Chumuka's roommate was called Luyando. She was lively, stylish, and warm in a way that made people trust her quickly. Before sunset on the very first day, she already seemed to know the names of half the girls in the dormitory. She laughed easily, walked with confidence, and spoke like someone who had never doubted that the world would make space for her.
Chumuka, quiet and watchful, was drawn to her.
That evening, the two girls shared stories under the yellow dormitory light. Luyando spoke of music, city life, and school gossip. Chumuka spoke of the village, tomato selling, and her parents' strict but loving ways. Luyando laughed hard when she heard about "Look, but don't touch."
"So you guarded tomatoes like soldiers guard gold?" she said.
Chumuka smiled shyly. "My mother said squeezing spoils them."
Luyando grinned. "Then maybe your mother should come protect us here too."
The joke passed, but the words stayed.
That night, Chumuka had a dream. She was back in the market, but everything had changed. Customers kept pressing the tomatoes with rough fingers, and in the dream she said nothing. One by one, the tomatoes softened, split, and leaked. Their bright beauty faded. When she tried to sell them, no one wanted them. She stood there helpless, watching her profit turn into loss.
She woke before dawn, sweating.
The dream clung to her all day. She tried to study, tried to join the other girls at breakfast, tried to laugh when Luyando made jokes. But the image of spoiled tomatoes would not leave her.
That evening, her grandmother's old voice returned to her memory: "Utafwi kukanina muntu mbuli mbo ulindila cisani." Guard yourself the way you guard something precious.
Chumuka did not know whether that was a proper proverb or simply the kind of home wisdom elders repeated until it became law. Either way, it settled in her chest.
Luyando, meanwhile, seemed carefree.
Chumuka did not yet realize that some smiles hide confusion, and some laughter is only a curtain pulled over danger.