Short story Episode I: Hope for Tomorrow
etter tomorrow. Episode 1: A Prayer for Tomorrow
The cry that announced Nduta’s arrival into the world was just one more sound in a small, mud-walled home already brimming with the lives of seven other children. She was the last, the final comma in a long family sentence written in the ink of poverty in their small village near Ruiru. The red soil of Kiambu County gave them sustenance, but never enough to get ahead.
At sixteen, Nduta was a girl caught between two worlds. In one, she was a Form Two student, her mind filled with the complexities of algebra and the shared whispers of her classmates. In the other, a secret was growing within her, a silent, terrifying truth that soon swelled her belly and forced her to trade her school uniform for the loose-fitting dresses of her mother. Her education, the fragile bridge to a different life, had crumbled.
When the labour pains began, sharp and relentless, there were no frantic preparations for a trip to the hospital. There was simply no money. The clinic was a luxury they could not afford. Instead, Nduta’s mother, a woman whose hands were weathered from a lifetime of tilling the soil, became a midwife born of necessity. In the dim light of their hut, with boiled water and old, clean cloths, she guided her daughter through the agony and into motherhood.
A new cry, small yet fierce, cut through the night. It was a girl, beautiful and perfect. Holding her daughter, Nduta felt a wave of love so powerful it ached. She had nothing to offer this child—no inheritance, no fine clothes, no easy future. But she had a legacy. The baby was named after her grandmother, a matriarch renowned for her resilience. It was a name that was less of a label and more of a prayer, a whispered hope for the strength the child would surely need.
A year passed. The baby, a bubbly, bright-eyed girl, was weaned. Nduta’s days fell into a grueling rhythm. Her back bent under the equatorial sun, she worked in other people's shambas, picking coffee cherries or weeding rows of maize for a pittance. Every shilling was precious.
It was then that Kamau came into her life. He was a village boy, but he carried himself with the confidence of one who was going somewhere. He was in a local college, he told her, studying to be a teacher. He spoke of a future with chalk dust on his fingers and a steady salary at the end of the month.
Nduta listened, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to hope. She saw in him not just a husband, but an escape. A ticket out of the punishing cycle of poverty for herself and her daughter. And so, a new chapter began. They married, and the little income she earned from her menial jobs was no longer just for survival; it became an investment. It paid for Kamau’s college fees and his daily bus fare.
Her own dreams, packed away with her old school uniform, were now pinned on him. He would graduate, he would get a teaching job, and they would build a life together. They would be happy, she told herself each evening as she handed him the day's earnings. They would live happily ever after. This was just the beginning.
Episode 2: The Weight of Tomorrow
The days stretched long and quiet for Nduta, punctuated only by the gurgles and growing demands of her daughter, Wanjiku, who was now just over a year old and finding her feet. Her husband, Kamau, who has now become a full border at the college,was away at the Teacher Training College in Murang'a, his absence a hollow space in their small two-roomed house. His return on weekends was the sun Nduta's week revolved around, but during the long days in between, she felt the full weight of his family’s scrutiny.
Her mother-in-law, Wanjiru, whom everyone called Mama Kamau, made her disapproval known not in loud shouts, but in a thousand small cuts. It was in the way she’d look over the food Nduta was cooking, sniffing disdainfully, or in the sharp questions about how Nduta was not working hard enough to get enough money for Kamau who came fortnightly. "A man cannot concentrate on his books if he is worried his wife has accumulated anything to take back with him after a visit, and he will get nothing from me now that he has declared himself man enough and brought this woman here. Let her support him" she'd say to no one in particular, but loud enough for the wind to carry the words to Nduta's ears.
The core of Mama Kamau’s bitterness was Nduta’s background. That her son, destined to be a respected teacher, had married a school dropout was a constant source of shame for her. She had envisioned a different match: the daughter of a local councillor, a girl who had finished her own schooling and would have been, in Mama Kamau's eyes, a wife befitting a "learned man."
Kamau's sister, Njeri, was a more direct echo of her mother's feelings. Visiting from the nearby shopping centre where she worked, she would survey Nduta’s simple life with a smirk. "Still playing farmer, I see," Njeri commented one afternoon, finding Nduta in the small shamba behind the houses. "You must be counting the seconds until my brother becomes a teacher so you can finally relax."
