I stood before the mirror that morning, brushing my hair absentmindedly. The girl who stared back at me wore a school uniform that was slightly faded at the elbows, but there was something about her face—something I hadn't noticed before. My skin had cleared up, my cheekbones had sharpened slightly, and my eyes sparkled more than they used to. I looked… beautiful. Not in the loud, showy way some girls appeared in the magazines I had once stolen glances at while sweeping Yona's study, but quietly—softly beautiful.
"Neema, are you ready?" Yona's voice called from the sitting room.
"Yes, just a minute!" I replied.
He never called me babe or honey, like those television characters did, but the tenderness in his voice always warmed something in me. I adjusted my collar and slipped into my shoes. As we walked together down the dusty path to the bus stop, I noticed something strange—people were staring. Men, mostly. One even slowed his motorbike and looked at me a second longer than appropriate. Another one greeted me as if he'd known me for years.
"Morning, dada mrembo," he said with a grin.
Yona shot him a glance but remained silent. I giggled nervously and looked away. That night, as I prepared supper, I turned to Yona with a curious look.
"Did you see how people were staring today?"
He nodded, smiling faintly. "Yes, I noticed. You're growing into a fine woman, Neema."
Something in his tone was different—pride, maybe. Or perhaps concern.
I tried to shrug it off, but inside, I felt something shift. It was like a veil had been lifted. I was no longer that forgotten girl in second-hand clothes with the soft voice and heavy dreams. I was becoming… noticeable.
Days turned into weeks. I finished my training and got offered a junior position at a private firm in the city. Yona insisted we celebrate.
"You're doing well," he said, lifting his glass of mango juice. "I'm proud of you."
I blushed. "It's all because of you."
But deep inside, something began to stir—an ache, a question I couldn't quite silence. If I was this attractive and intelligent, why had no one noticed me before? Why had the world waited until I had a good job, nice clothes, and straightened hair? Then came the messages. Harmless at first.
"Hi Neema, saw you at the office today. You looked stunning."
"You've changed a lot. Beautiful as ever."
"Would love to grab coffee sometime."
I didn't reply, but I also didn't delete them. A small part of me relished the attention. I began spending more time choosing my outfits in the morning. I wore a touch of lipstick—even though Yona had once said he preferred me natural. He was still the same man—gentle, faithful, hardworking. But I had changed. Slowly, I started to resent his simplicity. He didn't wear expensive clothes. He didn't talk about the latest gadgets. He came home early, prepared supper with me, and prayed before bed.
One evening, he noticed I hadn't touched my food.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I'm just tired. Work was hectic."
"You've been quiet lately. Is something wrong at work?"
"No," I snapped. Then softened. "Just tired, Yona. That's all."
He reached out and placed his hand over mine. "Neema, I don't want you to carry burdens alone. Talk to me, please."
I nodded, but I said nothing. Deep down, I was ashamed. I was becoming someone I didn't recognise, and I didn't want him to see her.
My workmates—especially the single ones—lived in a different world. They had late-night outings, weekend getaways, and a kind of freedom that made me envious. They wore what they wanted, said what they pleased, and came home whenever they felt like.
"Why do you always leave early?" one asked me.
"My husband expects me home," I replied.
"Girl, you're still young! Live a little! Men will always try to control you if you let them."
That phrase stuck with me. If you let them. Was I being controlled? Yona never shouted at me. He never stopped me from working. But he expected me to be a wife. He expected loyalty. Could that be… control?
I stopped mentioning him at work. When people asked if I was married, I shrugged and said, "It's complicated."
It wasn't. But I wanted it to sound like it was.
One Friday evening, I came home late. Yona had fallen asleep on the couch, the rice cooker still plugged in. I stood by the door for a moment, watching him. He looked older than I remembered—lines creasing his forehead, dark circles under his eyes.
I went to the bedroom and sat on the bed. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to cry. Not because of guilt, but because I didn't feel guilty. That frightened me.
The next day, I took our daughter, Zawadi, to the salon. As we sat waiting, she turned to me and said, "Mum, why don't you laugh like you used to?"
I was taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"You used to laugh a lot with Daddy. You used to sing when cooking. Now you're always quiet, or on your phone."
Children see more than we think.
I looked away and forced a smile. "Mummy is just busy with work, sweetheart. But I'll try to laugh more."
She nodded solemnly, then rested her head on my lap. I stroked her hair gently and stared out of the window, wondering who I was becoming—and what I might lose next.
The office air always smelt like vanilla-scented files and ambition. The polished tiles beneath my heels clicked differently than the red soil back home. I walked with a newfound posture—head high, chin lifted, shoulders slightly back—because now, people saw me.
