They didn’t rush back into the life they had before; there were no grand declarations, no sudden flood of texts or late-night calls. Instead, there were small, intentional steps. Coffee on Saturdays, a shared walk home from the bookstore, a silent agreement that they wouldn’t push for more than what felt safe.

She noticed the difference first, the way he listened without immediately trying to solve it. How he asked questions, not as an interrogation, but as an invitation. He noticed, too, how she no longer apologised for needing space, how she met his eyes without flinching when she spoke about the things that scared her.

One evening, they painted his living room together. It wasn’t planned, though she had mentioned how dull the walls looked, and he had said, “Pick a colour.” They ended up with soft sage green on their hands, faces, and somehow in her hair.

It was messy. It was imperfect. And it was theirs.

Later, as they sat on the floor eating takeout, she leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t make it into something heavier than it was. They just sat there, letting the moment be enough.

She thought about the note she’d left weeks ago. About how certain she had been that leaving was the only way to keep herself whole. And now, sitting here, she realised something: sometimes love needed to be torn apart just enough so it could be rebuilt with better bones.

He caught her smiling at nothing in particular, what? He asked.

Nothing, she said softly, “just… it feels different this time.” And it did, not like a fire blazing wildly, but more like a slow-burning lamp, steady, warm, and built to last.

Then came Tuesday, which felt unfair cos Tuesdays were supposed to be quiet, uneventful days.

The message came while he was at work, from an outsider, but about her. A mutual friend, someone who didn’t mean harm, mentioned seeing her with someone else, laughing and leaning in. That kind of leaning that used to belong to him.

He told himself not to spiral and not to read into things, but by the time they met for their usual Thursday coffee, the air between them already felt different.

She noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked, stirring sugar into her cup though she never actually added any.

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly, but nothing weighed it now. And she could feel it pressing against her chest. Finally, he told her, not with accusation, but with that hesitant edge of someone who doesn’t want to be wrong but needs to know.

She didn’t flinch. It was my cousin, she said, simply a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. We were planning my aunt’s surprise party, and apparently, we often lean when we talk.

Something in him unclenched and then something else, like shame, maybe slid in to take its place. He hated how easily his mind had reached for the worst version of the truth.

“You can ask me next time,” she said gently. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

And there it was, the test, not about trust in the broad but in the poetic kind of sense. But trust in the small, everyday moments where it’s easiest to build walls instead of asking questions.

They sat there, the silence between them not sharp this time, but soft, like a pause that promised more. It was raining, not the stormy kind, but that steady, silver drizzle that makes the world feel softer.

They walked without umbrellas, letting the damp settle into their clothes, their hair. Neither of them seemed to mind. He had been thinking for days about what she’d said that he didn’t have to carry it alone. It stayed with him, replaying in quiet moments like a song he hadn’t realised he knew the words to.

When they reached the bridge, she stopped. “Do you remember,” she asked, when I told you I don’t like making promises? He nodded. She had once said promises felt like cages, and she’d rather give someone her presence than her vows.

Well, she continued, reaching into her pocket, I still believe that, and I also believe some things deserve to be marked. She pulled out a small, old brass key, a little tarnished, but warm from her hand.

It’s to the box under my bed, she said, my journals are in there, my real ones. The pages I’ve never shown anyone. He stared at her, unsure what to do with the weight of it, not the key itself, but the trust it carried.

I’m not asking you to read them, she added. I just… want you to know you could, if you ever need to understand me when I can’t explain myself. He took the key, not because he wanted to open the box, but because it was her way of saying: Here. This is me. All of me.

And maybe that was the point. Sometimes trust wasn’t about grand gestures or final words. Sometimes it was about a small, old brass key, pressed into your palm in the rain, sealing a promise that didn’t need to be spoken.

Thank you for lending your time, your eyes, and maybe even a piece of your own heart to this journey. Stories breathe deeper when they are held by someone who feels them, and you’ve done just that. Wherever you are, may you find peace in your waiting seasons, and may you never forget some notes aren’t goodbyes. Sometimes, they’re the start of something new.