On this day, the sun was hot, and the earth was thirsty. With Wanjjiku strapped securely to her back in a colourful lesso, Nduta was tending to their patch of sukuma wiki and beans. The small harvest was essential to supplement their meals, saving the little cash they had for other necessities. Wanjiku, no longer a sleepy infant, was a restless weight, babbling and sometimes tugging at Nduta’s hair, making the back-bending work even more challenging.
Mama Kamau came and stood at the edge of the plot, her arms crossed. "You will break that child's back, bouncing her around like a sack of potatoes while you dig in the dirt."
Nduta paused, straightening her aching back. "Mama, she is fine. And this food will help us."
"This food is a sign of our struggle," Mama Kamau retorted, her voice sharp. "My son is studying day and night to lift this family up, and his wife is showing the whole world that we are people who have to dig for our supper. You are a distraction to him. He should be focused only on his future."
Nduta bit her lip, tasting the salt from her sweat and the bitterness of the unspoken words. She wanted to say that this work was for that future, that she was doing her part. She wanted to defend herself, but she knew it would only lead to a bigger fight, the details of which would undoubtedly be twisted and reported to Kamau, causing him stress he didn't need.
She stayed silent, offering a small, respectful nod before turning back to the weeds, her movements now mechanical. Each weed she pulled felt like an injustice she was trying to root out from her life.
Later, as twilight settled over the compound, she sat on the step of her house, gently bouncing a now-sleepy Wanjiku on her lap. The loneliness was a physical presence. She missed Kamau terribly. She held onto the dream of his graduation like a talisman. Then, he would get a government posting. They would move, maybe to a school far away where they could start fresh, just the three of them. A life where her worth wouldn't be measured against her level of education, but by the love she gave her family. For now, she would endure. For Kamau, and for her daughter, she would calmly bear the weight of today, for the promise of a better tomorrow.
#KenyannarrativesEpisode3
The Visit from Muthoni
It was a mild mid-morning as the sun was starting to warm the shoulders , and the homestead was unusually quiet. Mama Njeri had gone to check on a sick relative, and the air felt a little lighter for Nduta. She was sitting under the mango tree, a leso securely tied around her waist, carrying her 1.8-year-old daughter, Wanjiku, on her back.
Suddenly, a familiar voice called out.
“Wee! Is that not Nduta wa Gathoni?”
Nduta turned sharply — and there she was. Muthoni, her childhood friend from Limuru, looking polished, with a bright dress and well-plaited hair. She carried a small kiondo bag, her face beaming.
Nduta’s heart swelled. It had been many months since she had seen someone from her own circle, someone who remembered her before marriage, before baby Wanjiku, before Mama Njeri’s sharp words.
They rushed into a warm embrace, Wanjiku stirring softly on Nduta’s back.
“You’re still you,” Muthoni whispered, holding her friend tight.
“You… you look so good,” Nduta replied, taking in Muthoni’s neat dress, polished shoes, and the confident glint in her eye.
They settled on stools beside the cowshed, away from the main house. The baby tugged at the leso, half-asleep, while the two friends caught up in low, eager voices.
“How’s life here?” Muthoni asked.
Nduta sighed. “Kamau is still in college. He comes home on weekends, but most days it’s me, Wanjiku, and Mama Njeri.”
Muthoni clicked her tongue. “You mean you’re here alone with her most days? No wonder we never see you in Limuru or the market.”
“She says a young mother shouldn't roam with a child this small. That bad eyes will fall on Wanjiku. And Kamau… he leaves these things to his mother.”
Muthoni shook her head. “Nduta, you can’t live like this forever. I came to tell you — you’re still you. Don’t forget it.”
Just then, Mama Njeri’s voice carried across the compound.
“Ndutaaaa! Have you seen the firewood finish itself? Or do visitors cook for us now?”
Nduta’s stomach clenched. She rose quickly. “Hold Wanjiku, please.”
Muthoni cradled the baby gently. As Nduta left, their eyes met — a silent message passed between them.
By evening, Muthoni had left, placing a small bundle of roasted njugu karanga in Nduta’s hand. “Eat these after the child sleeps,” she whispered.
