama Sarah, we were just—just talking generally."
"You think I don't hear my name? You think I don't know you've been spreading stories?"
"We're not spreading anything," another added weakly. "It's just—people noticed the girl disappeared, and no one knows how…"
"I told you already—she ran away!" Sarah snapped. "Is that so hard to understand? The girl wasn't even grateful for the roof over her head. She wanted a different life, let her go look for it!"
"But she was just a child," someone dared to say quietly.
Sarah's voice hardened. "Then maybe next time you raise her yourselves."
With that, she turned and stormed off.
But as she walked, her hands shook slightly.
Not with guilt.
But with unease.
---
Later that evening, back at home, Sarah dumped her basket on the floor with a loud thud.
Mary Florence looked up from the small portable radio. "What now?"
"Nosy women," Sarah muttered. "They think they're clever, sitting there spinning stories about things they know nothing about."
Claire Rina frowned. "They're still talking about Zaria?"
Sarah didn't answer directly. She walked to the corner, sat down on the woven mat, and stared at the wall.
"She ran away," she said again, this time softer. "That's what happened."
Mary Florence tilted her head. "But why are you so angry, then?"
Sarah's eyes snapped up. "Because they don't know how ungrateful she was! After everything I did for her—feeding her, clothing her—she vanished like a rat in the night!"
Claire looked away. Mary muttered under her breath, "More like a slave than a daughter."
Sarah's hand slapped the table.
"Enough!" she hissed.
The room fell silent.
---
That night, as her daughters lay asleep, Sarah sat on her bed, alone in the dim light of a flickering lantern. She opened the small cupboard by her bed and pulled out a handkerchief.
Inside it was a folded piece of paper—faded, stained, and long unread.
It was one of the letters which Zaria had written to her birth mother but decided to throw it away however Sarah had found it.
She's dead. It doesn't matter anymore.
But her heart didn't agree. That old flame of certainty was flickering.
Because if the town women were still whispering…
If people were still asking questions…
If doubt had survived this long…
Then maybe something had gone wrong.
And if Zaria was alive—
Sarah didn't finish the thought.
She simply blew out the lantern and lay in the darkness, praying the silence would swallow her fears.