The shift began as a whisper—so soft I could pretend I didn't hear it. A delayed reply to one of Yona's messages. A longer glance in the mirror before stepping out. I told myself I was simply becoming more confident, more independent. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. I was drifting.
At first, it was harmless—at least that's what I wanted to believe. A small laugh at a colleague's joke. Lingering a few minutes after meetings. Late texts that I would quickly clear from my phone before Yona saw them. I had excuses for everything. "Work is keeping me late." "My phone battery died." "Just some office gossip." And every time Yona raised an eyebrow or dared to question me, I would deflect. I made him feel like he was the one imagining things. I twisted concern into control. Love into limitation.
Yona had always been calm—almost too calm. In the beginning, I adored that about him. He was the kind of man who his voice, who brought me mangoes from the market even when I didn't ask, who remembered how I liked my tea. But as I began to change, his calmness irritated me. I started to crave fire—someone who would challenge me, flirt with me, make me feel alive again. I began to see his stability not as strength, but as weakness. Boring. Predictable.
I started coming home later. Sometimes it was for genuine work. Other times it wasn't. I would meet up with a few of the women from the office, the ones who were unmarried, loud, unashamed of their freedom. At first, I just wanted to fit in. But slowly, their lifestyle became intoxicating. They danced freely, spoke openly about the men they juggled, laughed about marriage like it was a relic. I envied them. I copied them.
Yona waited up for me the first few times. He would ask gently where I'd been. I'd smile, kiss him on the cheek and say, "Don't worry so much. I'm just tired." Eventually, he stopped waiting up.
I started keeping my phone on silent. Then I began locking it. I didn't want him reading the messages—from colleagues who now texted at midnight, from men who complimented my looks, some even asking to meet for drinks. I flirted back, sometimes seriously, sometimes just for the thrill. I never cheated, not physically. But emotionally? I had already left.
Yona tried to bridge the gap. He bought flowers once, a simple bunch of wild daisies. I barely glanced at them. Another time he cooked dinner and waited for me until past midnight. I didn't even touch the food when I came in. "I already ate," I said coldly, not looking him in the eye.
Then came the night he asked the question that had been hanging in the air for weeks.
"Neema, are you still happy with me?"
I froze. For a moment, guilt flared up in my chest. I could hear Subira playing in her room, humming the same cartoon song she always did. The smell of rice and beans still lingered in the kitchen. This was our life. This was the man who had carried me through the darkest parts of my youth.
But instead of saying yes—or no—I deflected, again.
"Why are you being so insecure?" I snapped. "Is it a crime to have a life outside this house?"
He didn't answer. He just nodded slowly and walked away.
Days turned into weeks. The distance between us grew. We lived like polite strangers—sharing space, sharing parenting duties, but nothing else. The man I once loved became invisible to me. I, in turn, became unreachable.
It was around that time I started thinking about leaving. The thought terrified me at first. How could I, the girl who once prayed for this man, now want to walk away? But the more I ignored that small voice of reason, the louder my pride became. I convinced myself that I deserved more. That I had outgrown Yona. That I needed to "find myself."
The words sounded noble, even poetic, when I finally said them aloud—to a friend at a café, not to Yona.
"I just... I feel like I've lost myself in this marriage. I need space. I need to figure out who I am."
She nodded, sipping her iced latte as if I had just told her I'd joined a yoga class.
"You do you, girl. Life's too short to feel stuck."
And two weeks later, I filed for divorce.
Yona didn't yell. He didn't beg. He simply signed the papers when they arrived. There was sadness in his eyes, yes, but also something deeper—resignation, perhaps. As if he had seen this coming all along.
That night, after the documents were finalised, I sat alone in the living room. The silence was heavy. Subira had gone to bed early. Yona had moved into the guest room. The only sound was the ticking of the old wall clock—gifted to us on our wedding day.
I remember thinking: This is freedom.
But as I looked around the room—at the photo frames, the empty chair where Yona used to read his Bible, Subira's drawing pinned to the fridge—I felt something unfamiliar.
Not regret. Not yet.
But the beginning of it.
The court process was quick. We didn't argue over property. Yona left me the car and the flat, saying, "You need it more than I do." The children would stay with me—he insisted he wanted them to be near their school and comfortable.
But the day we signed the final papers, he looked at me with those tired, soulful eyes and said, "You may think this is freedom, Neema. But sometimes, freedom isn't what it seems."
I watched him walk away.
For the first time, I didn't feel beautiful.
At first, I thought I'd won. I was single, admired, independent. No one questioned when I came home or what I wore.
The first night after the divorce was official, I slept alone in what used to be our bed. The sheets felt cold, even though the weather hadn't changed. I lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling and telling myself I had done the right thing.
But the silence… it was deafening.
