Sarah was not what the world called beautiful — not in the Instagram-filtered, influencer-shined, surgery-snatched kind of way. But she was beautiful, quietly so. Her features held the echo of her mother's Yoruba roots — high cheekbones, wide-set almond eyes that hinted at a thousand held-in thoughts, and skin the colour of polished mahogany that some people called "too dark" for someone who was supposed to be mixed. Her hair, usually pulled into a low bun or tightly braided to last two weeks, had begun to frizz from the summer heat.
She wasn't curvy like the women on telly, no flat stomach carved from gym hours, no hourglass figure stitched into fashion nova dresses. Her stomach was flat, but only because most days she barely ate. Even if she wanted to flaunt it, she couldn't — all she owned were thrifted blouses, oversized cardigans, and knee-length skirts bought by her mother from church donations or second-hand bins. Her clothing was a sermon of modesty stitched with necessity.
Once, Vanessa — the only work friend Sarah had — had nudged her gently in the stockroom and said, "Babe, you're cute. You should dress up a bit. You know… give these blokes something to look at. Might land you a boyfriend or even a date night."
Sarah had laughed awkwardly, mumbling something about not having the time. But that night, curiosity got the better of her. She mentioned it to her father during dinner, not even as a suggestion, but just in passing.
What followed was a seven-day mini-crusade in their living room. Mr Smith quoted every Bible verse about modesty, purity, Jezebel's downfall, and the sanctity of the female body. He told her God made her to be seen by Him, not by the world. That her beauty was for the kingdom, not for carnal eyes.
And clothes? Even if she wanted to rebel, they couldn't afford new ones anyway.
---
That Thursday evening, the sun had already begun to set by the time Sarah got off the late shift. The sky glowed a deep orange behind the Birmingham rooftops, casting long shadows across the pavement. She walked along Grove Lane, past the shuttered corner shop, the off-license with its flickering "OPEN" sign, and Mrs. Winterfold's flat, though the old woman wasn't sitting on her usual balcony seat.
The streets hummed with their usual end-of-day rhythm. Cars crawled by. Music blared faintly from someone's window. Teenagers lounged by the alleyway with hoodies up, talking loudly and laughing even louder. Sarah carried a plastic bag with reduced-price groceries — a tin of beans, some bruised apples, and a box of tea she could stretch over the week. She made a mental note to save two bags of Lipton for Mama's Sunday migraine.
As she approached the corner of Church Hill Road, she noticed a small crowd gathered up ahead. It wasn't unusual — sometimes folks argued over car scratches, or kids played too loud and drew attention. But this was different. There was urgency in the noise — loud voices, murmurs, and someone crying.
Sarah's instinct told her to walk past. She had no time for drama, not when Nicholas needed new sketch pencils and Hannah was waiting for toiletries. But something… something pulled at her.
She inched closer. The crowd, made up of neighbours and passers-by, parted slightly. A voice — one of the older women from their building — was saying, "Oh Lord, it's Mr. Smith… someone call an ambulance…"
Sarah's breath caught. Her feet moved before her brain could.
And then she saw him.
Her father lay crumpled on the pavement, head tilted slightly to the side as though asleep. His walking stick had rolled a few feet away. His eyes were closed, and his mouth slightly had a jar. One of his hands clutched his Gideon Bible to his chest like armour.
"No," Sarah whispered.
The bag in her hand dropped, the apples spilling across the concrete like offerings. She dropped to her knees, ignoring the sharp grit digging into her skin, reaching for his shoulder, shaking it gently. "Papa? Papa, wake up… it's me… it's Sarah."
But he didn't move.
He never would again.