The silence in the hall was louder than any scream.
Even the hum of the air conditioner seemed to pause, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Mercy sat with her eyes downcast. Her mother had not looked up since Aunty Joy's words landed like stones. The shame had settled on her like a wet cloth—cold, heavy, and suffocating.
Mrs. Nneka stepped forward slowly, her voice like silk laced with steel.
"We now know the truth," she said, eyes fixed on Mercy and her mother. "Tonia was attacked not because she was rude or violent—but because of hatred without cause. Jealousy that festered and turned into something dangerous."
Mercy's mother finally lifted her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'm… I'm sorry," she whispered.
But the room remained silent.
"My daughter is all I have," she said shakily. "I wasn't thinking. I acted out of anger. I didn't raise her like this."
Mrs. Nneka's eyes didn't soften. "But you did this. You didn't just make a mistake. You stabbed a girl who had done nothing wrong."
Tonia's mother let out a broken sob beside her, her hands shaking in her lap.
"My daughter could have died," she cried. "You wanted to destroy my child because your own child couldn't stand her light."
Mercy sobbed into her palms now, her arrogance crumbling like ash.
"I just wanted her to feel small for once," she cried. "I don't know why it hurt me to see her so… admired. So confident."
Mrs. Nneka took a step closer. Her voice dropped to a deeper, more commanding tone.
"Tonia has never needed to dim her light to make others comfortable. She walks with grace because she was raised that way. She dresses with pride because she knows her worth. You were never her rival, Mercy. She was just being herself. And for that, you hated her?"
Mercy's nod was almost invisible.
Tonia sat in silence, but her heart beat louder than ever. For years she had learned to ignore whispers, to rise above petty envy, to focus on her goals. But never in her life had her strength been tested like this.
Now she understood that her light had never been the problem.
The problem was people who wanted it dimmed.
Mrs. Nneka turned to the group.
"In this community, we reward peace—not violence. We uplift truth—not lies. So I will say this clearly…"
She faced Mercy and her mother fully now.
"From this moment on, you—madam—will no longer have a space in that market. Your stall is revoked."
Gasps echoed.
"You are not welcome to sell in a place meant for honest traders," she continued. "And as for Mercy…"
The girl looked up slowly, her face streaked with tears.
"You are hereby expelled from the school you attend under this foundation's scholarship. A place that was meant to raise leaders, not bullies."
The decision landed like thunder. Firm. Final.
Mercy cried harder. Her mother collapsed to her knees, begging. But Mrs. Nneka's face was unreadable.
"This is not vengeance," she said. "This is justice. This is what happens when peace is attacked without cause."
The room was quiet once again.
Mrs. Nneka turned to Tonia and crossed the floor. She held out her arms and embraced her gently.
"You are stronger than they will ever understand," she whispered. "And I'm proud of you."
Tonia felt her tears finally fall — not from pain, but from relief. From being heard. From not having to fight alone.
Her mother hugged her from the side, crying harder than ever, and Stanley gave her a small nod — the kind that said, You did well, sis.
One by one, people rose from their seats. Some came forward to shake Tonia's hand. Others simply placed a hand on her shoulder, offering silent support.
Mercy and her mother were led away, their heads bowed in disgrace.
And Tonia? She stood taller than ever.