Chapter Thirty-Three: Steel and Softness
The final weeks of Andra's internship rolled in with a mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. The sun rose hotter now, baking the ground until dust clung to her boots like chalk. She no longer flinched when lifting bags of cement or reviewing site measurements in front of a room full of men. Her hands bore calluses, and her hair lived in a near-permanent bun tucked under a helmet—but there was power in that.
She was not the same girl who had arrived trembling and unsure. Something inside her had been forged in steel, like the beams she checked every morning.
One afternoon, while taking measurements on the upper slab, she caught herself pausing—just long enough to let the wind graze her face. Down below, workers mixed mortar, laughed in shouts, and called instructions across scaffoldings. It hit her suddenly: she would miss this chaos.
She would miss this.
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The construction firm had given her a chance—without much supervision at first—but she'd worked hard enough to leave a mark. Matata now referred to her as "Engineer Summers," a name the other interns teasingly adopted. It felt premature, maybe even silly… but every time she heard it, something straightened in her spine.
They believed in her.
And slowly, she had begun to believe too.
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But as her internship neared its end, real life began to pull at her sleeves again.
Her son, Kingsley, had started falling ill frequently. The doctor mentioned something vague about allergies and weak immunity. It meant more medication, more expenses. She sat at the clinic, watching him sleep on her lap as mothers whispered around her. She felt small again—overwhelmed, behind on rent, out of airtime, her M-Pesa balance flashing KSH 23.
Her parents called less now, not out of neglect, but because they didn't want to pressure her. She knew they were struggling. Her sisters had their own children. The walls were closing in.
That night, Andra lay beside Kingsley on the floor mattress and stared at the ceiling, wondering if she was strong or just surviving on borrowed time.
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Her final week at the firm came with a surprise.
Matata summoned her to the site office, handed her a folder, and said, "This is for you."
Inside was a certificate of recommendation. A glowing one.
"But more than that," he continued, "I spoke to a friend. He runs a small consultancy firm in Eldoret. They need part-time help—someone who can interpret blueprints, do basic site visits, and write project reports."
Andra blinked. "Me?"
"Yes. I told him you're still a student, but hungry. He said, 'Send her in.'"
She clutched the folder like a lifeline.
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The next day, as the interns gathered for a farewell lunch organized by the firm, Andra took a few photos in front of a concrete column she had personally helped set formwork for.
One of the junior engineers came over. "So, what next for you?"
"I go back to school," she said with a smile. "But this time, I walk in knowing I've built more than grades."
She meant every word.
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Back in her room, she packed slowly that evening. Her internship report was nearly complete, her site boots dusty at the corner, her mind already juggling deadlines and the next chapter of school.
She stared at Kingsley, who had fallen asleep with a crayon in his hand and an unfinished drawing of a house—"Mommy's house"—taped on the wall.
She stood, took a photo of the sketch, then whispered, "One day, baby. Not just a house. A home. Built by me."
She switched off the light.
And in the darkness, Andra Summers smiled.
Because she knew the foundation was finally strong enough to rise.