I stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting my silky cream blouse and smoothing the pleats of my navy skirt. The figure staring back at me no longer resembled the girl who used to walk barefoot through the dusty paths of our village. My curves were defined, my skin glowed with a richness that came from self-care, and the designer heels I now wore spoke volumes of how far I had come. Yona had made all this possible.
But instead of feeling grateful, I began to feel something else.
Power.
Not the gentle, comforting power of love or hard-earned respect, but the intoxicating thrill of being seen… and wanted.
My job at the insurance company placed me in contact with all kinds of men—polished, educated, wealthy. Men who looked at me with hungry eyes, their compliments flowing as freely as the coffee in our executive lounge.
"Neema," one would say, leaning a little too close, his cologne brushing my senses. "You've got the kind of presence that lights up a whole office."
"You're wasted behind that desk," another murmured. "With your looks, you could have the world."
At first, I blushed and looked away. But with time, I stopped resisting the praise. I began to believe it.
One afternoon, as I was leaving the office late, carrying a folder for review, I felt someone catch up to me in the parking lot.
"Let me help you with that," came the voice of Mr. Joseph Kalinga—our regional director. A sharply dressed man in his mid-forties with a confident smile and expensive watch.
"It's alright, I can manage," I replied.
He took the file anyway. "Neema, I've watched you grow into this place. You've got class. You've got potential. Ever considered management training?"
I stopped walking, caught off-guard. "I… haven't thought about it."
"You should," he said smoothly, handing me back the folder. "You're not just another pretty face, but let's be honest—that face could get you very far, if used wisely."
I didn't respond. But his words stuck.
That night, lying beside Yona, I felt restless. He was already asleep, his arm draped over me in a quiet, protective way he always did. But I didn't feel protected anymore. I felt… suffocated.
He wanted me to be the sweet wife who came home on time, who cooked and prayed with him, who laughed at his modest jokes. He didn't understand the world I was now part of. He never had.
One Sunday, while having lunch with my colleagues—mostly single women—our conversation turned lively.
"You know," Mariam said with a sly smile, sipping her orange juice, "some of you married ladies live like prisoners. My freedom is my greatest luxury."
"You're lucky," I murmured, but she caught the sarcasm.
"Neema, come on," she leaned in. "With your beauty, you should be out there. Why should a ring tie you down like some old housewife?"
They all laughed, and I forced a chuckle. But deep inside, I felt something shift.
The next few weeks were full of subtle changes. I came home later, blaming traffic or deadlines. I bought bolder lipsticks and heels that made Yona raise his eyebrows. He didn't question much at first, just looked at me long, his eyes filled with quiet concern.
One evening, after a company gala, I came home glowing from all the attention. My phone buzzed with messages—some inappropriate, others just sweet. I lingered in front of the mirror, removing my earrings slowly.
Yona sat on the bed, watching me.
"You looked beautiful tonight," he said softly.
I smiled at my reflection. "Thank you."
"But I worry… about the way men look at you now. About the way you look at them."
I turned to face him. "What are you trying to say?"
"That something has changed," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You're slipping away, Neema."
I laughed lightly. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just growing."
"Growing into what?" he asked. "Someone I no longer recognise?"
Silence stretched between us like a chasm. And I didn't know how to cross it.
The days that followed became a blur of half-truths and smiles that didn't reach my eyes. At work, I was a star. At home, a shadow. Yona tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but I could see the heaviness in his steps, the quiet way he studied me when he thought I wasn't looking.
One Friday evening, he cooked dinner—his favourite, coconut rice with tilapia. The scent filled the house, warm and nostalgic. He even lit candles, playing soft taarab music like we used to when we were newlyweds.
But instead of sitting with him, I stood in front of the mirror, applying foundation.
"You're going out again?" he asked gently from the kitchen doorway.
"Yes. There's a late meeting. Project deadline." I avoided his eyes.
Yona walked over and took my hand. "Neema… I know it's not just work."
My fingers froze on the makeup brush. "What are you implying?"
"That you're seeing someone."
His voice was so calm it scared me. He wasn't shouting. He wasn't accusing. He was simply hurting.
I pulled my hand away. "I'm not doing anything wrong."
"You don't even look at me anymore," he whispered. "It's like you left this house months ago and never came back."
I didn't answer. I grabbed my handbag and walked out, leaving the food untouched and my heart thudding in my chest.
That night, I went to a rooftop cocktail party hosted by one of the company directors. The view over Dar es Salaam sparkled like a galaxy fallen onto the earth. Laughter floated in the breeze. I wore a wine-red dress that hugged every curve, and men flocked around me like moths to a flame.
Among them was Kelvin—young, confident, with a grin that made my stomach flutter.
"You don't belong to just one man," he told me, twirling a glass of champagne. "You're too… radiant for that."
And foolishly, in that moment, I believed him.
The next week, Yona didn't speak much. He still made tea for me in the morning, still reminded the children to say their prayers, still ironed my blouses when I forgot. But something in his eyes had gone dim.
One morning, as I was heading out, he finally asked, "Neema, are you happy?"
The question stunned me. It was so simple. So raw.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
He nodded. "Then maybe it's time to stop pretending."
I didn't cry. I didn't apologise. I told him I needed space.