Yona didn't speak. His fingers remained on the edge of the blanket he had tried to drape over my shoulders, but they didn't move. I could feel the weight of his silence pressing against my back. I expected him to argue, to ask what I meant. But he didn't.
Instead, after what felt like an eternity, he said quietly, "Okay."
That was all.
Just okay.
No pleading. No questions. No anger. He turned and walked slowly to the other side of the room and lay down on the thin mattress, facing the wall.
I wanted to believe I had won something. Freedom maybe. Space to breathe. But the silence that filled the room wasn't liberation. It was suffocating. It screamed louder than any argument we could have had.
The next morning, he left for work without waking me. His boots scraped the floor softly, and I heard the gate click as he slipped out. I stayed in bed long after dawn, pretending sleep, staring at the ceiling. My daughter, Subira, tiptoed in and kissed my forehead before leaving for school.
I didn't cook. I didn't clean. I sat by the small mirror near the window, brushing my hair with long, slow strokes. Not for Yona. Not for anyone. Just for myself. Just to remind myself that I still existed beyond the role of wife, mother, and housekeeper.
But when I looked into my own eyes in the mirror, I barely recognised the woman staring back.
The following week passed in quiet shifts.
Yona still came home every evening, always with something in his hands—sugar, a handful of bananas, sometimes nothing but tired eyes. He never asked about my days. I didn't ask about his. Our conversations became shallow. Surface-level. He spoke more to Subira than to me.
I started visiting the market more often—not because we needed anything, but because I craved the feeling of being seen, admired. I began to notice how other men looked at me now. I wore my clothes a little tighter. Walked with more sway in my hips. At first it was just curiosity—could I still attract attention?
Then it became a habit. A hunger.
And Dar es Salaam never disappointed.
One afternoon, after picking up vegetables, I ran into Beatrice from work. She wore heels that clicked confidently on the dusty pavement and sunglasses that made her look like she belonged in a magazine. Her voice was loud, her laughter freer than mine had ever been.
"Neema!" she beamed. "You look… radiant. Marriage must be treating you well!"
I laughed, hiding the confusion in my gut. "Maybe it's just the sun."
She leaned in with a playful smirk. "Or maybe you've finally remembered you're beautiful."
I didn't know what to say. But her words clung to me all day.
At work, things shifted too.
My male colleagues started noticing. Compliments crept into their conversations—subtle at first, then bolder.
"Neema, are you trying to distract us during meetings?" one teased as I walked by in my fitted skirt.
I laughed. I shouldn't have. But I laughed.
I was no longer just the quiet, dependable wife. I was becoming the woman they noticed.
And with every lingering glance, every text message from a man whose name I had barely known last month, I felt a power I hadn't tasted before. It was thrilling. Addictive. Dangerous.
But at night, when I lay beside Yona in the bed we once shared with laughter and dreams, the silence between us gnawed at me.
He never touched me. Not even once.
And for reasons I refused to name, that hurt.
One evening, I stayed late at the office. Not because there was work left, but because the idea of walking into that quiet house again made my stomach tighten. The fluorescent lights hummed above me as I arranged files I had already arranged earlier that day. My phone buzzed. A message.
"Still at work? Want company?"
It was Alex. A junior accountant with a deep voice and an easy laugh. Too young to know restraint, too bold to hide interest.
I stared at the message. My thumb hovered over the screen.
No, I typed.
Then deleted it.
"Maybe next time," I finally wrote. A safe line, vague enough to protect me.
When I finally reached home, the lights were out in the sitting room. The hum of the ceiling fan in Subira's bedroom told me she was asleep. Yona was sitted in the back porch, barely lit by the dull moonlight, smoking a cigarette he'd promised he'd quit.
I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms. "I didn't know you smoked again."
He didn't look at me. "Some habits return when the silence grows louder."
His words caught me off guard. I hadn't expected poetry from him. Not tonight. Not anymore.
I walked closer, but not too close. "I'm tired," I said.
"So am I."
A moment passed.
He turned to face me. His eyes, usually so calm and kind, were heavy. Not angry. Just… worn.
"I married a woman who dreamed of more," he said. "I just didn't know her dreams would grow so far from me."
That hurt more than I thought it would.
I sat down across from him, not speaking, not defending myself. The silence between us had changed. It was no longer cold. It was full of things neither of us had said.
"I never wanted to cage you," he continued. "But sometimes… I feel like I don't know how to stand next to you anymore."
My chest tightened. For a moment, I wanted to cry. But my pride choked the tears back.