Not just as Yona's wife. Not the poor girl from Ilala who once ran barefoot between rusted zinc-roofed kiosks. No—now I was Neema Mshana, assistant administrator at DarTex Innovations. I had a name badge, a keycard, and a parking slot—even though I didn't drive.
With my small but stable salary, I bought new clothes, new hair extensions, and a light lavender perfume that made heads turn. I no longer blended into the background—I floated through rooms like a breeze. My inbox was always full. Of emails, yes—but also of flattery.
One day, a bouquet arrived at the office reception.
"For Miss Neema," the secretary announced, placing the pink lilies on my desk.
"From who?" I asked, cheeks warm.
She shrugged. "No note."
But I knew. I knew who it was. Mark, the financial consultant from upstairs. He always lingered longer when we passed in the corridor. His compliments were delicate at first. Professional. Until one afternoon, he stood beside the lift and whispered, "If I'd met you before your husband, I would've never let you go."
I laughed nervously and stepped away. But in the mirror later that night, I practised the smile I had given him.
Yona noticed the shift.
He didn't say much at first. He waited. Hoped, I think. Prayed, definitely. He still brought me breakfast in bed some Sundays. Still polished the children's school shoes before leaving for work. Still kissed me on the forehead before sleeping.
But something in his eyes changed—he looked for me less like a husband watching his wife and more like a man watching someone walk away from him, slowly.
One night, he stayed unusually late at the clinic. When he returned, I was on the phone, laughing with one of my colleagues—Martin, I think his name was. I ended the call quickly when I saw him standing by the doorway.
He didn't ask. He just smiled tiredly.
I hated that smile.
It made me feel small. Exposed.
Late at night, I would stand by the window and stare into the city's soft lights. I thought about the version of myself that used to dream beneath mosquito nets, whispering prayers for a better life. She would've been grateful for Yona. She was grateful. For a time.
But now…?
I wanted more. I wanted the admiration of strangers. The freedom to come and go. To wear what I wanted without asking. To say yes to parties. To be envied. And my colleagues—especially the ones with no rings on their fingers—encouraged it.
"Your man's too soft," said Lydia, my desk partner. "Men like that grow old too fast."
Another chimed in, "Honestly, Neema, you deserve someone who challenges you."
"Who lets you breathe," Lydia added with a smirk.
I nodded, laughed, sipped my iced coffee. But inside, I wasn't sure what I wanted anymore. Yona was faithful, yes. But he was… predictable. Kind. Gentle. Loving. But ordinary.
It was a Tuesday evening when Zawadi came home from school and found me on the veranda, painting my nails.
She tilted her head, examining the bold red colour.
"You don't like it?" I asked.
She hesitated. "It's nice. Just… you never painted your nails before."
I laughed. "Mummy's allowed to change, no?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she leaned against my shoulder.
"Mum," she said after a pause, "did you used to love Daddy more?"
The nail brush slipped from my hand. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"
"You used to hold his hand when we walked. You used to call him funny names. Now you just… talk like friends."
I swallowed hard, gathering my thoughts.
"People love in different ways at different times," I said, brushing her hair back.
She stared at me, unconvinced. "Did Daddy do something wrong?"
"No," I whispered. "No, he didn't."
She nodded slowly and got up to go inside.
And just like that, the guilt returned—uninvited, but persistent.
One evening, Yona waited for me at the dinner table. I had been out late attending a company dinner—formally, at least. In truth, I had lingered longer than necessary chatting with a man named Edgar who had promised to connect me to a better-paying NGO role.
"Was it a nice event?" Yona asked as I kicked off my heels.
"Exhausting," I replied, taking my seat. "People drink too much."
"You smell like wine."
I froze. "It was just the table. I didn't drink."
He didn't reply. He simply served me ugali and beans.
Halfway through the meal, he cleared his throat.
"Neema… are you happy?"
The question hung in the air like heavy fog.
"I'm… fine," I replied.
"Fine isn't the same as happy."
I put down my spoon. "Why are you asking?"
"Because I see the change," he said quietly. "You're dressing differently. Speaking differently. Coming home late. And you barely talk to me anymore."
"So what are you saying?" I challenged. "That I've become a bad wife?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you meant it!"
"I just want to understand, Neema."
"Well, maybe I don't want to be understood. Maybe I want to breathe for once."
He blinked. Once. Twice.
"I never stopped you from breathing," he said. "I only ever wanted to love you."
And then he stood up and walked away.
I ate in silence. But each bite tasted like regret.
We stopped praying together at night. I started sleeping on the edge of the bed, facing the wall. He stopped waiting for me at the door.
We had become roommates with wedding rings—polite, distant, and afraid to speak the truth.
Zawadi began stuttering slightly when she spoke. Her teacher called me one afternoon.
"She's bright," the teacher said, "but I think something's troubling her. She's withdrawing from her friends."