Subira didn't say much at first. Children are observant in their own quiet ways. She watched us closely—our forced smiles at the breakfast table, the short exchanges that used to be filled with laughter. I caught her more than once drawing pictures of the three of us together, always with one of the figures standing slightly apart. A few days after the papers were signed, she asked:
"Mummy, is Daddy still my daddy?"
The question knocked the breath out of me. I forced a smile, crouched beside her and said, "Of course, sweetie. That never changes."
She stared at me for a moment, then looked away. "But why doesn't he pray with us anymore?"
I didn't know how to answer that.
I started spending more time outside the house. I told myself it was to give Yona space, but in truth, I was avoiding the stillness. I began going to more social events—dinners, birthday parties, even a few networking mixers. I dressed up more than usual, wore brighter lipstick, took selfies I never used to take. The attention came easily. Men noticed. Compliments flowed. It felt good… for a while.
I posted pictures on social media—elegant dinners, filtered selfies, motivational quotes. My inbox was flooded.
But none of the men who chased me stayed. They came with roses and charm, and left with excuses.
Kelvin stopped replying to my texts after two weeks.
Joseph the regional director began avoiding me after I refused to "join him for a weekend retreat."
Others didn't even hide their intentions.
And slowly, the glow began to fade.
My colleagues, the same ones who cheered my independence, now whispered behind my back. Mariam had moved to another job. The new girls were younger, more fashionable, hungrier.
Then one evening, I ran into someone unexpected. His name was Joel—a friend from university, now working with an international NGO. We hadn't seen each other in years. He looked me over with admiration and a touch of disbelief.
"Neema? Is that really you?"
I smiled, tossing my braids over one shoulder. "In the flesh."
We talked. We laughed. He offered to buy me a drink. One became two. The music was loud. The crowd was too. It felt like the old days. At one point, he leaned in and said, "You look… free."
I nodded, but something inside me twisted. Free. Yes. But also… hollow.
When I returned home that night, I found the lights in the living room still on. Yona was sitting on the couch, his Bible in his lap, though I doubted he'd read a single word.
"You're late," he said, voice calm.
"I didn't know I had a curfew."
He didn't reply. He just looked at me—really looked. Not with anger, but with sadness that unsettled me more than any argument could.
"Are you happy, Neema?" he asked quietly.
"I'm figuring it out."
He nodded slowly, then stood up. As he passed by, he paused. "I hope you find what you're looking for. But I hope you realise what you've lost before it's too late."
His words stung, but I brushed them off.
I didn't want guilt. Not then. I wanted affirmation.
In the following weeks, I threw myself deeper into the façade. I said yes to every invitation, every dinner, every meaningless conversation. My phone became an extension of me—always buzzing, always needing attention. I started posting more online, photos of my outfits, my coffee, my polished smile. I captioned them with things like "Rediscovering me" and "Growth looks good on me". People liked. People commented. But when the phone went silent, the loneliness crept in like smoke under a locked door.
One night, as I lay in bed scrolling through photos, I stumbled upon an old one—Yona carrying Subira on his shoulders at the beach. They were both laughing, drenched from the waves. I stared at it for a long time, and something sharp twisted in my chest.
But I quickly locked the screen. I wasn't going to be that woman. The one who regrets too late. The one who clings to memories. I was building a new life. One with potential. With excitement. With freedom.
That's what I told myself. Until the night everything changed.
It started with a cough. A small one. Subira had been fine that morning—eating cereal, giggling over a cartoon. But by evening, she was tired and unusually quiet. She didn't finish her dinner. I told her to lie down and promised we'd go to the park tomorrow. But as I bent to kiss her forehead, I noticed the heat. She was burning up.
I panicked. Yona came rushing in from the guest room, took one look at her and didn't hesitate. He scooped her into his arms and said, "We're going to the hospital. Now."
I followed, my heart pounding.
The ride was a blur. I kept checking her pulse. Yona drove fast, but with the steady hands of someone who had done this before. In the back seat, Subira murmured something in her sleep. I reached for her, whispering her name again and again, praying under my breath.
At the hospital, everything moved quickly. Nurses. Forms. A thermometer. A doctor with tired eyes. Blood tests. Oxygen. I watched as they hooked her up to a machine. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to trade places.
And suddenly, none of my nights out, none of my Instagram likes, none of the flirtations meant anything.
Just my little girl. And the man standing beside her, still calm, still steady.
Yona never left her side.
That night, as we sat in the waiting room, a woman passed by. She glanced at me, then did a double take. "You were at Alex's party last week, weren't you?"
I nodded, barely registering her face.
She tilted her head. "I didn't know you were married."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Yona heard her. He didn't say anything. But his eyes met mine—and I saw it. The last thread snapping. The final disappointment. Not just in me. But in the woman I had become.
And for the first time, I felt truly ashamed.