With warmth,
Temitope Olusola

It was raining the night the waiting broke, the heavy, relentless rain that made the city hum like a sad song. He was sitting on the couch, lights dim, scarf still folded on the coffee table, when there was a knock, three soft taps. Almost like she didn’t want to be heard. He froze, for twelve days, he’d imagined this moment in so many ways, running to the door, holding her, demanding answers, saying nothing at all. In the end, his legs moved before his mind caught up.

She was there. Hair damp, raindrops clinging to her lashes. A paper bag in her hands.

“I… made soup,” she said, voice small but steady.

The words were ordinary, but they cracked something open in him. He stepped aside without asking why she’d left or why she’d come back. The hallway light framed her as she entered, and for a second, it felt like the room exhaled.

They didn’t talk much over dinner. She ladled soup into his favourite mug, and he noticed her fingers trembling just slightly. Every glance between them carried a weight too fragile for sudden movements. When the dishes were cleared, she reached into her pocket and slid a folded piece of paper across the table.

“This one… is the real note,” she whispered.

He didn’t open it right away, because at that moment the waiting had ended not with answers, but with her sitting across from him again, soup on the stove, rain against the windows. Whatever the paper said, they would read it together.

The paper sat between them like a fragile truce.

She watched him with that unreadable expression, the one that made him feel both invited and held at a distance. He picked it up slowly, careful not to tear the edges, as though rushing might ruin something sacred.

Her handwriting was the same, looped, neat, just a little tilted to the right. But the words… they were heavier than ink.

I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you; I left because I didn’t know how to stay without losing myself. I’m still learning how to belong to you without disappearing in the process.

He read it twice the spaces between sentences seemed to say more than the words themselves.

“I thought I was losing you,” he murmured.

“You weren’t,” she said, fingers tracing the rim of her mug, but I was losing myself, and I was afraid you wouldn’t notice until it was too late. There it was, the truth, laid bare on the table between them, quiet, painful, and yet strangely tender.

He reached for her hand, and for a moment she didn’t move. Then, slowly, her fingers slid into his. I’m not asking for everything to be fixed tonight,” she said. “I’m asking if we can start again, differently this time.

The rain outside softened, almost as if it was listening. He didn’t promise forever. He didn’t promise it would be easy. But he squeezed her hand and nodded once.

Let’s start, he said, and for the first time in weeks, the air between them felt like a beginning, not an ending.

The kettle was still warm when he walked in, the faint curl of steam rising as though it had been waiting for him. The living room felt the same; her throw blanket folded neatly over the arm of the couch, the scent of her lavender hand cream lingering like a memory.

But she wasn’t there.

On the kitchen counter, tucked under the edge of the sugar jar, was a small folded paper. His name, in her looping handwriting, curved across the front. For a moment, he didn’t move. He just stared, his breath held between the space of knowing and not wanting to know.

When he opened it, the words weren’t sharp like he expected. They didn’t ache with endings or the finality of slammed doors. Instead, they were soft, almost trembling on the page.

"I’m not gone. I just need to find the parts of me I lost while trying to love you. I’ll come back if I can. Please water the plants.”

There was no date, no promise, no flourish at the end. Just her handwriting drifting off into the margin, as if she’d run out of space or courage. He read it again, slower this time, letting each word settle into the quiet. She hadn’t said goodbye. But she hadn’t said she’d stay either.

The kettle clicked as it cooled. He poured the water into a cup, the sound too loud in the stillness. Somewhere between the lines, he thought he heard her voice, not breaking, but pausing. It wasn’t the end. But it was a kind of waiting. And he hated how much waiting could feel like loss.

It had been twelve days since the note.

The plants by the window were greener than they’d ever been. He watered them every morning, just like she’d asked, though it felt less like care and more like holding on to a thread. The basil had started to flower, the leaves curling toward the light. He wondered if she’d notice, if she ever came back.

In the first few days, he expected a knock on the door, a message, even a forgotten sweater returned as an excuse to see him. But waiting had its quiet cruelty. It stretched time like taffy, each day sticky with what-ifs.

He caught himself listening for her footsteps in the hall, her hum in the shower, the small, absent-minded way she’d tap her fingers on the counter when thinking. The apartment wasn’t empty; it was full of echoes and memories that refused to fade.

One night, he found her scarf tucked behind the couch cushion. It smelled faintly of her rose and rain. He sat there with it in his hands far longer than he meant to, as though it might whisper the answers her note hadn’t given.