Later that night, Kamau arrived from college, tired and dusty. Nduta summoned her courage.
“Kamau, I’d like to go to the market this Sunday with Wanjiku. I miss people, I miss myself.”
Kamau hesitated. “Ask Mama,” he murmured, turning away.
Tears pricked Nduta’s eyes, but something in her spirit stiffened.
The next morning, before dawn broke and before Mama Njeri stirred, Nduta wrapped Wanjiku on her back, stepped quietly past the gate, and made her way down the misty path towards the market.
Freedom wasn’t always a loud rebellion. Sometimes, it was the quiet crunch of morning grass under one’s feet.
Chapter 4: The Walk to Maziwa Market
The soft rustling of early dawn stirred Nduta from a restless sleep. Wanjiku had whimpered through the night, her small fingers gripping the edge of the kikoi slung across her mother’s waist. Beside them, Kamau lay still—he had arrived late the previous evening, tired and dusty from college. He barely ate, said little, and dropped into bed without so much as asking how home had been.
Now, the house was quiet, save for Mama Njeri’s faint cough behind her closed bedroom door. The air hung with the sharp scent of boiled herbs and yesterday’s boiled maize.
Nduta moved quietly, her feet cold on the cement floor. She wrapped Wanjiku firmly on her back, tied the kikoi snug, and picked up the empty shopping basket. There had been no food left for the baby. Not even porridge flour. And no one seemed to notice. Or care.
She hadn’t told anyone where she was going.
She didn't need to.
The walk to Maziwa Market was brisk and filled with whispers of morning life. Early mamas spread their lesos beside heaps of fresh vegetables, calling out to familiar customers. Radios crackled with Kikuyu gospel songs. The scent of roasted maize mingled with that of raw tomatoes and cabbages.
Nduta greeted a few vendors with a shy smile.
“Nduta? Kwani leo umetoka?”
“Umepewa ruhusa ama umetoroka?” one teased.
She laughed faintly, brushing the question aside. They don't need to know this is borrowed freedom.
She moved fast—picked sukuma wiki, three eggs, a piece of soap, and a tub of banana yoghurt for Wanjiku. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Enough to cook with, enough to make her feel like she still had a say in her child’s life.
As she tucked the last item into her basket, she noticed the time. She had been gone longer than she meant to.
The sky was now streaked with grey as she approached the gate. Her heart dropped.
There they were.
Kamau stood just outside the doorway, shirtless, arms folded. His expression unreadable. Beside him, Mama Njeri had her hands on her hips, eyes sharp and steady, lips pursed in disappointment.
Nduta slowed down. Her footsteps felt heavy on the dusty path.
Back at the House
Kamau took the basket from her without a word. She untied Wanjiku, who had fallen asleep on her back, and placed her gently on a folded leso in the corner.
Then, silence.
It was Mama Njeri who broke it.
“Nduta, unajua hauko kwa nyumba ya mamako. Unaelewa hiyo?”
“I went to buy food,” Nduta answered softly. “There was nothing left for Wanjiku.”
“You should have asked,” Mama Njeri snapped. “Even a small child knows not to sneak out without permission.”
Nduta glanced at Kamau. His jaw tightened. He still hadn’t spoken.
“You were here,” she said to him, not accusingly, but steadily. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Kamau finally looked up. His eyes held something between tiredness and guilt. “Still. You should have said something.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask to feed my child,” she replied. Her voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be.
Mama Njeri let out a low scoff and walked off, muttering under her breath.
And still, Nduta didn’t flinch.
She had walked to the market, yes. But in truth, she had walked toward herself.
Episode 4: Shadows Between Us
The silence in the compound settled like dust—fine, quiet, and impossible to ignore.
Kamau didn’t speak to her that evening. Not when she placed his tea on the table. Not when Wanjiku reached for him, babbling with joy. He simply nodded, stiffly, and walked back to Mama Njeri’s hut.
Nduta kept her face still. Calm. But inside, her thoughts galloped.
In Mama Njeri’s hut, low voices murmured like distant thunder. No shouting. No accusations. Just the weight of words too carefully chosen.
Nduta busied herself. She fetched water. Started supper. Folded clothes. Tended to Wanjiku. But her ears strained toward that hut, and her stomach remained tight.
