I used to believe I was doing enough—keeping them clothed, fed, schooled. That it was only a matter of time before everything would settle, and we'd find peace in this new life. But lately, the house no longer feels like home. It feels like a corridor we pass through, avoiding each other like shadows slipping past without touch.
Subira stopped calling me "Mama." It's now just a tired "Hey." Zawadi barely comes out of her room. Amani? Amani has taken to wandering. Sometimes he disappears after school and I don't know where he is until sunset.
It began with the call from the school again. This time, for Amani.
"Madam, your son has missed three days this week. Is everything alright?"
I had no answer. Just a hollow apology and a promise to speak with him.
He was quiet when he got home. No mischief in his eyes, no excuses. Just a shrug when I asked where he had been.
"Does it matter?" he mumbled, brushing past me.
That night I couldn't sleep. I lay on my mattress staring at the ceiling, thinking of the nights I used to pray over them. The days when Yona would tuck them in after telling long, silly stories about lions that wore trousers and danced in the rain.
I had taken their laughter for granted.
One evening, I found Zawadi on the veranda, earphones in, tears on her cheeks. She didn't look up.
"You okay?" I asked, softly.
She shook her head.
"I miss Daddy," she whispered.
I sat beside her, uncertain of how close I was allowed to be.
"I do too," I said. "Every day."
There was a long pause. Then she turned to me, eyes burning.
"Then why did you leave him? Why did you tear us apart?"
The words hit like a slap. No insult from the world ever wounded like your own child asking the questions you've spent years avoiding.
I had no clever reply. Only a silence heavy with regret.
The morning after Zawadi's outburst, the house was quieter than usual. Subira had left early without breakfast, Amani didn't bother changing out of his crumpled school uniform from the day before. I stood in the kitchen, spoon in hand, trying to remember the last time we'd all sat down at the table together. It felt like a memory from another woman's life.
I decided to try again. Not as a mother with authority—but as a woman who had failed, and still wanted to love.
That Saturday, I baked banana bread. The same one Yona used to make, the recipe he scribbled in his thick block letters on a page now torn at the edges and smudged with old batter. I left the warm slices on the counter, hoping the scent would be an invitation, not a bribe.
Only Amani wandered in. He stood by the door, suspicious.
"You're being weird," he said.
"I'm trying," I replied.
He looked at me for a long time—too long for an eleven-year-old. Then took a piece and walked away.
That night, I found his shoes by the door. He hadn't been disappearing lately. That small act—just being home—felt like a crack in the walls between us.
But hope is fragile when guilt still breathes at your back.
One evening, I returned home to find Subira sitting alone at the table, eyes distant.
"I got invited to stay with Auntie Sara in Morogoro," she said without looking at me. "She said it might help."
I felt the ground slip beneath my feet.
"But this is your home…"
"No, Mama," she said quietly, "this is your regret."
She stood, kissed my cheek, and went to her room.
I didn't stop her. I didn't beg her to stay. Perhaps she needed distance to heal what I had broken.
And in that silence, I understood something I had resisted for too long—freedom meant nothing without someone to share it with.
I didn't expect much from the call. Just another NGO, just another volunteer post. But I showed up anyway—tired, worn, clutching a folder of my faded CVs like they were love letters to a life I barely remembered.
The office was modest, tucked between a tailoring shop and a dusty pharmacy. A hand-painted sign read: Tumaini Women's Initiative. Hope, in Swahili. I almost laughed at the irony.
Inside, a kind-eyed woman with greying braids and a firm handshake introduced herself as Miriam. "We can't offer much," she said honestly. "But we do meaningful work. You'd be helping with the youth literacy programme."
I nodded. "I'd be grateful."
And I meant it.
The salary was barely enough for fare and groceries, but it brought rhythm back into my life. For the first time in years, I woke up with a reason beyond just survival. I folded worksheets, printed flashcards, sat on floors reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar to wide-eyed children who reminded me of mine—back when their eyes still lit up for bedtime stories.
At night, I began to write.
Not for anyone. Just me.
My journal became a confessional—raw pages filled with memories of Yona's quiet forgiveness, Zawadi's laughter, Subira's early drawings taped to the fridge, Amani's first steps. And between the lines, I poured out the things I never dared say out loud: I was wrong. I was proud. I hurt them.
One afternoon, while sorting donated books, a young colleague, Rehema, asked casually, "You doing anything this evening?"
"No plans," I said.
"There's a Bible study. Just a few of us. Adventist church down the street. We do tea and biscuits after," she grinned.
I almost declined. I wasn't that kind of woman—at least, not anymore. But something in me whispered: Why not?
That evening, I sat on a wooden bench surrounded by unfamiliar faces and listened to the soft-spoken elder read from the book of Hosea. Return to me... though you have stumbled... I will heal your waywardness.
I didn't cry.
But I listened.
Really listened.
And for the first time in a long while, the silence inside me felt less like a tomb and more like soil—something where new life might grow.