Echoes of Fuladu 3: The anticipation.

The classroom was hot.

Not the ordinary kind of heat the children of Bakau were used to. This was the heavy, oppressive heat that announced the arrival of the rains before a single drop had fallen. The kind that settled on skin and refused to leave. The kind that made uniforms cling to backs and caused exercise books to curl slightly at the corners from dampness.

Dark clouds had gathered all morning.

They hung low above the school compound, swollen and grey, casting long shadows through the classroom windows. Occasionally, a gust of wind would push through the open shutters, stirring loose sheets of paper and carrying with it the smell of wet earth waiting impatiently for rain.

Every child in the room felt it.

The rainy season was coming.

And with it came change.

Mr. Samusa stood before the blackboard, chalk in hand.

His relationship with the class had settled into an uneasy normalcy after the incident with Yassin. Neither he nor the pupils mentioned it anymore, but something had shifted permanently between them. He was still strict, still quick to silence chatter, but there was now a pause before his anger. A brief moment where he seemed to remember that children carried burdens invisible to adults.

Today he was teaching a lesson about heat and cold.

The chalk scratched steadily across the board.

“Heat causes expansion,” he explained.

The pupils repeated dutifully.

“Heat causes expansion.”

“And cold?”

A chorus answered.

“Cold causes contraction.”

Mr. Samusa nodded approvingly.

“Good. Now tell me why the metal roof becomes hotter than the ground.”

Several hands shot up.

Yassin’s.

Haddy’s.

Even Samba Bah’s, though everyone knew Samba usually raised his hand before he knew the answer.

The class laughed.

“You laugh now,” Samba said dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “When I become scientist, all of you will beg me for jobs.”

“Scientist?” Yassin scoffed.

“You can’t even spell scientist.”

“I can!”

“Spell it.”

Samba froze.

The class erupted.

Even Mr. Samusa smiled.

“Samba,” Yassin continued mercilessly, “you want to discover new things but you haven’t discovered your spelling book.”

The laughter grew louder.

Samba pointed at her.

“That is jealousy.”

“Of what?”

“My intelligence.”

Even Mr. Samusa had to turn away slightly to hide his amusement.

The room buzzed with energy.

Rain always did that to children.

The promise of it.

The smell of it.

The anticipation.

Lessons became harder to contain because everyone was already halfway outside in their imagination.

But nowhere was that truer than for Matou.

Because for the first time since coming to the Owens household, her dreams had somewhere to go.

Farato.

The word sat beautifully inside her chest.

Farato.

Home.

Not the memory of home.

Not the longing for home.

The actual place.

The actual people.

The actual possibility.

Three months.

Three entire months.

She could hardly believe it.

Mr. Samusa continued speaking.

Something about temperature.

Something about expansion.

Something about contraction.

But Matou’s thoughts had already wandered.

Far.

Far beyond Bakau.

Far beyond the classroom.

Far beyond the gathering clouds.

She saw herself walking the sandy paths of Farato.

Barefoot.

Free.

She imagined arriving at the compound.

The surprise.

Borogie dropping whatever she was carrying and rushing forward.

Bubel running toward her.

Khadjel shouting her name.

Nata smiling from the doorway.

She could almost hear them.

Almost smell the wood smoke from the kitchen.

Almost feel the rough embrace of home.

Her heart swelled.

Then the dreams grew bolder.

She imagined helping her mother in the garden.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

She imagined harvesting vegetables.

Collecting firewood.

Fetching water.

Sleeping beside her sisters.

Listening to stories under moonlight.

She imagined visiting Nata with Borogie.

The two of them walking together from compound to compound.

Carrying food.

Carrying gossip.

Carrying love.

Perhaps they would visit Ousman Bah.

Perhaps they would all gather together.

For a brief moment she saw them all.

Bubel.

Khadjel.

Nata.

Borogie.

Yerro.

Even Nenneh Dado.

A whole family.

Together.

The image felt so beautiful that a smile crept onto her face without permission.

A real smile.

The kind that began deep inside before finding its way outward.

She was so absorbed she did not notice the classroom had fallen silent.

Did not notice the pupils watching.

Did not notice the footsteps.

Only when a shadow crossed her desk did she blink.

Mr. Samusa stood directly before her.

Arms folded.

The class collectively held its breath.

Matou’s smile vanished instantly.

“Matou.”

The room remained silent.

“What are you thinking?”

A ripple of anticipation spread through the class.

The question was simple.

Yet everyone wanted the answer.

Because Matou rarely drifted.

Rarely got caught daydreaming.

Rarely smiled to herself for no reason.

She stared at him.

Then at the floor.

Then at her desk.

Words failed her.

How could she explain?

How could she explain that she was somewhere else entirely?

That she was already halfway to Farato?

That she was sitting in Bakau but living in a future three weeks away?

Mr. Samusa waited.

The class waited.

Even Yassin turned fully around in her seat.

Haddy covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

Matou opened her mouth.

Closed it again.

Nothing came out.

The silence stretched.

Then, surprisingly, Mr. Samusa nodded.

A faint smile appeared.

“Whatever it is,” he said, “it must be very important.”

The class burst into laughter.

Matou’s face burned.

She lowered her head.

But she was smiling again.

And for once, she didn’t mind everyone seeing it.

……

After class, the girls surrounded her immediately.

Haddy was first.

“What were you thinking?”

Yassin grabbed her arm.

“Eh! We all want to know.”

Samba appeared from nowhere.

“I think she was thinking about marriage.”

The girls groaned.

“You always think about marriage.”

“I am observant.”

“You are foolish.”

“I am gifted.”

They ignored him.

Haddy nudged Matou.

“Tell us.”

The smile returned.

Slowly.

Carefully.

As though she feared saying it aloud might make it disappear.

Then she said it.

“I am going home during the summer holidays.”

Silence.

For one brief second.

Then—

“What?”

“Home?”

“Farato?”

She nodded.

The words felt wonderful.

“I asked Mr. Owens.”

“And?”

“He agreed.”

The explosion of excitement was immediate.

Haddy screamed.

Actually screamed.

Loud enough for another class to look through the window.

Yassin jumped to her feet.

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

The girls collapsed into laughter.

Even Samba looked genuinely pleased.

“For all the holidays?”

“Three months.”

The reaction was dramatic.

As only children can be dramatic.

Three months.

To them it sounded like forever.

A whole lifetime.

Haddy hugged her.

Yassin hugged her too.

Then immediately demanded.

“You must tell us everything when you come back.”

“Everything.”

“Every single thing.”

“What if she forgets us?” Samba asked dramatically.

“Nobody forgets you,” Yassin replied. “Unfortunately.”

The group laughed.

But beneath the teasing was genuine happiness.

Because they knew.

More than most.

What home meant to Matou.

They had heard her stories.

The stories about Borogie.

About Bubel.

About Nata.

About poverty that somehow sounded happier than comfort.

About love.

About belonging.

Things many children took for granted.

Things Matou treasured.

The bell rang.

Pupils began gathering books.

Teachers shouted instructions.

Clouds thickened overhead.

The first distant rumble of thunder rolled somewhere beyond Bakau.

The rainy season was coming.

Change was coming.

And for the first time in years, Matou did not fear what lay ahead.

She welcomed it.

Because somewhere beyond those dark clouds—

Beyond the roads.

Beyond the villages.

Beyond the waiting days—

Home was waiting too.