It wasn’t the end. But the waiting had begun to shape itself into something dangerous, something that felt like she was slipping through his fingers without even moving.

And every day he didn’t hear from her, he feared the truth: Maybe the note was a goodbye. She just hadn’t written it that way.

Then I hear a voice, a voice I would know anywhere. Grandma. “Bring him,” she says from the shadows. “We might as well tell him the truth… before he’s no longer in a position to hear it. The man shoves me forward, and I stumble into the open space in the middle of the basement. Grandma steps out of the shadows, her silk robe dragging along the damp floor, her pearl necklace gleaming in the dim light, her expression not angry, not concerned.... Just cold.

“Kobby,” she says softly, as though we’re meeting in the living room for tea. I told you there were parts of this family’s history you were not ready to hear when your mother died. I glance at Rose, who is trembling now, eyes darting between us. “What does she have to do with any of this?” I ask. My voice sounds foreign in my ears, tight, thin, ready to crack.

Grandma’s lips curl into a small smile. She is history. The man with the gun moves to stand beside her. This is not a love story, boy, this is a debt story. And debts are not erased just because you’ve decided to play the hero.

Grandma steps closer to Rose, runs a finger along her cheek. Rose flinches. “Her father,” Grandma continues, “ruined this family twenty-five years ago. Stole from us, lied to us and tried to destroy us and my daughter, who is your mother, died in the process. He took something from me I can never get back. And so… I took something from him.”

Her hand tightens on Rose’s chin “This beautiful, stubborn girl. ”My head spins. “You’ve kept her here… all these 3 years since the loss of her father, making her miserable? Why? He’s dead, is that not enough to atone for his sins. Grandma’s gaze turns razor-sharp. “Because I wanted him to feel powerless. Just as I did. But he died before he could come begging for her.”

She glances at me, almost amused. “Imagine my surprise when you brought me the perfect chance to make her suffering matter again when you told me about the proposal.”I look at Rose. She’s shaking her head, sobbing silently. “Please, Kobby,” she whispers. “Just go. Forget me.”

The gunman presses the barrel against my temple. “You heard the lady.” I stare at Rose. My Rose. The girl I thought was my beginning. Maybe she’s my ending. Grandma turns away. “Lock them both up. I’ll decide what to do with him in the morning.” The light flickers, the damp smell thickens, and I know this is the moment everything changes. Not for the better, not for love, but for survival. If survival is even still possible.

The door slams shut, and the sound of the bolt sliding into place feels like a sentence being passed. We are in a small stone room, barely lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The air is cold, metallic. Somewhere above us, water drips, steady and maddening. Rose sits in the far corner, hugging her knees, her face half in shadow. For a long time, neither of us spoke. Finally, I crouch beside her. “Rose… tell me the truth about all of it, please.

She doesn’t look at me. Her voice is a rasp. “You were never supposed to find me.”The words cut deeper than the cold. “What does that mean?” She pulls at the hem of her sleeve, avoiding my eyes. “I made a deal with your grandmother. Years ago, when my father was still alive, even though his health was already failing. I told her I would stay here, miserable, unmarried… if she promised not to hurt anyone else I love because I thought she would spare my father.

I blink at her. “Stay here? Rose, this isn’t staying, it's imprisonment.”Her lips tremble. “It’s survival.”Something sharp twists in my chest. “And all the times we were together? All the promises? Was that just” Her head jerks up, eyes glistening. “No. That was real. You’re the only real thing I’ve had in years. But loving you… That’s the one thing she would never allow.”

The drip of water above us feels like a clock ticking toward something inevitable. I reach for her hand. It’s ice cold. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t squeeze back either. She’s going to hurt you, Rose whispers. “She’ll use you to punish me. That’s how she works.”I want to tell her she’s wrong. I’ll find a way out. That love is enough.

But even in this dim light, I see it in her face that she’s already mourning something. Maybe me, her or both. Footsteps approach outside the door, heavy and purposeful as usual. Rose leans close, her breath warm on my ear.

“If she offers you a choice… don’t choose me.”Before I can ask what she means, the bolt scrapes again. The door creaks open, and Grandma steps inside, her smile small, sharp, and final. Grandma steps inside as though she owns the air we breathe, and maybe she does. Her perfume fills the room, heavy and sweet, masking the dampness. She doesn’t look at Rose at first. Only at me.

