Between Stations

Maya pressed her forehead against the train window, letting the vibration rattle through her skull. The savanna stretched flat and golden beyond the glass, the occasional acacia tree standing lonely against the horizon. The train lurched, and she closed her eyes. Sixteen years old and utterly alone.

"Sit up straight," Auntie Eshe snapped without looking up from her phone. "Stop smudging the window with your oils."

Maya's reflection stared back at her—pale face, dark circles under hazel eyes, hair pulled back so severely it made her temples ache. Two weeks ago, she'd been in London, arguing with her parents about curfew. Now they were "dead," and she was crossing East Africa with her father's sister, a woman who regarded her with the same enthusiasm one might show a tick.

The East African Federation was still new enough that the old borders remained etched in people's minds—Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, South Sudan—but the train ran smooth and modern across these invisible lines. A testament to the new power the coalition wielded. Maya's grandfather, Minister of Internal Security Jabari Okafor, had been instrumental in that unification. The same grandfather who had disowned her father twenty years ago for marrying her white mother.

"I need to use the toilet," Maya said.

Auntie Eshe finally looked up. "Again? You went an hour ago."

"Sorry for having a bladder."

Her aunt's nostrils flared. "Your father's mouth. Always your father's mouth."

Maya waited, expressionless, until Auntie Eshe waved her hand in dismissal.

"Go. I have calls to make anyway. Stay in this car or the dining car. Nowhere else."

"Yes, Auntie."

Maya slid out of their private compartment, relief washing over her as the door clicked shut. The corridor rocked beneath her feet as she moved toward the bathroom at the end of the car, passing closed doors behind which sat government officials, wealthy businesspeople, and foreign dignitaries—the only people who could afford private compartments on the East African Express.

She locked the bathroom door and leaned against it, breathing deeply. From the inner pocket of her cardigan, she withdrew a small wooden chess piece—a knight. The last thing her father had pressed into her palm before the men in suits had separated them. She ran her thumb over the worn wood, remembering his words: "The knight moves in unexpected ways. Sometimes, the indirect path is the only one that reaches the goal."

Maya slipped the knight back into her pocket. Her father's riddles and puzzles. His cryptic advice. The way he'd taught her and her siblings to survive, to think five moves ahead. Her twin brothers, Eli and Xavier, had been sent to a military academy in the western provinces. Her baby sister, Nia, just eighteen months old, had been taken by her mother's sister in South Africa.

Keep them separated, she'd overheard one of her grandfather's men say. The girl is the problem. Too much like her father.

Maya washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and stepped back into the corridor. Instead of returning to the compartment, she headed toward the dining car. The train would reach Mwanza by nightfall, and tomorrow she would be deposited at St. Catherine's Academy for Girls—a remote boarding school infamous for its strict discipline. A prison in all but name.

The dining car hummed with quiet conversation, mostly in Swahili, though she caught snippets of Amharic, French, and English. Maya scanned the car, feeling eyes sliding away from her. The only white face in a sea of brown. She ordered a Fanta from the bar and sat alone at a small table, watching.

A young woman in a blue uniform moved through the car, collecting empty glasses and plates. She stumbled slightly as she passed Maya's table, bumping it. "Pole sana," she apologized in Swahili.

"Hakuna shida," Maya responded automatically, then froze.

The server's eyes widened slightly. "Unaongea Kiswahili?" She asked if Maya spoke Swahili.

"Kidogo tu," Maya replied. Just a little. She glanced around nervously.

The woman's name tag read "Zola." She wasn't just East African—her features and the patterns of her uniform cuffs marked her as South African, likely Zulu. She lowered her voice, switching to English with a thick accent. "You are Okafor's granddaughter?"

Maya's heart slammed against her ribs. "I don't know what you mean."

Zola wiped the table with a cloth, leaning closer. "Your father sent friends. We are watching."

Before Maya could respond, the door to the dining car slid open and Auntie Eshe entered, her eyes narrowing as she spotted Maya. She strode over, phone clutched in her hand.

"I told you to return quickly. Come, we're going back."

Maya rose, her mind racing. As Auntie Eshe turned, Zola caught Maya's eye and tapped her wrist twice, then held up four fingers.

Four hours. Meeting at two taps—2:00.

Back in the compartment, Auntie Eshe received another call. She answered in Swahili, forgetting or not caring that Maya had learned the language during their three years in Nairobi.

"Yes, we'll arrive on schedule... The girl? Sullen but manageable... No, she knows nothing... St. Catherine's will break her quickly enough..."

Maya stared out the window, face carefully blank while her mind worked. Her parents had prepared them for this. The locked-down apartment in Nairobi during COVID had been more than quarantine—it had been training. Chess games that taught strategy. Coded bedtime stories. Languages practiced in secret.

