Aisha woke before dawn, the stale scent of last night’s lamplight still clinging to her hair and clothes. The room was cold—the kind of chill that crept through the cracks in the window frame, frosting her breath in the faint grey light. Debby’s slow, rhythmic breathing punctuated the silence. For a moment, Aisha allowed herself to watch her friend sleep, the tension of daily worries smoothed from her face.
The ache in her stomach reminded her of the half biscuit left uneaten in her drawer. She tucked it back into her bag, unwilling to risk waking Debby. Their first lecture loomed like a mountain ahead, and she wanted to be ready—sharp, alert.
She washed quickly, her hands trembling under the icy stream. Her uniform, washed last week but already losing its crispness, felt loose at the shoulders. She tugged it straight and tied her scarf, willing herself to look the part. Confidence, she told herself, even when it felt borrowed.
Debby’s alarm blared, shattering the quiet. Groggy and blinking, Debby sat up. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither spoke. The hush was filled with everything they both feared—hunger, failure, the weight of expectation.
Aisha smiled first, offering a small, steady nod. "Ready for Mrs. Vance?" Her tone was gentle but laced with nerves.
"Not even a little," Debby admitted, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. They dressed in silence, gathering battered textbooks and dull pencils, slipping out of the tiny room into the waking hush of the corridor.
Downstairs, the scent of fried beans wafted from the matron’s kitchen. A line of students shuffled past, all in matching uniforms, all with the same guarded eyes. Aisha’s eyes lingered on the breakfast—a distant luxury. She pressed her hand to her stomach and kept walking, Debby at her side.
Outside, the campus was dusted gold by the first rays of sun, the lecture hall standing stark and daunting at the edge of the field. A crowd had already gathered, their voices low.
Inside, Mrs. Vance stood at the front, spine straight, her presence commanding even in silence. The crowd hushed when she lifted her head. Her gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing, lingering just a second longer on Aisha and Debby, as if she could see the frayed threads of their nerves.
"Good morning. I am Mrs. Vance. Welcome to the beginning of your real education," she announced, her voice ringing clear and certain. "Some of you will find this course too difficult. Some will not finish. But those who do... will become part of a noble tradition."
Aisha felt something tighten inside her—a mix of fear and resolve. She glanced at Debby, who managed a thin, brave smile.
"Let’s begin. Who can tell me the three stages of labor?" Mrs. Vance’s gaze drifted to the front row, then settled directly on Aisha.
Aisha’s mind raced. The answer was buried somewhere beneath fatigue and hunger. Her heart hammered in her chest as Mrs. Vance raised an eyebrow, waiting.
The whole room seemed to lean closer, breaths held, as Aisha’s lips parted to speak.