Don’t hurt her. Sell her to me, said the farmer when he saw the stepmother beating her daughter, abandoned by her father, and tormented by her stepmother. Azima’s life was a silent hell until the day her stepmother’s cruelty erupted into a public beating in the middle of the village market. While everyone watched in silence, one man stepped in.

Baraka, the reclusive farmer, made an unexpected offer. He bought Azima’s freedom with nothing but his words. He took her to his farm, a place of silence and hard work. The village began to whisper, wondering about the true intentions of that mysterious man. Had he bought himself a wife or just a servant? What no one realized was that Baraka saw in Azima a reflection of his own past a life marked by abandonment? And that rescue wasn’t an act of charity, but the beginning of an unlikely bond where two wounded souls

would find in each other a chance to start over. The path between the village of Kiwana and Baraka’s farm was a dirt road lined with trees that knew well the silence of those who carry burdens too heavy to be told. Baraka was one of them. A man of few words, a direct gaze and callous hands.

He bore the weight of a ruthless life. Orphaned since childhood, he had learned to work before he learned to trust. The people respected him, but no one dared call him a friend. They said he lived alone by choice, but only he knew how. Much solitude had been imposed on him. That day he hadn’t gone to the market for supplies.

It was fate that led him there. His horse slowed to a trot on instinct, and his eyes saw what no one dared step in to stop. A girl being beaten like an animal. In the middle of the street, dust mixing with swallowed sobs. It wasn’t the beating that hurt the most. It was the absence of a single hand raised to defend her. And that’s what Baraka saw more than slaps.

He saw abandonment, roar, and exposed before a silent crowd. When Baraka stepped down from the horse, the sound of his boots on the dry ground cut through the air. The murmurs stopped, the merchants averted their eyes, and the children stopped running. Nafala’s hand was still raised, but she didn’t strike again. Baraka’s gaze was too heavy to ignore.

He stared at the woman for long seconds, then said, “Don’t hurt her. Sell her to me.” Then the sentence hit the silence like a stone. The words, though simple, carried something no one could name. It was more than an offer. It was a sentence, a judgment. Nefula scoffed, pulling at her skirt and giving a short laugh as if not taking the man seriously. Then take her.

Let’s see how long you last with this useless thing, she said, spitting out the last word as if it were an animal. You owe me nothing. She’s free. Free Azima heard it but didn’t understand. Freedom had never been an option in her life. She stared at the ground, too afraid to lift her head, scraped knees, a bruised face, and a soul curled in on itself.

Baraka extended his hand, but she hesitated. For the first time, someone was offering her something, and she didn’t know if she was allowed to accept it. Without a word, he simply walked ahead. Azima followed, not by choice, but because her tired feet knew there was nothing left behind.

The villagers who saw everything said nothing. Some women crossed themselves. Others shook their heads. But no one stepped in. No one offered shelter. No one protested because in the village other people’s pain was seen as part of the landscape, and Azima had long since become forgotten scenery. On the way back, the silence was thick. Baraka didn’t look back, and Azima didn’t dare look sideways.

He didn’t tell her where to go or what to do. He simply mounted his horse and walked slowly. From time to time, he glanced sideways to see if she was still coming. And she was with slow wounded but steady steps. Because for the first time, there was someone ahead. Not pushing, not shouting, just walking. When they reached the wooden gate of the farm, Baraka unlocked it with an old key.

The kind that groans with tired iron. The sound echoed like an announcement. A new story was beginning there, even if no one yet knew how. He pointed to the clay house with a simple porch. You’ll sleep there. There’s a bed, water, and bread. If you want it, she didn’t respond. Didn’t even thank him. Just walked in.

Baraka stayed outside for a while, looking up at the sky that threatened rain despite the high sun. It was as if nature itself was confused like he was. He had bought a girl’s freedom with nothing but his voice, nothing more, and now he didn’t know what to do with it. Inside the room, Azima gently shut the door.

She sat on the edge of the bed, looked at her hands dirty with dust and dried blood. She touched the clean sheet with hesitation, as if afraid to stain, something too beautiful for her. And that night, for the first time in a long while, she fell asleep without sobbing. She didn’t dream, but she didn’t cry either.