They say true love doesn't boast. It gives. Quietly. Completely. Sometimes even foolishly.
That's exactly how Yona loved me.
It didn't begin with grand gestures. It wasn't the stuff of romance novels or wedding-dress catalogues. No flowers. No candlelit dinners. He won me with patience. With presence. And with a kind of sacrifice I would only come to understand years too late.
After weeks of careful friendship — if that's what you could call it — he asked if he could speak to me seriously. I remember that afternoon clearly. The sun was resting low in the sky, turning the dust on the road into gold. I had just returned from fetching water, my kitenge damp from the sweat of walking.
He was waiting under the mango tree near Aunt Rehema's compound. That same mango tree had become our secret meeting spot — though nothing had ever happened there beyond conversation and silence.
"Neema," he said, "I don't have many words. I just have one question."
I smiled, nervous. "Yes?"
"Will you marry me?"
I dropped the water bucket. Not on purpose — my hand just let go.
"Marry you?" I asked, half laughing.
"Yes. I know it's soon. I know it's unexpected. But I've prayed about it. I see something in you. You're not like the others. I don't just want you to be my wife — I want you to become everything God created you to be. And if you let me, I want to help you get there."
No man had ever spoken to me like that. Not even my own father.
I didn't say yes immediately. I was afraid. Afraid of hope. Afraid of leaving the little I had. Afraid that maybe I wasn't enough.
But the following week, he came to speak to Aunt Rehema with his uncle. They brought sugar, rice, a live chicken. He spoke with respect, offered a small bride price, and promised he would take care of me. Aunt Rehema didn't object — probably because she had long wanted one less mouth to feed.
So, I said yes.
And within three months, we were married in a small church in Tabata. I wore a borrowed white dress from his cousin. My hair was done by a neighbour for free. Yona wore his best trousers and a clean shirt. It wasn't a glamorous wedding, but I've never smiled more in my life than I did that day.
We moved into his small rental house in Sinza. It had two rooms, a real bed, a sofa, a radio, and curtains with matching colours. For me, it was a palace.
Yona continued to work at a food distribution company. His salary wasn't large, but he was careful — budgeting every shilling. He insisted that I stop working at Aunt Rehema's and focus on completing my Form Four studies.
"Yes," he said, "you're beautiful, Neema. But your beauty is not your currency. Your mind is. And you'll go further with both."
He paid for my evening classes. He came home tired from work but still helped me revise maths. He'd cook ugali when I had exams. Sometimes, he even washed my clothes.
When I told him I felt guilty, he would say, "What is love if it doesn't lighten the other's burden?"
When I passed my exams, he cried. Literally cried.
"I always knew it," he whispered, holding me tight. "This is only the beginning."
The next step was securing a job. And somehow, through his friend at church, he got me a position as a receptionist at a small but reputable marketing company. It wasn't fancy, but it paid better than anything I had seen. He bought me my first proper handbag. He ironed my uniform shirt every Sunday evening.
And for a time, we were happy.
We woke up early together, prayed before leaving the house, and shared stories at dinner. When our first daughter, Subira, was born, he took two weeks off work just to be with us. He learned how to bathe her. Changed her diapers. Sang lullabies while rocking her to sleep.
I used to watch him with our daughter and feel overwhelmed. This man who had married me when I had nothing now celebrated me with everything. He never raised his voice. Never belittled me. Never made me feel small.
And yet, this is the man I would later break.
Looking back, I try to understand how I lost sight of him. Of us.
I think it began slowly.
As the months passed and my job became more stable, I began to rise. The company moved me from receptionist to admin assistant. I started wearing better clothes. Office blouses, perfume, heels. Men started to notice. Really notice.
Some were clients. Others were senior managers. They called me "madam," brought me snacks, complimented my laugh. I told myself it was harmless — that I was just being polite. But something inside me had started to change.
I began comparing. Comparing my life with the lives of my colleagues — young, unmarried women who drove small Toyotas, who came to work late and left early, who spoke about freedom, travel, clubs. They didn't have husbands asking where they were. They didn't have babies waking them at 3 a.m. They didn't budget groceries. They lived.
And me? I had a humble husband and a rented house.
Worse still, some of my colleagues laughed when I mentioned that Yona ironed my clothes or waited for me at the bus stop.
"Are you married to a man or a houseboy?" they'd joke.
At first, I defended him. Then I laughed along. Eventually, I stopped mentioning him.
One afternoon, as I waited at the office gate, a sleek car pulled up. The driver was Kevin — one of the marketing executives.
"You always wait for daladala?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Hop in. I'll drop you."
That lift changed everything.
Kevin was smooth. Confident. He spoke with ease, smelled expensive, and flirted like it was his second language. When I declined his first offer for coffee, he smiled and said, "I like a challenge."
I should've told Yona. But I didn't.
Over time, the lifts became frequent. Then came the lunch dates. The WhatsApp chats. The secret smiles. I wasn't cheating — not yet — but I had opened a door. And soon, many other doors followed.
I began coming home late. I started answering questions with irritation. I avoided intimacy. I stopped cooking. When Yona asked what was wrong, I snapped, "Stop monitoring me like a child."
But he didn't fight me. He just grew quieter. Sadder. Still, every night, he prayed for me.
The man who once carried me now watched me drift, helplessly.
I could write volumes about his sacrifice. How he sold his motorbike to help me buy clothes for work. How he withdrew from a land savings group to buy diapers. How he cancelled a job offer in Arusha because I didn't want to move. How he ate ugali with salt during some weeks so I could have perfume.
But in the end, none of it was enough.
Not for the woman I was becoming.
I was chasing something. Freedom? Validation? Power? I still don't know.
All I know is that I forgot who had loved me when no one else had seen anything worth loving.
Yona's love was the type that doesn't sparkle. It holds. It stays. It sacrifices in silence.
And yet, I would later trade it — for empty compliments, selfish ambition, and admiration from men who had never once seen my soul.
But for now, in those early days of marriage, his love was my anchor.
And I was still too blind to know it.