When darkness fell, Kamau didn’t come to the house.
Not for supper.
Not even when the wind picked up and Wanjiku whimpered in her sleep.
He returned only at 11:07 pm, without a word.
His jacket was dusty. His face unreadable.
He lay down beside her, turned his back, and said nothing.
Even in the darkness, Nduta could feel it.
Something had changed.
This wasn’t just about the market.
This was about something deeper. A conversation held without her, decisions made in silence.
And by the time Kamau left for college before dawn, the gap between them had widened.
He didn’t look back.
Nduta watched him disappear down the path, the morning mist swallowing his figure.
Her heart ached—not from guilt, but from knowing she was being quietly judged. Quietly sidelined.
But also… from something else.
A quiet flame inside her.
A whisper: No one asked why I went to Maziwa. No one asked what I needed.
She turned back to the house, Wanjiku stirring softly in her sling. The day had begun.
So had the shift.
Episode 6: A Fire Beneath Quiet Ashes
Kamau boarded the bus and took a back seat. He felt sleepy as he had not slept well the previous night. Not really.
Though he had returned at eleven, silence thick between him and Nduta, his body had been restless, eyes open in the dark. The image of her walking back into the compound earlier that day—calm, basket in hand, child strapped to her back as if nothing was wrong—refused to leave him.
He remembered arriving home on Friday night with excitement. It was his weekend homecoming. But going back to college this morning, his heart felt heavier with unexplained anger and a feeling of betrayal that his mother had fueled in him the previous night.
He remembered part of his conversation with his mother when he had asked her if she had seen Nduta, his mother had simply sniffed and said:
"Go look for her yourself. She went walking somewhere. That is what you get for bringing losers in this home."
That had hurt , but as usual,he was quiet.
What Nduta did not know is that, Kamau had walked all the way to Maziwa Market in the night, asking questions, scanning faces, feeling a fire burn in his chest. What kind of woman vanishes on the very weekend her husband returns? And what was she doing there—alone?
The whispers from the market vendors weren’t scandalous, but they weren’t soothing either.
"She was here early. Looked in a hurry. Didn't even greet properly," someone had said.
Another added, "She bought sugar, flour, and left quickly. With the baby on her back."
It wasn’t what they said. It was how little they knew. She had gone and returned before midday. Without mentioning it to anyone.
When he came home, Mama Njeri had been waiting.
She had spoken to him carefully. Slowly.
"You’re a student. You have a future. Open your eyes. That one’s a girl, not a woman. And a girl with no books in her hands becomes a woman with too many secrets."
Kamau sat, jaw clenched.
"There are others—good, educated girls in college who’d respect you, who wouldn’t hide things. You’ve tied yourself to a dropout with no vision. Think wisely, Kamau. Sometimes a lesson must be taught the hard way."
Kamau didn’t say much.
But Mama Njeri saw the flicker in his eyes. She knew he was listening.
He always did.
Back at the main house, Nduta stood at the doorway, baby Wanjiku now asleep again on her back. The stars were fading. The sky was bleeding into dawn. But sleep had not visited her.
She had noticed Kamau’s absence the previous night—the dusty shoes, the slightly rushed breath when he came in late.
He had gone looking. Probably to Maziwa.
So he didn’t trust me.
That thought sank like a stone.
She tried not to cry. But her chest ached.
She wasn’t angry. Not yet.
Mostly, she was scared.
Not of Kamau, but of what this new silence meant. Of how easily she could become invisible in this home.
Not once had anyone asked why she went to Maziwa.
Not once had Kamau looked her in the eye since returning.
Not even to ask: Are you okay?
She thought of the salt she’d bought. The pads. The sugar. The soap. Every item carefully measured from the coins she had saved secretly—because she didn’t want to keep asking for things. She wanted to feel like she contributed, even if in small ways.
Now… that act of care was being treated like betrayal.
Meanwhile, in Mama Njeri’s Kitchen
Mama Njeri stirred her tea slowly.
She had never approved of Nduta—not truly. The girl had been too eager, too soft, too unreadable.
And now this market stunt.
But deep down, buried beneath the layers of bitterness and pride, Mama Njeri had her own fears.