“You’ve grown,” she says softly, like she’s speaking to the child she used to command. “But you’re still reckless.”I don’t answer. My mouth is dry, and her eyes finally shift to Rose. “And you… You’ve broken the one rule I gave you.” Rose doesn’t move, but her silence is almost defiance.

Grandma clasps her hands in front of her. “I will not drag this out. You have two choices.” She looks at me. “One: You walk away now, leave this compound, leave her, and never look back. You go on with your life, and I will forget this ever happened.” Her gaze hardens. “Two: You stay, but if you stay… she suffers. More than you can imagine.” A sound escapes Rose, not quite a sob, not quite a plea. My heart is pounding, but it’s the kind of pounding that feels muffled, like my body already knows the answer but my mind refuses to hear it.

I force the words out. “Why, Grandma? Why can’t I love her?” “Because I said so,” she says, her voice low and deadly calm. “And because I do not forget where her bloodline comes from. That is enough for me.”Rose finally looks at me, her eyes shining with urgency. “Please… choose the first one.”It’s like being told to rip out my own heart with my bare hands.

Grandma takes a step closer. “I’ll give you until tomorrow at sunrise to decide, but now this hesitation will be taken as an answer.” She turns and leaves, the bolt sliding into place again. The silence that follows isn’t empty; it's suffocating. Rose doesn’t speak, nor do I. We just sit there, our thoughts loud enough to crush us both. And in that silence, I start to realise…No matter what I choose, I am already losing her.

I can’t sleep, Rose doesn't or at least she pretends to. Her back is next to me, she’s breathing steadily, but her fingers keep twitching like she’s holding onto something in a dream. The room is dark, but through the cracked shutter I can see the slow bleeding of night into morning. That faint, cold blue. The colour of surrender. I keep replaying her words. Choose the first one. Every time I hear them in my head, I feel my chest tighten. I want to scream, to shake her, to ask why she’s making it sound so simple when she knows it will kill me.

When the rooster crows somewhere far away, she sits up. “You need to go,” she says with no greeting, no softness, but with urgency. Her eyes are swollen, but dry. She’s cried all the tears she’s willing to. I try to speak, but my throat locks. I can’t find the version of “goodbye” that doesn’t taste like death.

Rose moves to the door and knocks twice, a signal. Moments later, the bolt slides, and one of Grandma’s men stands there, expressionless. She doesn’t even look at me as she says, “He’s ready.” I step past her, but I can’t stop myself from turning back. Just once. Her face is unreadable, like she’s already erased me from her life to make it easier to survive.

The man leads me out into the courtyard, the air is cool, the sky painted with the thin gold of early light. Grandma is there, seated in a wicker chair, a teacup balanced in her hand like a weapon. She doesn’t question my decision. The space beside me is answer enough.

“Good,” she says, then she sips her tea, the faintest smile curling her lips. I walk out of the compound. The gates close behind me with a clang that feels final. By the time I reach the main road, the sun is fully up. I keep walking, but my shadow is still back there, locked in a room with Rose, forever.

It’s been seven years. Seven years of pretending I chose the right thing. Seven years of business trips, hollow relationships, and a life that looks polished from the outside but feels like I’ve been sleepwalking inside it.

But today, I’m back. Grandma’s mansion is quieter now cos she’s dead, the air too still, the walls older. The next compound where Rose lived is overgrown, the gate hanging off one hinge. The paint is peeling, the flower beds strangled with weeds.

I knocked, but no answer. Then I knocked again, harder this time. An old groundskeeper eventually emerges from behind the house. His face is deeply lined, his voice rough with age. “You’re looking for the Mensah family?” he asks. “Yes… Rose. I’m here for Rose.”

He studies me for a long time before shaking his head slowly. “You’re late, boy. Too late.”My chest tightens. “What do you mean?” He sighs. “They left years ago. Her father passed. And… Rose” He swallows, glancing away. “She was married off by your grandmother not long after you left. The marriage didn't last. She… she wasn’t herself after. Got sick and didn’t recover.”

The words hang heavy between us. I feel my knees weaken. “When?” I whisper. “Four years ago.”Four years. Four years she’s been gone, and I’ve been alive in a world without her, not even knowing. The old man shuffles away, leaving me standing at the rusted gate.

