"From carrying water to carrying her own dream with the scent of coffee.Thanks to AforA, she can write her name – and her story."

Aragash was born in a small village far from the noise of the city. There, days passed to the rhythm of the sun and the crowing rooster that woke her before dawn. Every morning she carried a heavy clay jar of water from the spring, a good kilometer from their hut. She was the eldest of five children, and her hands always smelled of smoke from the cooking fire and the dust of the road. She learned to care for her younger siblings, to stroke their hair when they cried, and to soothe them with songs when they were sick.

When she was fifteen, her parents told her one evening by the fire that she had to leave. “In the city, you will find work,” her father said, his voice trembling slightly. Aragash did not protest. She knew there was nothing left to sell in their village, and the sun-scorched fields would yield no harvest.

When she first stepped into Addis Ababa, everything was different – too loud, too fast, too strange. Streets lined with corrugated iron shacks, people living in cramped but proud conditions. The smell of smoke mixed with the aroma of spices and the sharp stench of waste. People spoke words she could not understand, and even if she had, she could not read the sings on buildings or the destination boards on busses . In her world, letters had never had shape – they were only strange curves with no meaning.

She found work with a small family, helping in the kitchen. Her hands knew the secrets of flavor – how much berbere spice to add, how long to roast coffee beans so that their aroma filled the house, and how to pour the water so that the coffee came out dark and strong. The family noticed her skill.

One day, as she sat on a low stool grinding coffee beans, the lady of the house came to her and softly asked:“Aragash… would you like to learn to read and write?”

Aragash looked up. She thought it was just politeness, a question that would vanish as quickly as it had been asked. How could she? She didn’t even know how to hold a pen. She had never sat at a school desk. Letters were like locked doors for which she had no key.

And yet, before she could think, she said: “Yes.”

That “yes” sounded strange and bold in her ears, as if it didn’t belong to her but to someone she was yet to become.

A few days later, the lady told her she had secured her a place at an evening school. “It’s thanks to the support of AforA – Africans for Africans,” she explained. “They pay school fees for girls like you.”

On her first day of school, Aragash held a pen in her hand and felt her palms sweat. She didn’t know how to hold it properly, and the letters on the board still looked foreign. But the teacher smiled and said: “Don’t be afraid. Every letter is like a seed. When you plant it, it will grow.”

Weeks passed, and the letters slowly turned into words, words into sentences. Aragash signed her name for the first time – slowly, awkwardly, but with pride. One evening, as she left the classroom, she stopped at the door and told the teacher:“I am happy… because when I read, I feel like something inside me is opening.”

She also learned how to count. One day in the market, she calculated her change without help. The moment brought tears to her eyes – she was no longer just the one who nodded when someone told her the price. Now she understood.

In the kitchen where she worked, she began to dream of having her own small table on the street, selling coffee. The smell of freshly roasted beans would draw people in, and when she served them a hot cup, she could sign her name on a little sign next to the table: “Aragash.”

And even though she didn’t have that table yet, it was already standing in her heart. And in it burned a small flame of hope – a flame lit by the courage to say just one word: “Yes.”