What if Nduta left? What if Kamau begged her to stay and failed his training? What if Wanjiku grew up confused, pulled between a mother with no voice and a father with too many borrowed opinions?
Still, pride held her tongue tight.
She had advised Kamau. That was enough. What happened next would be his choice.
Back to Nduta
That morning, Nduta wrapped Wanjiku on her back again and walked to the small patch of sukuma wiki behind the house.
She plucked quietly.
But in her mind, words were forming—words that were not timid. Thoughts that asked, How long can I live in someone else’s shadow?
Something had begun to awaken in her
.
A kind of quiet defiance.
Not rebellion.
But self-preservation.
And maybe… something more.
Episode 6: Shadows Between Us
The silence that followed Kamau’s departure felt heavier than before.
He had left on Monday morning, but not with his usual warmth. This time, he didn’t hold Wanjiku close or linger with quiet laughter at the gate. He walked stiffly, his footsteps purposeful, eyes clouded. Nduta had watched from the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her apron as her heart pounded. She hadn’t said goodbye.
Back in college, Kamau tried to bury himself in books, but his thoughts kept circling. Had Nduta started rebelling? Had the visit to the market been a secret mission—was it to meet him? That boy who had vanished when he left her with a baby? His fists clenched as he remembered Mama Njeri’s words—words spoken in a low, knowing tone:
> “You need someone who understands your future, Kamau. Someone educated, someone who won’t sneak off like that…”
By Wednesday, Kamau had made up his mind: he would not go home in two weeks. Let her wonder. Let her feel what it meant to be taken for granted.
---
At home, the days crept by like dry leaves in a windless courtyard. Mama Njeri sharpened her tone at every turn.
“You call that porridge?” she barked one morning. “Even Wanjiku won’t drink that water you’re calling uji.”
Nduta swallowed hard and stirred in silence.
Instead of clashing, she turned to the fields. Her own shamba had weeds, but she dug hard, sweat dripping from her brow before the sun reached its peak. Then she crossed to Nyambura’s and even old Ngaruiya’s land, working for a few coins or food. She didn’t want to be home before evening. That house no longer felt like hers.
Wanjiku waited, quiet and watchful, often in the company of the neighbour’s daughter.
When Nduta returned late in the day, she cooked, bathed the child, and fell asleep before her head met the mat.
---
By the third Saturday, when Kamau had still not returned, a new worry began to stir.
Was he angry enough to abandon her? Was he with someone else?
Her chest tightened at the thought. No letter. No message. Nothing.
She sat by the edge of the bed one evening, holding Wanjiku who had fallen asleep in her lap. The kerosene lamp flickered as if whispering secrets she couldn’t understand.
Maybe it was time.
She needed to talk to Muthoni.
#Episode 7: The Distance Between Us
The days stretched longer than usual. Kamau hadn’t returned—not even for his usual bi-weekly visit. The silence was louder than any argument.
Mama Njeri, however, was quietly pleased. Her advice was working. Her son was finally listening. She hummed as she folded laundry, her smile subtle but unmistakable.
Nduta noticed it. She noticed everything.
Nduta wasn’t idle. Her hands were always busy—attending to people's farms,scrubbing the floor, washing clothes, cooking meals, tending to baby Wanjiku. But her mind was elsewhere. Worry clung to her like the dust on her apron.
Kamau’s absence gnawed at her. His silence was a wound that refused to close. And Mama Njeri’s constant slights made the house feel colder than it should.
“You missed a spot, or didn't your mother train you well ?" Mama Njeri said, pointing at the floor.
Nduta nodded, too tired to argue. Her back ached, her fingers were raw, and her heart was heavy.
In a college café miles away, Kamau sat across from a girl named Sheila. She was articulate, confident, and dressed in a crisp blouse that screamed ambition.
“So you’re studying History and Kiswahili?” Kamau asked, trying to sound interested.
“Yes,” Sheila replied. “And I don’t believe in wasting time on people who don’t know what they want.”
Kamau chuckled nervously. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind: “Find a girl who knows books, not just babies.”
But as Sheila spoke, Kamau found himself drifting. Her words were sharp, her tone cynical. There was no warmth. No softness. No Nduta. Would he still want to pursue another girl, was he ready for this?