I force my feet to move, heading toward the spot in the fence where I once climbed over to crash into her life. The wood is splintered now, the boards loose. I reach out, my hand brushing the rough grain. It feels smaller somehow, or maybe I’m just bigger. Older and emptier.

I close my eyes and try to hear her voice one more time. But there’s only the wind. When I open them, the sun is setting, that same slow bleed of light into darkness. This time, I won't fight it. I turn and walk away, leaving the fence, the house, and the ghost of Rose behind. But in truth, I know I’ll be carrying her forever.

After I heard their footsteps leaving, I went round to check Rose’s window, but it's locked. The only open way in is the kitchen door. I've seen it from our side before it’s unlocked. Inside, the air smells faintly metallic, almost like blood. The house is silent, but there’s a heaviness in it, the kind that presses against your skin.

I move quickly, memorising the halls from the few times I’ve been inside. Her room is upstairs, halfway up the staircase, and I hear a soft, stifled sob. It’s coming from behind a door at the end of the hallway. I go to it, press my ear against the wood. Rose’s voice was broken and trembling. She’s talking to someone. Please,” she whispers. “I told you, I’ll do what you want. Just… not him. Leave him out of this.

A man’s low laugh follows, That’s not your choice to make, The sound of a lock turning. Footsteps approaching the door, I don’t think. I bolt down the stairs and out into the garden, jumping the wall before they can open it. Back in my room, I sit in the dark, shaking. I've just realised Rose isn’t just in trouble; she's protecting me from it. I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear Rose’s voice trembling, begging, and that laugh low taunting laugh.

By morning, my mind is made up. I’m not staying away. Grandma’s driver thinks he’s dropping me at the club. I wait until we’re near the back streets, then slip out and take the long way to Rose’s compound. This time, I didn't jump the fence. I went through the old, unused side gate I once saw her gardener leave unlocked.

The house feels…wrong, too quiet. The curtains are drawn, the front door locked, but I circle to the back and find the kitchen window slightly ajar. One push, and I’m inside. It smells faintly of stale coffee and something bitter I can’t place. I keep my footsteps light as I move toward the stairs.

Rose’s room is my target. Maybe I can leave a note or something to let her know I’m here for her. The hallway feels colder than the rest of the house. I step carefully, listening, but hear nothing.

Her door is unlocked, and the first thing I notice is the mess. Her bed is unmade, clothes scattered on the floor, that’s not like her. Rose is always meticulous. I check her desk. The empty drawers are locked except for one; the bottom drawer slides open with a faint creak.

Inside is a single, yellowed envelope with my name on it. My throat tightens as I pull it out. The handwriting is hers. I open it slowly, trying not to tear the paper.

Kobby,
If you ever find this, it means something has happened to me. Don’t try to follow. Don’t try to save me. You don’t understand what they’re capable of. Please… for your sake, stay away. I love you always.

My hands shake so badly, the paper nearly slips from my fingers, and I hear a floorboard creak behind me. I turned into a stone-faced man. Only this time, he’s not just holding a pistol. He’s pointing it at me. I freeze, the gun is steady in his hand, his eyes cold, his expression unreadable. “Drop it,” he says, nodding at the letter in my grip. I hesitate. His finger tightens slightly on the trigger. The paper flutters to the ground. “Move.”He jerks the pistol toward the door. I obey, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Every step feels like I’m walking deeper into a pit I’ll never climb out of, as he leads me down the stairs, past the kitchen, and into a narrow corridor I’ve never noticed before. At the end is a steel door with a coded lock. He punches in a sequence without looking, and the door swings open to reveal… darkness. “In,” he orders.

I step inside my nose, wrinkles instantly damp, metallic, and something else. Something like rotting wood… or maybe not wood at all. The light flickers on, and my stomach turns. The walls are lined with chains. Rusted metal hooks. A stained table with straps and, in the far corner, a chair. Rose is sitting in it.

At least, I think it’s Rose. Her face is pale, lips cracked, eyes dull like she hasn’t slept in days. Her wrists are bound, ankles are tied to the chair legs. When she sees me, her eyes widen in horror. “Kobby no! I told you not to come!” I rush forward, but the man steps between us, gun still raised.

