The morning sun crept through the broken slats of Mwende's curtainless window, landing on the bare concrete floor like a spotlight on emptiness.
She lay still on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling as the hum of Nairobi traffic filtered through the walls. Somewhere below, a vendor shouted about ripe bananas. A matatu hooked twice, impatient. Life was moving outside-loud, fast, and uncaring.
Her stomach growled. Again. She hadn't eaten dinner last night. Or breakfast this morning.
With a sigh, Mwende reached for her phone. The screen was cracked, the battery barely surviving. She swiped up, heart already sinking before the page loaded.
No new emails.
No callbacks.
No job offers.
Another rejection blinked at her from a company she barely remembered applying to. "We regret to inform you..."
She tossed the phone aside and sat up slowly. Her head spun. Water. Just water for now. She padded across the cold floor, opened the old jerrycan near the door, and poured the last of it into a plastic cup.
The water was warm and tasted of rust. Still, she drank.
Her degree-Bachelor of Commerce, University of Nairobi-was taped to the wall like a silent ghost of the life she thought she'd have.
She used to dream of working in a big office in Westlands, wearing heels, typing reports. Now she avoided mirrors because even her reflection looked tired of hoping.
Last week, her landlord threatened to lock the door.
Yesterday, she sold her last pair of decent shoes.
Today, she had twenty shillings and no plan.
Mwende glanced at her small mirror and pulled her hair into a bun. The hunger made her face look sharper than usual-high cheekbones, sunken eyes, lips too dry to smile.
But she looked...alive. And that counted for something, didn't it?
She picked up her cracked handbag, shoved in her phone, her ID, and stepped outside, locking the door behind her with the rusty padlock.
The hallway was quiet. A neighbor's baby cried in the distance. The walls smelled like smoke and sweat. Mwende didn't mind. This place has sheltered her through university. But now, it was starting to feel like a cage.
As she stepped into the street, the city greeted her the way it always did-with heat, noise, and indifference.
She tightened her grip on the bag and walked toward the matatu stage, not knowing that something was about to land-literally-at her feet.
The sun was already unforgiving by the time Mwende reached the matatu stage. Sweat gathered at the back of her neck, but she ignored it. She moved like a shadow-silent, unnoticed-just another young woman with nowhere to be and everything to prove.
She scanned the line of passengers and vendors, eyes searching for a job poster, a notice, even a handwritten advert on a dusty wall.
Nothing.
Just as she turned to walk away, a gust of wind stirred the litter around her feet. Among the wrappers and cigarette stubs, a small piece of paper fluttered toward her sandals.
She bent down slowly and picked up.
The flyer was smudged, edges torn, but the bold text was still clear:
"URGENT! Housemaids Wanted- Saudi Arabia.
Women aged 20-35. Fast Visa. Secure Job. Palace Placement Possible."
She stayed at the words for a long moment.
Kadama.
She'd heard the word before.
Maids, Domestic Workers.
Often unprotected.
Often voiceless.
She'd also heard the horror stories. Girls locked away, passport taken, treated like slaves.
But she'd also seen the lucky ones. The ones who came back with new clothes, built homes for their families, sent siblings to school.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the flyer over.
A name.
A phone number.
A small office location downtown.
She bit her lip.
"Palace placement possible."
What did that even mean? Would she be working for royalty? Or just sleeping on cold tiles in a house ten times bigger than hers?
A drop of sweat rolled down her temple. She wiped it off, then glanced up at the sky-pale blue, cloudless, indifferent.
This...might be her only chance.
She looked down again at the flyer.
Her stomach twisted.
Fear or hunger-she couldn't tell which one screamed louder.
But she didn't throw the paper away. She folded it carefully, slipped it into her bag beside her ID and cracked lip balm, and turned back toward home.
She had a call to make.
And a decision to make before her courage ran out.
Back in her tiny room, Mwende sat cross-legged on the mattress, staring at the flyer like it might bite her.