Back home,Nduta was determined to do something about her situation,she would not let this kill her silently. She wrapped Wanjiku in a kitenge shawl and boarded a matatu to Limuru. The road was winding, the air cooler. She needed Muthoni. She needed someone who knew her before the shadows crept in.
Muthoni welcomed her with open arms as she did her best to conceal her shock. Her home smelled of eucalyptus and fresh chapati.
“You look tired,” Muthoni said.
“I’m tired of trying,” Nduta replied. “Trying to be enough. Trying to guess what Kamau wants. Trying to survive Mama Njeri.”
Muthoni handed her a mirror. “Look. Not at what they see. At what you see.”
Nduta stared. Her eyes were weary, but there was strength beneath the surface. A woman who hadn’t given up.
Not yet.
Episode 14: Seeds of Tomorrow
The sun, a brazen eye in the morning sky, cast long shadows as Nduta helped Muthoni prepare breakfast. Wanjiku, nestled in Muthoni’s lap, played with a wooden doll, her earlier tears forgotten. Yet, Nduta’s heart remained a heavy stone in her chest.
“My parents will welcome us, Muthoni,” Nduta said, her voice thin. “But it feels like… retreat. As if I am admitting defeat.”
Muthoni stirred the porridge, her gaze steady. “Sometimes, a strategic retreat is the bravest act, Nduta. It gives you space to breathe, to plan. To remember who you are without the constant battle.”
“But what about Kamau? What about everything we built?” Nduta whispered, the words catching in her throat.
“What was built on shifting sand will always crumble,” Muthoni replied gently. “You are not running from your past, Nduta. You are walking towards your future. And Wanjiku’s.”
Later that day, Nduta sought out the village elder, a wise woman named Nyawira, whose eyes held the wisdom of generations. Nyawira listened in silence, her gnarled hands smoothing the fabric of her skirt.
“Nduta, the world has a way of showing us where our true strength lies,” Nyawira finally spoke, her voice like rustling leaves. “You carry a child who calls you ‘Mama,’ and in that, you have a purpose stronger than any man’s pride. Go to your people. Let the soil of your birth nourish you. But do not forget the lessons learned here.”
Nduta left Nyawira feeling a fragile hope bloom within her. She would go home, but not as a broken woman. She would go to gather her strength, to seek counsel, and to figure out how to stand tall again.
Meanwhile, at Kamau’s homestead, the carefully constructed facade was cracking. Sheila, though now the undisputed woman of the house, felt a chill that even the warm sun couldn't dispel. Mama Njeri’s constant praise felt less like welcome and more like a cage, binding Sheila to a future she hadn't truly chosen.
Kamau, however, was a ghost in his own home. He moved through his days in a haze, the vibrant colors of life muted. The laughter that once filled the compound was gone, replaced by an unsettling quiet. His mother’s humming now grated on his nerves, a constant reminder of the emptiness Nduta and Wanjiku had left behind.
One evening, he sat by the dying embers of the cooking fire, the image of Wanjiku’s small, trusting face burned into his memory. He pictured her calling him “Baba,” her arms reaching. The pain was a physical ache, a gaping wound that Sheila’s sharp wit or his mother’s stern words couldn’t soothe.
“I made a mistake, Mama,” he murmured to the silent night, the words barely audible. “A terrible mistake.”
Mama Njeri, ever vigilant, overheard him from her hut. Her brow furrowed. This was not the obedient son she had groomed. This was a man burdened, haunted.
Nduta, embracing her daughter tightly on the journey to her parents' village, felt the echoes of her past—the comfort of familiar paths, the whispers of her ancestors. Kamau, staring into the flickering fire, felt the heat of a different kind of flame—the slow burn of regret.
Both were on new paths, uncertain of where they led. But as the first rays of dawn touched the land, both also felt, in their own ways, the stirring of new growth, the stubborn will to survive, and the quiet promise of tomorrow
Episode 15: The Weight of Silence
The final stretch of the path to her parents’ village was achingly familiar. Every bend in the road, every acacia tree silhouetted against the sky, was a memory. As the modest, well-kept huts of her childhood home came into view, Nduta’s steps faltered. Wanjiku, sensing her mother’s hesitation, tightened her grip on Nduta’s hand.