"I'm not leaving," I said.
"But you're already gone," he whispered.
That night, we didn't sleep on the same bed. Again. He didn't ask where I had been. I didn't ask about the cigarette ash on the floor. We simply drifted—two souls in the same house, living separate lives.
The next morning, I woke up early and tiptoed past Subira's room. But the door creaked open before I could pass.
"Mama?"
Her voice was soft, uncertain.
I turned. "You're up early."
She nodded, rubbing her eyes. "I had a bad dream."
I walked in, sat beside her, and pulled her into my arms. "Tell me."
She hesitated, then whispered, "You and Papa were yelling. And then… he left and didn't come back."
I froze.
"We didn't yell, baby," I said quickly, stroking her hair. "It was just… grown-up talk."
"But you don't laugh anymore," she said. "Papa doesn't tell jokes at dinner. And you don't dance when you clean."
I looked away. I had forgotten I used to dance.
"Mama," she continued, looking up at me, "did I do something wrong?"
My heart cracked open.
"No, my darling," I said, holding her tighter. "This has nothing to do with you. Sometimes adults… just get lost for a while."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said something that shook me.
"Can we be a happy family again? Like before you bought the car?"
Tears rose before I could stop them. I kissed her forehead and tucked her in again. "Sleep a little more, okay?"
I stepped out, closed the door quietly, and leaned against the wall.
It wasn't the money that had changed us. It was me.
I had crossed a line—not physically, but emotionally. I let admiration feed my ego, and I let Yona's silence give me permission to drift. But now, seeing how it touched our daughter, I realised the cost.
And yet… part of me wasn't ready to turn back.
I loved the way people looked at me now. I loved being heard. Seen. Not just as someone's wife or someone's mother—but as me.
Still, in the depth of that hallway, I made myself a quiet promise.
If I was going to continue this path, I'd better be prepared to face what I might lose.
The invitation came casually—just a slip of paper left on my desk at work. Gold-embossed lettering. A networking event, hosted at one of Dar es Salaam's new rooftop lounges. High-end. Classy. The kind of place where only the "who's who" dared to go.
My workmate Lulu leaned over, grinning. "You're coming, right?"
I hesitated. "It's on a Saturday night…"
She raised an eyebrow. "Neema, please. You deserve to let loose. This isn't the village. Besides"—she winked—"people notice you when you show up in the right places."
I tucked the invitation into my bag and smiled, though something in my chest twisted.
That Saturday evening, I told Yona I was going to a colleague's gathering. I didn't lie. But I didn't tell him the venue or what I was wearing either.
He was in the living room, shirt slightly stained from changing the car oil, his attention divided between a sports match and Subira's giggles.
"Don't wait up," I said.
He looked up briefly, eyes scanning my glittering dress. Not a word. Just a nod.
And I walked out.
The night air on the rooftop was thick with perfume, ambition, and expensive wine. Glass clinking, laughter floating like bubbles. I mingled, laughed, posed for pictures, and soaked in every compliment.
"You look like someone's wife?" a tall man joked, handing me a cocktail. "Could've fooled me."
"I am," I answered, smiling coolly. "But tonight, I'm just me."
He laughed and offered a toast. "To you, then."
I clinked my glass with his, letting the sip burn down my throat.
Was this wrong? Maybe. But it felt freeing.
Lulu came up, slipping her arm around mine. "See? I told you. You belong here."
And for a moment, I believed her.
Hours later, I got home past midnight. The house was quiet. I tiptoed in, heels in hand, makeup slightly smudged.
The light in the hallway flicked on.
Yona stood there.
He said nothing. Just looked at me—really looked.
And I didn't flinch. I looked right back.
"Did you have fun?" he asked, voice quiet.
"Yes," I replied.
A long silence followed. Then he turned the light off and walked back to the bedroom.
And I just stood there, realising something:
That moment wasn't a break in our marriage. It was the beginning of a slow, deliberate unraveling. And I was holding the thread.
Monday came too quickly. I arrived at the office, high heels clicking with confidence, and a red lipstick smile that masked the growing emptiness.
"Girl, your pictures are all over Insta," Lulu said, spinning her chair to show me her phone. "Everyone's talking about you. Neema from accounts — you're a star!"
I smiled, but something didn't feel right. I scrolled through the pictures—me laughing, dancing, standing too close to men I barely remembered. Yona would see them eventually. Or someone from church. Or his friend from the market who followed me quietly online.
