The school stood like a sad and lonely ghost, watching the sun set over Bel-Ombre, what was to be the future, had now become a scar.
It was three years ago that Ameera Dass, a young, idealistic teacher, had sparked a movement. Her TikTok post about the abysmal condition of the community school had gone viral and had rattled the nations. Footages of students writing on their thighs while sitting on the floor, because they had no chairs nor tables, evoked rage and pity. Help came instantly in response, but it arrived in cameras, in grants, in men with shiny shoes and suave promises.
Ameera had believed them. The community had believed them. The students would once again learn, sitting on chairs and writing on tables.
She stood at the groundbreaking ceremony, as she read her speech of gratitude, with quivering lips. The children had danced. Donations poured in from across continents and politicians shook hands with international donors.
And then… nothing. The trucks, the contractors, the budget, all evaporated.
The structure was only half-finished, a boondoggle, crafted only for show.
When Ameera asked questions, they tried to silence her with threats, those men at the top.
Then one afternoon, an explosion tore through the half-built school, she thought she heard a child inside and ran toward the flames.
She was badly burned, and barely survived. The building stooped in ruins and the government painted her as the culprit;
"Mental distress leads to dangerous explosion in a school. Unstable teacher sabotages progress.
This was what made the headlines.
The people believed.
So in silence and shame, she retreated into the shadows of the sugarcane plantation.
But a few who believed it all to be a set-up, called her The Martyr.
That was when Eliana Souprayen heard her name.
A qualified nurse who lived in the quiet fishing village of Rivière Noire, a place where malaria still killed children, and pregnant women laboured and brought forth, under mango trees. She had always admired Ameera from afar, and had become inspired by her fire. When the headlines turned, Eliana read between the lines.
She knew injustice when she saw one, and this one had blaring headlights.
Her own case was not different; a clinic promised, foreign aid, and ribbon-cuttings, it was never started. Another boondoggle, buried in red tape and silence.
So Eliana turned her late grandmother's house into a clinic, fulfilling her wish, after one of her grandchildren died of fever. She did what she could with what she had.
She sterilized tools over open flame.
She stitched wounds by lantern light.
She delivered babies beneath the stars.
The fire kept burning in her heart, to give her people the best health care she could afford.
One evening, a woman arrived at Eliana’s makeshift clinic.
Pale. Deformed.
It was Ameera Dass.
“I heard so much about you,” she said softly. “They say you keep the light on when everyone else sleeps, and you remind me of myself, years back.”
Eliana gave her water. A comfortable chair. A listening ear.
“You are a survivor,” she said at last.
Ameera looked away. “I live… but I don’t know how to be alive.”
“You will be alive again,” Eliana said. “You’re not done yet with your purpose.”
So together, the two women, one burned by truth, the other burdened by it, began to rebuild something.
Eliana taught young girls simple health care and first aid while Ameera helped them read, write, and speak without fear or favor. All these they did under the mango tree.
Together, they planted hope and turned shame into service.
One sunny day, a former student of Ameera’s came visiting. He was now a journalist.
“I found the records,” he said. “The fake bids, the ghost contractors, all of it and now I want to finish your story. I want the world to know the truth.”
Ameera hesitated. Her voice had cost her everything.
But Eliana held her hand.
“The world will listen now, so you won't need to scream anymore,” she said quietly.
The exposé shook Mauritius. It shook the international community.
The Martyr and the Nurse became legends overnight, featured in a documentary played on television and smartphones. Crowdfunds poured in. Builders volunteered. The truth was no longer a fire, it had become a forge.
"Do you still feel like a Matyr?" One of the TV presenters asked Ameera during an interview.
No,” she answered. “I feel… reborn.”
“And you?”
“I feel,” Eliana whispered, “like I’m not alone anymore.”
Within one year, a standard community school-clinic hybrid stood tall on the very land that housed the ruins of the explosion.
It was named "Maison Lumière" (The House of Light), in honor of the two women, not saints, not angels, but humans, who became beacons of hope and who would forever be remembered, not by history alone, but also by posterity.
Ameera Dass. Eliana Souprayen.
All images are AI generated.
🌸My Motto is work at making yourself proud of yourself.🌸
Thank you very much for taking time to read me. Have a wonderful day!