I smiled on the phone, said thank you, and promised to speak to her. But I didn't. Because I didn't know what to say.
How do you tell your child that her home is breaking apart in silence?
One Saturday afternoon, as I packed for a work trip to Arusha, Yona stood by the door.
"Are you happy now?" he asked.
I looked up, confused.
"With the attention. The new job. The compliments."
I paused. "Why are you asking me that now?"
"Because I still love you. Even as you drift."
"I'm not drifting," I lied.
He nodded. "Okay. Then tell me this—when was the last time you looked at me the way you used to?"
I couldn't answer. So he stepped out of the room.
And I felt, for the first time, the chill of love slowly dying.
The days that followed were filled with cold silences. The once-warm home now echoed with invisible walls that divided us.
One evening, as I sat on the veranda, gazing out at the dusty road beyond our gate, I heard soft footsteps behind me. I turned and found my daughter, Subira, clutching her schoolbooks to her chest. Her face, usually bright with innocent curiosity, seemed burdened.
"Mama," she said, "why does Papa look so sad these days?"
I hesitated. "He's just tired, my dear. Work has been stressful."
She shook her head. "He cried last night. I heard him. I wanted to go to him, but I was scared."
Her words pierced me deeper than I was ready to admit. I had been so preoccupied with keeping up appearances, with being admired and envied, that I hadn't seen the pain etched into Yona's face—or the fear shadowing my daughter's.
"I'm sorry, Subira," I whispered, pulling her into my arms. "Papa still loves you. We both do."
"But do you still love each other?" she asked with frightening honesty.
My throat tightened. "Yes… we do. Sometimes… love just gets lost in the noise."
She didn't respond. She laid her head on my lap and said nothing more. But I knew. A part of her innocence had been cracked, and I was the one who had dropped the stone.
That weekend, I attended a workmate's birthday party in Mikocheni. The house was lavish, filled with music, laughter, and an air of self-importance. I wore a figure-hugging maroon dress, heels higher than sensible, and perfume that cost more than Yona's monthly transport.
My colleagues praised my appearance. "Neema, you're glowing! What's your secret?"
"Freedom," I said playfully, sipping on a glass of juice while men glanced my way with approval. "I'm finally living my best life."
And for a moment, I believed it.
That night, as I returned home past midnight, I found Yona waiting by the gate. His eyes were sunken, his lips dry. He looked like a man who hadn't slept.
"Where were you?" he asked gently, though pain laced his voice.
"It was a party. I told you I'd be late."
"I called. You didn't answer."
"I was dancing. My phone was in my purse. Why do you make everything a problem?"
He didn't argue. He stepped aside and let me pass.
But the silence that followed felt like a death sentence. Not loud. Not sudden. Just slow, creeping… like rot under a beautiful surface.
Weeks passed. Yona grew quieter. I grew bolder.
Men messaged me on WhatsApp—some from work, others who had seen my pictures online. Compliments flooded in. Some offered expensive gifts. A few even proposed trips outside the country.
And I flirted back. Shamelessly. I never met them in secret, but I savoured their attention like a drug. It made me feel alive, powerful… worthy.
My workmates envied me. "You're lucky," they said. "No husband nagging, your own money, men lining up for you."
But late at night, I sometimes caught myself staring at Yona while he slept on the couch, his legs curled in, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. I wondered if he still dreamed of me.
I didn't know then how much longer he had left.
One Friday evening, after I returned home from a work event, I found Subira crying in her bedroom.
"What's wrong?" I asked, kneeling beside her.
"They laughed at me," she sobbed. "My classmates said Papa is a gardener, and that Mama is always with other men."
I froze. "How dare they say such things? Who told them that?"
"One of the girls saw you at the hotel… with that man… the one who dropped you off last week."
Heat rushed to my face. "That was just a business meeting."
"But they don't care," she said. "They say you're like those women in the magazines—only pretty because someone pays."
I didn't know what to say.
"I miss Papa," she whispered. "The old one. The one who smiled."
Tears gathered in my eyes. "He's still here, Subira."
"No, Mama. You're the one who left."
A few days later, Yona asked me to sit with him.
We were in the living room, the kids asleep, the street outside quiet.
"Neema," he said, "I won't fight you anymore. If this is the life you want, I won't stop you."
I remained silent.
"I loved you before anyone else saw your worth," he continued. "I gave everything… but maybe it wasn't enough."
"It's not about enough," I said sharply. "It's about me. I want freedom. I want to live."
He nodded slowly. "Then I won't hold you. But remember—freedom without love is emptiness."
I stood up, the words biting. "You don't understand. You're old-fashioned."
He didn't respond. He didn't fight it.
I felt nothing. No sadness. No guilt. Only a sense of finality.