But I told myself it didn't matter. I was building a life. A name. A new Neema.
Still, during lunch, I checked my messages. Nothing from Yona. No "How's work?" No "Don't forget to pick up milk." Just… silence.
For the first time, it didn't feel like freedom. It felt like being lost in a house I used to call home.
That night, Yona sat alone at the kitchen table. A cup of tea, untouched. Subira asleep in the next room. He opened the old leather journal he hadn't touched in months—the one I had bought him when I was still in love with simplicity.
He wrote slowly:
"She came home glittering. Not just the dress — her spirit, her eyes, her entire aura. Glittering with something I no longer recognise.
She didn't lie. But she didn't tell the truth either.
I've seen this change coming for months. It started with silence. Then indifference. Then glamour. Now strangers look at her more than I do. And maybe she prefers it that way.
I keep asking myself what I did wrong. Was it loving her too gently? Was it failing to rise as fast as she did?
Or maybe… maybe the world taught her that a man who fixes cars and warms baby bottles is not a prize."
He closed the journal. Then got up quietly, checked on Subira, and went to bed without turning on the light.
The following week blurred by. We still shared a house, the children, a dinner table. But everything else felt foreign.
Yona stopped waiting up.
He no longer asked where I was going.
I no longer told him.
We became polite ghosts living under one roof.
One night, while folding laundry, I found a shirt of his I used to love—blue, soft, smelling faintly of oil and soap. I held it to my face and nearly cried. But I didn't. I folded it and put it away like it was just another piece of cloth.
Meanwhile, my workmates planned another outing.
"You coming this Friday?" Lulu asked. "It's going to be even bigger."
I nodded before I even thought about it.
I was chasing something. Not happiness, not love… but maybe worth. Maybe a version of me that no longer needed to be saved.
It began with a cough. Shallow. Soft. Dismissible.
Yona had noticed it just after midnight as he prepared Subira's blanket. She'd been restless in her sleep, twisting, murmuring. Then came the second cough—harsher, followed by a strange rasp as she inhaled.
"Neema," he whispered, nudging me.
I groaned, rolling over. "It's nothing. She always coughs a bit when the air gets cold."
But he wasn't convinced. He slipped out of bed and checked Subira's forehead. Burning hot. Her breathing sounded wrong—tight, wheezy, as if each breath was a struggle.
By 2:30 a.m., her cough had turned into panicked gasps. Her chest rose and fell with frightening effort.
"Neema, get up!" Yona said, louder now. "She's not okay!"
I rubbed my eyes. "You're panicking. Just—give her some water."
"She can't breathe!"
The words made me sit up. But instead of rushing to Subira, I stood back as Yona gently scooped her from the bed, wrapping her in a shawl. Her arms clung to his neck weakly.
"I'm taking her to the clinic."
"I—okay, I'll get dressed."
But I didn't move fast. I stood near the mirror, fixing my headscarf as if debating whether it was necessary to go at all.
Yona didn't wait.
By the time I arrived—just after 10:00 a.m.—Subira was already sleeping peacefully in the recovery ward.
The clinic smelled like bleach and despair.
Yona sat rigid on the cracked plastic chair outside the paediatric ward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if in prayer.
I didn't ask many questions. I just sat down at his side on the plastic chair. I brought a small bag with wet wipes, a juice box, and one of Subira's stuffed animals. But Yona saw the hesitation in my posture. The guilt, maybe—but buried.
"She's okay?" I asked, not meeting his eyes.
"Yes," he replied. "You didn't come last night."
"You had it under control."
Yona told me everything happened on the way till they reached at the hospital.
The night streets were mostly empty. His headlights cut through the fog as he sped through sleepy intersections, heart pounding. Subira wheezed softly in the back seat, her eyes half-closed, face glistening with sweat.
"Just hold on, baby girl. We're almost there."
He pulled into the clinic's emergency entrance just after 3:15 a.m., his arms trembling as he carried her in. The nurses moved fast. Oxygen mask. Nebuliser. Fever scan. His head spun with medical terms he barely understood. But the look on their faces was serious.
By 5:00 a.m., they told him she was stabilising. Allergic asthma, possibly triggered by perfume, dust, or something new in the house.
Subira had been wheezing badly all night, her breath shallow and panicked. By the time the sun rose, she was burning with fever, her tiny body limp in his arms. He didn't wait for me to get in the car. He just drove.
Now, it was past 10 a.m., and the nurse had just stepped out with a chart, nodding kindly.