Her mother, spotting them from the doorway, let out a soft cry and rushed forward. “Nduta, my child!” She wrapped her arms around her daughter and grandchild, her embrace a fortress of unconditional love.
Nduta’s father emerged slowly, his face a mask of stern concern. He was a man of few words, his authority felt rather than heard. He looked at Nduta, his gaze sweeping over her weary face and the sleeping child on her back. “Karibu nyumbani,” he said, his voice deep and steady. Welcome home. It was not a question or an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. In that moment, the mountain of shame Nduta carried seemed a little smaller.
That evening, as they shared a simple meal, the silence in her parents' home was different from the one she’d left behind. It was a comfortable silence, filled with unspoken understanding, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension that had gripped Kamau’s homestead.
Back at that homestead, the silence was a weapon. Sheila sat across from Kamau, the untouched plate of food between them growing cold. Mama Njeri hovered nearby, her presence a constant, anxious hum.
“So this is it, then?” Sheila finally broke the quiet, her voice sharp as glass. “You will sit and stare into the fire like a ghost? You brought me here to be your wife, Kamau, not to watch you mourn the one you sent away.”
Kamau flinched but didn’t look at her. “It is not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” she retorted, standing up. “You made a choice. Your mother made a choice for you. Now you must live with it. Or are you a child still, letting regret eat you from the inside out while the world moves on?”
“Enough, Sheila!” Mama Njeri interjected, her tone sharp. “You do not speak to my son that way.”
Sheila turned to her, a bitter smile on her lips. “And you. You think you have won? Look at him. You have his body here, but his spirit is gone. You wanted a ‘better match,’ but you have broken the man.”
The truth in her words struck Kamau with the force of a physical blow. He looked up, his eyes finally meeting Sheila’s, and for the first time, he saw not a rival, but another person trapped in the wreckage he had allowed to be created.
Days later, Nduta was helping her father mend a fence at the edge of their shamba. He worked with a quiet, deliberate rhythm that soothed her restless spirit.
“The land remembers, Nduta,” he said, not looking at her. “It remembers the drought and the rain. It does not judge, it simply grows what is planted. You have good soil here.”
It wasn’t just about the farm. Nduta understood. He was giving her permission to start again.
“I have my hands, Baba,” she replied, her voice gaining strength. “And I have Wanjiku. That is enough to plant a new seed.”
Her father nodded once, a flicker of pride in his old eyes. He handed her a panga. “Then let us prepare the ground.”
That night, Kamau made a decision. The air in his hut was thick with the scent of Sheila’s resentment and his mother’s cloying disappointment. He could not breathe. Wanjiku’s voice calling “Baba” was the only sound in the crushing silence of his heart.
He stood up, his movement abrupt in the quiet room where Sheila was pretending to sleep.
“Where are you going?” she asked without opening her eyes.
“To find some air,” he said, his voice raspy.
He walked out of the hut and did not stop. He passed his mother’s hut, ignoring the shadow that flickered behind the curtain. He walked past the kraal, past the boundaries of the homestead, and out onto the dark path. He didn’t know where he was going. He only knew he could no longer stay in the home he had hollowed out himself.
The silence he left behind was heavier than any that had come before. It was the silence of finality. A silence that confirmed what both women now knew: the man they were fighting over was already gone.
Episode 16: Threads of Becoming
The morning sun spilled gold across the village, warming the dew-kissed earth. Nduta stood outside the local tailoring school, her fingers tracing the painted letters on the signboard. “Tumaini Tailoring Institute.” Hope. It felt like prophecy.
Inside, the hum of sewing machines mingled with laughter and quiet concentration. A woman in a crisp kitenge blouse approached her, eyes kind but discerning.
“You’re Nduta, yes? The one Mama Grace spoke of?”
Nduta nodded, unsure what to expect.
“She told us your story. Said you have an eye for detail and a heart that stitches healing into every thread. We have a scholarship slot. If you’re willing to learn, it’s yours.”
Nduta blinked, stunned. “I thought I’d need to apply…”
“You already did,” the woman smiled. “With your life.”
Wanjiku shifted on her back, her small fingers curling into Nduta’s shoulder. She let out a soft coo, her eyes wide and curious as they caught the colorful fabrics hanging in the window. Nduta kissed her forehead gently.
