Morning in the island village did not wake up gently. It arrived like a loud auntie, bringing noise, heat, and unnecessary opinions. Roosters screamed as if they were in a competition. Pots clanged. Women argued over fish prices before sunrise as if it were a national sport. The sea breeze carried salt, gossip, and the smell of someone frying akara, a smell so tempting it could make a saint reconsider everything.
And right in the middle of all that chaos, Fumi was already awake.
Not sitting outside discussing who insulted whom yesterday. Not adjusting her wrapper to attract attention. No. Fumi stood in front of her small mirror, tying her curly hair into a tight bun like she was preparing for battle, which, in her mind, she was. She squinted at her reflection.
“Today,” she declared dramatically, pointing at herself, “you will not come back empty-handed. Do you hear me?”
From behind her, her mother sighed.
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