"She'll need close monitoring," the nurse said kindly. "And less exposure to strong scents, especially in confined spaces."
I remembered the unfamiliar floral-sweet perfume lingering on my clothes these past days.
"Are you the girl's mother?" the nurse asked.
"Yes, I am."
"Alright. She's stabilising. It looks like an allergy-triggered asthma attack. We've given her a nebuliser. You can see her soon."
Yona exhaled, heavy with relief and guilt.
That's when the man at the clinic approached—tanned skin, unshaven, wearing a grey T-shirt. We'd passed in the corridor earlier.
"Baba Subira, right?" a voice broke through my thoughts. A man in a grey T-shirt and sandals was standing near the vending machine. "You're Yona, right." He'd asked, pointing.
I looked up, puzzled. "Yes?"
"I saw you once at the Adventist centre. Your wife, Neema, right?"
Yona nodded cautiously.
The man chuckled. "Small world. I saw her two nights ago at that beachside party—Mbalamwezi. She was glowing. Dancing wild. Some thought she was single. Word travels." He paused for some seconds and then he continued affirming, "She was at that beachside party the other night, dancing like a storm. Didn't know she was married, people were even saying...."
The man trailed off, shrugging with a smirk and walking away before Yona could respond.
Yona sat frozen, the hum of the vending machine roaring in his ears. Dancing like a storm. People were even saying.... Echoed my ears too.
He couldn't breathe. Not just because of the words, but because he believed them.
Later, at home that afternoon, as we walked into the flat, I was waiting in the kitchen. I made tea. Yona sat with Subira on the couch, stroking her hair, overwhelmed by love and fear.
"Is she okay?" I asked, not looking up from the sink.
"She's fine now," Yona said quietly, taking off Subira's shoes.
I dried my hands and finally turned. "I was going to come, but I thought it might be too crowded there. Besides, you had it handled."
Yona didn't sleep that afternoon. His mind spiralled—between relief that Subira was safe and the words dancing wild echoing like a siren.
That evening, he waited until Subira was asleep, tucked beneath her blanket.
I was rinsing cups in the kitchen. He looked at me, really looked. My face was done up again. Eyeliner, lip gloss. The faint scent of my perfume lingered, the same one I'd worn the night of the party. I wore a silk top and soft gold earrings. Casual, but carefully selected.
"You didn't come with us," Yona said from the doorway.
"I sent a message."
"You didn't call. You didn't ask to speak to her. You didn't even ask which hospital."
I set the cup down. "She was fine. You said so."
"I carried her, gasping, in the dark, with no one else but God. And you were busy... being seen."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You know," he said slowly, "a man at the hospital recognised you from a party."
I paused. "Recognised me?"
"He said you were dancing. Said you didn't seem like a married woman. And people thought you were single. You heard him."
The silence that followed was thick and stretching.
I crossed my arms. "So now I need your permission to dance? To breathe? To exist?"
"It's not about the dancing, Neema." His voice cracked like glass under weight. "It's about how far you've drifted from us. From me. No, Neema. You just need to remember you're part of this family."
My arms crossed.
"I didn't go to that party to hurt anyone."
"But that's the thing. You don't even think about us anymore. You don't ask what hurts."
Silence.
Then my voice dropped, trembling.
"I didn't ask for this life to be so... suffocating. Maybe I needed one night to feel like I wasn't just a mother or a wife. Maybe I needed to feel seen."
Yona stepped forward, eyes sharp but wet.
"And I needed my wife. Our daughter needed her mother."
I couldn't answer. Not right away. The truth sat between us, loud and accusing.
Yona turned away slowly. "This… isn't working, Neema."
The air was thick. Subira stirred in the couch, coughing faintly.
I pressed my hands to my face. I didn't weep—but my breath hitched.
Behind the bedroom door, it was quiet again.
Only the refrigerator buzzed, and outside, the city prepared for another night—unaware of the love slowly dying in the flat above.
I scoffed. "I'm not your prisoner, Yona. I'm allowed to live."
"And I'm allowed to feel abandoned!" he snapped, louder than he intended.
My expression shifted. Less defensive now, more startled. Vulnerable.
Yona took a breath, softer this time. "I'm not asking you to be who you were. I'm just asking if you still want to be here—with us. With me."
I didn't answer.
Just looked away, lips trembling, words caught somewhere deep where even I couldn't reach.
He nodded slowly.
"Then that silence," he said, turning toward the bedroom with Subira in his arms, "says more than anything you could've spoken."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the hum of the fridge and the weight of my choices.