"In chess, pawns appear weakest," her father had said, "but they can transform if they reach the other side of the board. Never underestimate what looks powerless."

When Auntie Eshe received another call, she stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Maya could hear her voice, rapid and irritated, but couldn't make out the words. She checked her watch. 1:45 PM.

Fifteen minutes later, Auntie Eshe returned, looking flustered.

"I need to speak with someone in the first-class car. Stay here. Do not leave this compartment."

"Yes, Auntie."

The moment her aunt left, Maya counted to thirty. Then she slipped out of the compartment and moved quickly toward the dining car. The train lurched around a bend, and she braced herself against the wall. Out the window, the landscape had changed—they were entering more populous areas, small settlements visible in the distance.

The dining car was nearly empty at this hour, between lunch and dinner service. Zola was wiping down tables, and glanced up when Maya entered. Without a word, she gestured for Maya to follow her through a service door at the end of the car.

They entered a narrow galley kitchen where a heavyset man was chopping vegetables. He looked up, nodded once at Zola, and continued working as if Maya wasn't there.

"We have maybe five minutes," Zola said in English. "Your father is alive."

Maya's knees nearly buckled. "And my mother?"

"Both alive. Both escaped."

"How do you know? How can I trust you?"

Zola reached into her pocket and withdrew a folded paper. "He said to tell you about the night of stars."

Maya's breath caught. During lockdown, her father had created a planetarium in their living room using just sheets and a projector. They'd lain on the floor together—all of them, even baby Nia—while he told stories about the constellations. It had been their secret joy during that isolated time, something no surveillance camera could properly capture or understand.

"Where are they?" Maya whispered.

"Safe. Outside the Federation. They're gathering resources, making connections. Your father knows what your grandfather plans—to use your siblings as leverage against him. To condition you at that school to be an obedient ambassador for the regime."

"My siblings—"

"We have people watching the boys. Your sister is already with your mother's contacts."

The train whistle blew, signaling an upcoming station. They wouldn't stop—this train made no stops between Kampala and Mwanza—but it was a reminder that time was passing.

"What am I supposed to do?" Maya asked. "I'm being watched constantly."

"At St. Catherine's, you'll have more freedom than you think. The headmistress is one of us."

"One of who?"

"Your father has more allies than your grandfather knows. People who remember what the Minister did to get his power."

The kitchen door opened and another server poked his head in. He said something quick in a language Maya didn't recognize. Zola's face tightened.

"Your aunt is looking for you. Here." She pressed something small and hard into Maya's hand. "Keep this hidden. Wait for contact at the school."

Maya looked down. A chess piece—a white bishop—identical in style to her father's knight.

"Go. Through the far door, circle back through the passenger car."

Maya clutched the bishop and hurried through the service door. Her heart pounded as she navigated through the narrow corridor. When she emerged into the passenger car, she walked quickly, head down, toward her compartment.

"Maya!"

She froze. Auntie Eshe stood at the far end of the corridor, face dark with anger.

"Where have you been? I told you to stay in the compartment!"

"I needed air," Maya said. "I felt sick."

Her aunt grabbed her arm, fingers digging into the flesh. "You're lying. Who were you talking to?"

"No one. Everyone ignores me here." Maya infused her voice with the bitterness she truly felt. "I'm just the white girl, remember?"

Something in her tone must have rung true because Auntie Eshe's grip loosened slightly. "Get back to the compartment. I'm watching you."

As they walked, Maya slipped the bishop into her sock, feeling it press against her ankle. Her mind raced with possibilities. Her parents were alive. There was a plan. She wasn't alone.

Hours later, the train pulled into Mwanza Station under a sky bruised with sunset. Auntie Eshe had barely spoken since catching Maya in the corridor, her silence more menacing than her usual sharp comments.

On the platform, a driver in a black suit waited beside a sleek SUV. "Miss Okafor," he bowed slightly to Auntie Eshe. "The Minister sends his regards."

"We're late," Auntie Eshe replied tersely. "The headmistress will be waiting."

Maya stood silent as their luggage was loaded. The knight pressed against her chest from its hiding place, the bishop against her ankle. Two pieces on the board. What had her father said about bishops? "They move diagonally—always seeing things from an angle others miss."

The drive to St. Catherine's took an hour, winding up into green highlands far from the city. Maya watched the landscape change through the car window, darkness falling rapidly as they climbed. The driver and Auntie Eshe conversed quietly in Swahili, believing Maya couldn't understand.

"The Minister wants weekly reports on her progress," the driver said.

"She'll be broken within a month," Auntie Eshe replied. "These western children have no discipline."