She'd read it six more times.
Checked the number twice.
Googled the agency's name-just a basic Facebook page with glowing comments that felt too good to be true.
Her thumb hovered over the green call button.
What if they were traffickers?
What if she got there and never came back?
But then again...what if she stayed here and just wasted away?
She took a deep breath and pressed "Call."
It rang once.
Twice.
Then a woman's voice came on-bright, cheerful, and overly fast.
"Hello! Kadama FastTrack Services! You are calling for job opportunity?"
Mwende cleared her throat. "Uh...yes. I saw your flyer."
"Perfect! You sound just the right age. Have passport?"
"No...but I can get one."
"No worry. We help you process. Quick. Only ten days max. We handle everything. You just come for briefing tomorrow. 9 a.m., City Centre. Bring your ID. We take photo, submit form. Done."
The words rushed past her like wind.
It sounded too easy.
Too fast.
Too...unreal.
"Where exactly is the job?" Mwende asked cautiously.
"Saudi Arabia. We have many clients. Big houses. Some even royalty. You are lucky-one slot left. Interview next week. You work for good family. Clean, cook. Simple."
Royalty?
Her chest tightened. "Palace?"
The woman laughed. "Maybe! Depends on client. You're strong, yes? Good health? No kids?"
"No kids," Mwende replied, her voice quieter now.
"Good. We text you location. Just bring fare and early. This is golden chance, sister."
The line went dead before Mwende could ask anything else.
She stared at the wall for a long moment.
"Golden chance," the woman had said. But sometimes, gold was just polished chains.
Still...what did she have left to lose?
That evening, the sky turned gold and purple above the rooftops, and Mwende sat by her window, phone in hand, staring at her father's contact for a long time.
She hadn't called him in days. Not because she didn't care-but because she didn't want him to hear how broken she sounded.
She pressed "Dial" and held her breath.
"Hallo, my girl!"
His warm voice poured through the speaker like a cup of tea on a cold morning.
"I was about to call you. You're eating okay? Any news?"
Mwende swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
"Actually...yes," she said quickly, forcing a smile he couldn't see.
"I got a job."
A pause. Then, a sharp breath of relief.
"Ah! God is great. Where? Same side of Nairobi?"
"In westlands," she lied. "Some private firm. Office work. It's not huge, but...enough. I'll be okay."
The silence that followed was heavy-not with suspicion, but with quiet pride.
"I told your mother. I knew something would come. You've always made me proud, Mwende."
Mwende blinked fast. "Thanks, Dad. Just...don't worry, okay? Things will change now."
"I trust you, my girl."
She ended the call soon after, heart heavy.
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but the truth would only worry him. How could she tell him she was going to scrub royal toilets in a foreign country while pretending to be grateful?
No. This was better.
She moved slowly around the room, gathering what little she owned.
A faded scarf.
A worn-out leather notebook where she once scribbled dreams.
And a small wooden comb-splintered at the edges, carved by her father when she turned ten.
She ran her thumb along the ridges of the comb, a tiny crack splitting down its spine. He had carved her name into the back with a nail and paint. MWENDE-the "E" already peeling off.
She smiled faintly. Not the kind of smile that reached the eyes. The kind that says I remember who I used to be.
She placed it into the bag like it was made of glass, tucking it into the corner beside her folded skirt and passport photo.
There wasn't much to take, but somehow it felt heavy-like she was packing her entire soul into this bag.
Then she sat.
Just for a minute.
Silence filled the room. Not peaceful silence. The kind that screamed in your chest. That reminded you this was real. That there was no turning back.
Her eyes moved to the wall.
There was a crack near the ceiling that looked like a map.
A path with no clear destination. Just like her.
And she had no idea if she was walking toward freedom-or being wrapped in chains made of gold.
But tomorrow, she'd find out.
And once she stepped through those palace gates...nothing would ever be the same.