“One day, my little one,” she whispered. “Mama will make something beautiful for you.”
That afternoon, the quiet of Kamau’s homestead shattered.
He stormed in, dust rising behind him like smoke. Sheila was seated outside, shelling peas with mechanical precision. Mama Njeri watched from the doorway, her brows knitted in worry.
“Sheila,” Kamau barked, “pack your things.”
She looked up, unfazed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Go back to Nairobi. Or wherever it is you came from. This—this arrangement—it’s done.”
Mama Njeri stepped forward. “Kamau, think carefully. You cannot just—”
“I have thought,” he snapped. “And I’m done living in a house built on someone else’s pride.”
Sheila stood, her voice icy. “You think chasing ghosts will fix you? That sending me away will bring her back?”
Kamau’s jaw clenched. “No. But staying here will finish me.”
Mama Njeri’s voice cracked. “Kamau, you are my son. I only wanted—”
“You wanted control,” he said, softer now. “But I need peace.”
He turned and walked toward the gate, not looking back. Mama Njeri sank onto the stool, her hands trembling. Sheila stared at the horizon, her face unreadable.
That evening, Nduta sat beneath the acacia tree, sketching dress patterns in the dirt with a stick. Her father joined her, handing her a folded piece of paper.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Your enrollment form. I filled it in for you. You start Monday.”
She looked at him, stunned. “You did this?”
He shrugged. “You said you had your hands. I’m just making sure they have the tools.”
Nduta laughed, the sound light and full. Wanjiku stirred in her lap, reaching for the stick, her tiny fingers grasping it with fascination.
And somewhere on the road, Kamau walked
alone, the silence around him no longer heavy—but cleansing.
Episode 17: Threads of Becoming
The hum of treadle machines filled the Tumaini Tailoring Institute like a heartbeat. Nduta sat at her assigned station, her fingers guiding fabric with quiet precision. Wanjiku, now nearly two, slept soundly in a sling on her back, her breath warm against her mother’s shoulder.
The instructor passed by, nodding approvingly. “You have a steady hand,” she said. “And a good eye. You’ll go far.”
Nduta smiled faintly, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She had stitched many things in her life—clothes, wounds, broken dreams. But this was the first time she felt she was sewing a future.
Outside, Kamau stood by the window, watching. His shirt was rumpled, his eyes hollow. He hadn’t expected to find her here, not like this—focused, calm, radiant. The sight of Wanjiku nestled against her mother’s back made something inside him twist.
Mama Njeri approached quietly, her steps hesitant. “Kamau,” she said, her voice low. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I needed to see,” he replied. “To understand what I gave up.”
“She’s not yours to claim anymore,” Mama Njeri said, though her voice trembled. “You made your choice.”
Kamau turned to her, his face tight. “And you helped me make it. You pushed until I broke.”
Mama Njeri’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought I was protecting you. From shame. From struggle.”
“But you weren’t protecting me,” he said. “You were protecting your pride.”
Inside, Nduta felt the weight of their presence. She didn’t turn, didn’t flinch. She simply kept sewing.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped low, Nduta returned home to find a visitor waiting. A woman in a tailored blazer stood beside her father, holding a folder.
“I’m from the Women’s Empowerment Fund,” she said. “Mama Grace nominated you for our mentorship program. It includes business training, equipment grants, and access to a network of women entrepreneurs.”
Nduta blinked. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” her father said, his voice firm. “You have good soil. Now you have good seed.”
Nduta looked down at Wanjiku, who was now awake and reaching for the folder with tiny fingers. She laughed softly. “Then let’s plant.
Meanwhile, Kamau returned to his homestead to find Sheila gone. No note. No trace. Just an empty hut and a folded kitenge blouse left on the bed.
Mama Njeri sat outside, shelling beans in silence.
“She left?” Kamau asked.
“She did,” Mama Njeri replied. “She said she was tired of fighting ghosts.”
Kamau sat beside her, the silence between them no longer angry—but aching.
“I saw her today,” he said. “She didn’t look back.”
Mama Njeri nodded. “She doesn’t need to.”
Kamau looked at the horizon. “But I do.”
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