Maya kept her face neutral, though inside, something hardened. They thought her weak because she was young, because she was half-white, because she'd been raised outside the traditional power structures they understood. They didn't know what her parents had taught her.

"Chess isn't about taking pieces," her father had explained. "It's about controlling spaces. Sometimes the strongest move is to appear vulnerable while setting up your real attack."

St. Catherine's loomed suddenly around a bend—a massive colonial-era building with turrets and arched windows. Once a missionary school, now a prestigious academy for the daughters of East Africa's elite. And apparently, a prison for problematic granddaughters.

The car pulled up to the entrance. A tall woman in a charcoal gray suit stood waiting, her posture military-straight.

"Headmistress Adeyemi," Auntie Eshe greeted as they exited the car.

"Ms. Okafor. We've been expecting you." The headmistress's eyes flicked to Maya, revealing nothing. "And this is Maya. Welcome to St. Catherine's."

Maya nodded, keeping her eyes down as she'd been instructed. Play the defeated child. Let them think they've won.

"I trust you understand the Minister's concerns," Auntie Eshe was saying. "The girl requires special attention. No internet access. No unsupervised phone calls. No visitors without prior approval."

"Of course," the headmistress replied. "We understand completely."

As they talked, Maya glanced around. The grounds were immaculate, surrounded by high stone walls. Beyond those walls, hills rolled into mountains, and somewhere beyond those mountains lay borders, other countries, freedom. Her parents were out there, working, planning.

"Maya," Auntie Eshe's sharp voice broke through her thoughts. "Pay attention. Headmistress Adeyemi is speaking to you."

Maya looked up. For a brief moment—so quick she almost thought she imagined it—the headmistress's stern face softened with something that might have been compassion.

"You'll find St. Catherine's demanding, Maya," the headmistress said. "But those who embrace our methods thrive. Those who resist..." She left the sentence unfinished.

"I understand," Maya said quietly.

"Good. Matron will show you to your dormitory." She turned to Auntie Eshe. "If you'd like to come to my office, we can complete the paperwork."

Maya watched her aunt follow the headmistress into the building. A middle-aged woman in a blue uniform—the matron, presumably—beckoned to Maya.

"This way, girl. Quickly now. Dinner's already started."

As Maya turned to follow, the driver called out. "Miss, your bag."

He handed her the small suitcase containing the few possessions she'd been allowed to keep. Their fingers brushed, and he pressed something into her palm—a small slip of paper.

Maya clutched it tight as she followed the matron into St. Catherine's. Only when they were inside, walking down a long corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced European missionaries, did she risk a glance at the paper.

A chess notation. Queen's gambit. Her father's favorite opening strategy.

"The queen is the most powerful piece," he'd told her. "But power isn't about strength alone—it's about knowing when to reveal it."

Maya slipped the paper into her sock alongside the bishop. The matron led her through a maze of corridors, past classrooms and dormitories. Girls in identical navy uniforms glanced at her curiously as they passed. The white girl. The outsider. The pawn everyone underestimated.

But pawns could cross the board. Pawns could transform.

Three months later, Maya sat in the back of another car, watching a different landscape roll by through the window. The dry season had transformed the savanna into a golden sea. Beside her sat Headmistress Adeyemi, her usual stern expression in place.

"Remember," the headmistress said quietly, "when we arrive, you are to act exactly as we practiced. Your grandmother has never met you—she won't notice any discrepancies in your behavior."

"Yes, ma'am," Maya replied.

The official story was that Maya was being brought to her grandparents' estate for the weekend—a sign that St. Catherine's had successfully "adjusted" her attitude. The real purpose was far different.

In her pocket, Maya carried three chess pieces now: the knight from her father, the bishop from Zola, and a rook slipped to her by her history teacher, another member of the network her father had built. The queen was waiting at her grandmother's estate—a maid who had worked there for twenty years and knew every secret passage, every security protocol.

"In chess, each piece has limitations," her father had taught her. "But together, they create possibilities none could achieve alone."

The car turned onto a private road lined with jacaranda trees. In the distance, the Minister's estate sprawled across a hillside.

"Ready?" the headmistress asked.

Maya nodded, her fingers closing around the chess pieces in her pocket. Somewhere, her parents were moving pieces of their own. Her brothers were being extracted from the military academy. Her sister was safe.

And she was no longer a pawn.

Outside the window, an acacia tree stood alone against the horizon—the same lonely silhouette she'd seen from the train three months earlier. But now, Maya saw it differently. Not isolated, but independent. Not vulnerable, but enduring.

The car passed through the estate gates. Maya straightened her St. Catherine's uniform, arranged her face into the mask of humility they expected. Inside, her mind calculated moves and countermoves.

The game was just beginning.