Grandma yelled at me today. Again. I didn’t start the fire before first light. Hadn’t kneaded the dough. “Silly girl, stop pining for the cold north. This is our land to farm. Why won’t you sleep at night.?” For an instant, I wanted to yell back. Then I looked at my beloved grandmother, sole adult in our compound, now that Malaria had taken both my parents.
I could never tell her. Dash her last hopes. Reveal her granddaughters where all spoiled by a serpent in her paradise. That said he needed help with odd jobs. Alone of course. Then forcibly defiled us.
They say this is the promised land. Given by God. I’m no wise old man. All I know, before traveling here. I never had to spend my nights awake. Cudgel in hand. Ready to defend myself and my little sisters from the girl-loving pervo who joined our settlement.