I used to think silence was peace. Now, it's just noise I can't escape.
It started with the date—if you could even call it that. He was a friend of a friend, someone from a finance firm who'd smiled at me too long at a networking event. I said yes because I didn't want to go home. He talked about his car, his stock options, his gym routine. I laughed when he paused, but my heart was nowhere in the room.
When he leaned in to kiss me goodnight, I turned my cheek, pretending to take a call. It was just the wind. But I let it ring in my ears like a siren, an excuse for my own disinterest. I went home and lay in bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling fan as it sliced the air like a metronome measuring wasted time.
Amani's teacher called the next morning.
"Ms. Neema, he's been quieter than usual. His grades are slipping… and today he cried when we talked about family."
I mumbled something about work stress and promised to speak with him. But I didn't. Not that day. Instead, I took a long shower and cried under the stream, telling myself it was just exhaustion.
The next weekend, I tried to lose myself again. Heels, red lipstick, the new club across town where I could disappear among people who didn't know my story. But even the music felt wrong. I danced like a woman trying to remember how her body once moved when it believed in being wanted. No one looked twice. And I didn't blame them.
Zawadi was waiting when I got home. Arms crossed. Fifteen going on forty.
"You said you'd help me with my assignment."
"I was working, sweetie. I forgot."
"No, you didn't forget. You just didn't come home."
Her words were knives. I wanted to snap back, but the truth settled on my tongue like ash.
"I'm sorry," I said. It was the only thing I could say.
She shook her head. "You think saying sorry fixes things? Dad never missed a thing. He never made me feel like I didn't matter."
I turned away before she could see the tears forming. I'd promised myself not to cry in front of them anymore. Not since Yona. Not since the funeral I pretended didn't break me.
But in the silence of my room, I finally admitted it: I was chasing a freedom that was hollow. And the echoes were catching up to me.
The next crack came quietly, like everything else lately.
It was a Thursday. The fridge hummed louder than usual, half-empty save for a few eggs and a bottle of cheap ketchup. I'd just told myself I'd do the groceries tomorrow—again—when I heard a drawer slam from the children's room.
Amani's voice followed, small but sharp:
"Why don't we ever have snacks anymore?"
I paused in the hallway, unsure whether to walk in or pretend I hadn't heard.
"I'm tired of bread and sugar water," he continued, his voice rising. "At school, they laugh at me. They say I smell like matope and I wear the same shoes every day!"
Zawadi tried to calm him, but he pulled away. "You don't get it! Dad used to bring us yoghurts and apples and those spicy chips. Now we have nothing."
That word—nothing—rattled in my chest like loose change in an empty tin.
I walked in. He saw me and froze, his little shoulders rigid with defiance and pain. His eyes, too big for his age, were already wet.
"I'm sorry, Amani," I whispered.
He didn't answer. He just turned to the wall, curling into himself like he wanted to disappear.
I wanted to rush in, scoop him up, promise him the world. But I just stood there. Because I didn't have the world. I didn't even have my dignity.
Later that night, I scrolled job ads mindlessly, lying to myself again that tomorrow I'd start afresh. But even the phone felt heavier in my hands. I put it down and stared at the ceiling, the familiar ceiling, the one that had once belonged to a life I shared with Yona. That life was gone.
My freedom had come with a cost I never imagined: the silence of my children, the ache in my own chest, the haunting memory of love I walked away from.
And as I lay in bed listening to Amani's soft sobs through the wall, I realised—this silence wasn't peace. It was punishment.
The next morning, I left the house before the sun had fully risen. The streets of Dar were quiet, painted in the soft greys of early dawn. I walked aimlessly at first, each step driven more by the weight in my chest than any real direction. My slippers scuffed against the pavement. I hadn't even noticed I was still in them.
By the time I reached the small, unkempt cemetery on the edge of the neighbourhood, the sun had begun its slow stretch across the sky. I hadn't planned to come here. I didn't even know I remembered the way.
Yona's grave was in the far corner—modest, like everything he ever owned. Just a small headstone with his name, the dates of his quiet life carved beneath. No flowers. No offerings. Just dust and stillness.
I stood there, my arms wrapped around myself as though they might hold me together. Amani's voice echoed in my head. Zawadi's long silences. Subira's constant coughing. And behind all of it, the image of Yona—gentle, patient, broken.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," I whispered. "For me. For the kids. For all of us."
The wind stirred dry leaves at my feet, but the grave said nothing.
"I wanted more than cooking and folding laundry. I wanted to be seen. Loved. Respected. I was tired of feeling invisible."
I crouched slowly, knees stiff. My hand brushed the headstone.
"But I never asked if you were tired too."
A sob escaped, quiet and sudden. I hadn't cried at the funeral. Not really. I'd cried when the judge stamped the divorce papers, and when I signed the severance letter from work—but not for him. Not for the man who had once whispered dreams to me in the dark, when we had no money but so much hope.
I stayed there a long time, speaking to the stone, to the air, to my guilt. And when I finally stood up again, something had shifted—not forgiveness, not yet—but the first crack in the wall I'd built around myself.
On the way back home, my phone buzzed. A message from Zawadi's school:
"We need to talk. Please come in tomorrow morning."
The silence returned, but this time it was not empty. It rang with consequences.
The school smelled of chalk and old desks—familiar, yet unwelcoming. I hadn't been inside for more than a quick parents' meeting since transferring the children here. This time, the tone was different. The secretary barely looked up as she motioned me to a worn-out bench outside the deputy head's office.
I sat down, smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt. Amani's shoes had holes. Subira hadn't eaten dinner last night. Zawadi's eyes were hollow all week. The guilt was always there now, sitting just under my skin like an itch I couldn't scratch.
The door creaked open.
"Madam Neema?" said the deputy, an older woman with a firm voice but kind eyes. "Please, come in."
I followed her into the small office. The blinds were half-drawn, casting lines of dusty sunlight across a desk piled with folders. She gestured to a chair.
"It's about Zawadi," she began.
My stomach dropped.
"She's bright—very bright. But lately… distant. Her work has slipped, she's withdrawn in class, and last week she got into an argument with a teacher."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
"She said, and I quote, 'Nothing matters anymore. My mum doesn't even see me.'" The woman paused. "Is everything alright at home?"
I blinked rapidly. My throat tightened. "It's been… difficult. Since the divorce. And… Yona—her father—passed away."
She nodded solemnly. "I understand, truly. But Zawadi needs more than food and shelter. She needs you."
I left the school with my head down, the words echoing louder than the street noise. She needs you. Hadn't I always told myself I was doing it all for them? For the children?
But what good is ambition if your children feel abandoned? What's the point of independence if it leaves your family in emotional ruin?
That evening, I made dinner—simple ugali and spinach—and sat down with them. All three.
"I want to talk," I said.
Amani blinked. Subira coughed once. Zawadi barely looked at me.
"I've been lost," I admitted. "But I'm trying… I want to do better. For you. I miss us."
Zawadi finally looked up. Her eyes weren't angry—they were tired. Just like mine.
We sat there, eating in silence. But it wasn't the same silence anymore. This one had cracks in it—space for something new to grow.