The courtyard hummed with morning light on warm mud-brick. Painted doorways glowed in stripes of red, yellow, and blue. Under the baobab's tangled roots, a little carved sign read: Dad's Garden.
The broom swept hard. Scrape, scrape, scrape across the flagstones. The stepmother's foot caught the little sign and kicked it flat. Amara lunged, fingers closing on the wood, knuckles going white.
"No one uses that corner anymore," the stepmother said, and kept sweeping. Amara held the sign against her chest, knuckles still white. The broom went scrape, scrape, scrape.
Amara climbed until the lowest branch cradled her legs. She wrapped them tight, knees pulling up to her chin. The courtyard shrank below. She could still hear the broom. Scrape, scrape.
Below, the stepmother set one bowl on the cloth. Spoon clinked. Clink, clink, clink. Amara's chin rested on her knees and the painted doorways looked very far, very far away.
Plop, plop, plop — rain hammered the wide leaves. The stepmother hauled the tarp over the doorway. "Amara, come in! Amara, COME IN!" The words echoed off the mud-brick.
Amara pressed her back flat against the rough bark. The courtyard door creaked shut behind the retreating figure. Rain ran down the trunk like a slow, cold river. She did not move.
Creak — the door swung wide. The stepmother stood there, completely soaked, hair stuck to her forehead. She held the bowl up high, dry cloth and all. "I remembered you like this one." Her voice was small.
Amara slid down, shoes squelching in the mud. She took the bowl. The stepmother set a second spoon on the wet stones and sat down, still dripping. The little blue dots caught the grey light.
They lifted their spoons at the same time. The rain thinned to a soft hush. The courtyard smelled of warm millet and wet earth. The little blue dots glowed, one by one, in the grey morning.
