The struggled mother and sons

to the dim light filtering through the cracks in the mud-walled house. A groan escaped her l

he pestle and mortar from the courtyard, the familiar sound of her mother preparing breakfast. A wave o

d stretched before her like an endless to-do list: fetch water from the well, prepare breakfa

by the pillow. Jomo, ever the early riser, was already engrossed in a book, oblivious to th

the gentle scolding of Aisha as they jostled for space at the table. Malik, ever the responsible o

tched them walk down the dusty path, their small figures receding into the distance. Kofi, ever the rebel, lagged behind, his gaze fixed

et weighing down on her shoulders. She washed clothes in the river, the cool water a welcome respite f

from school, their faces flushed with the heat of the day. Kofi, as usual, was the last to arrive, his brow furrowed in a

Kofi, restless and irritable, argued with his brothers, his voice rising in anger. Jomo, withdrawn as usual, retreated to his books, seeking

led over the household. Aisha, exhausted but determined, prepared dinner. The boys, worn out

hispered through the leaves. Aisha, nestled between Kwame and Kofi, listened to their gentle breathing, a wave