“You should’ve stayed away,” he says, voice calm, almost bored. “Now she’s not the only one with a debt to pay.” My mouth is dry. “What do you want from us?” He smirks. “From you? Nothing yet. From her? Everything.”

Rose shakes her head violently, tears streaming. “Please, let him go. He doesn’t know” Exactly,” the man interrupts, pressing the barrel of the gun against my chest. “Let’s keep it that way.”I heard footsteps approaching from somewhere beyond the basement, slower and heavier. The air feels thicker with every step.

She was and still is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. It was my mother's birthday, and I only wanted to visit her grave. Grandma wouldn’t let me because the cemetery was “no place for me.” But I had heard the whispers in the servants’ quarters about the flowers that still grew fresh on her headstone, about the note someone always left there every year.

That day, I outran my bodyguards and jumped over our fence into the next compound, landing clumsily on a bed of hibiscus shrubs, crashing into Rose. She was furious, yelling, scratching my arms with her nails, her eyes flashing like storm clouds over the sea. At first, I was frozen, just staring at her face, which was… too perfect, like it didn’t belong in real life.

When she started screaming for my bodyguards, panic jolted me into action. I begged her to let me hide. I don’t know why she agreed. Maybe she pitied me, or liked the thrill of rebellion. Either way, she led me into her room, a room that smelled of jasmine and rainwater and that was the day everything changed.

We became inseparable. I never tried to run away again because I had my Rose just next door. She made me feel lucky, alive… seen. She is my first crush, first kiss, first everything.

And now, it’s time to make her my wife. She’s always insisted we keep our relationship secret for our good, but now I’m ready to show the world our love. Besides, her family is just as wealthy as ours. I place the ring back inside its box after staring at it and tuck it deep into my suitcase. I am coming to make you my wife, Rose.

The car glides through the gates of the next compound, the one I used to sneak into as a boy. It looks… different now, the walls freshly painted, the garden trimmed with surgical precision. But something about it feels colder, like the air itself is holding its breath.

I tell the driver to wait. My heart is hammering, not from nerves, but from anticipation. It’s been three years since I last saw Rose since her father died. I have been occupied with business trips, family obligations, and Grandma’s health, but today, none of that matters. I walk up the marble steps and press the bell.

When the door opens, it’s not Rose. It’s a tall man in a perfectly tailored suit, his face carved in stone. His eyes sweep over me like he’s memorising my entire existence.“Yes?” His voice is deep, “I’m here to see Rose,” I say with a smile that feels slightly too wide. His brows twitched. “Rose doesn’t take visitors.”

I chuckled, "Go tell her it’s me she’ll want to see.” He doesn’t move, doesn't blink. “She’s not here.” It’s a lie. I know it. In the same way, I know my heartbeat. “Look”, I start, but then I hear it.

Light footsteps, but familiar and then she appears.

Rose.

She’s wearing a pale silk dress, her hair loose like it always is when she’s at home. But there’s something in her eyes, a quick flicker of… fear? Regret?

“Rose,” I breathe. Her lips curve into a smile, but it’s the kind of smile people wear at funerals. “What are you doing here? I glance at the suited man, who hasn’t moved. “I came to see you. To… talk.”

Her gaze drops to my suitcase at my side, the one with the ring box inside. For a moment, I think she might run into my arms like she used to. But instead, she says softly, “You shouldn’t have come. It’s like ice water down my spine. “What do you mean?”

She steps closer, close enough for me to smell her perfume, jasmine and rainwater, the same. But her voice is a whisper. “Go home. Before it’s too late.” And then the suited man shuts the door in my face. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the wood grain, my knuckles itching to knock again.

But I couldn’t, I’m not sure if she’s protecting me… or herself. I went back home, but didn’t sleep all night. Rose’s voice keeps replaying in my head that trembling whisper: “Go home. Before it’s too late.” Too late for what?

I’ve known her for years. Rose doesn’t scare easily, but last night was different; she looked like someone who’d seen a ghost… and was still hearing it breathe. Finally, it’s morning, and I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going home until I know the truth. Is she married? Or is that why she hasn’t returned any of my letters in 3 years?

I started with a walk around the neighbourhood, lingering near the next compound like I’m just taking in the fresh air. But my eyes are on the house. From this angle, I notice something I never saw before: small security cameras. Not unusual for a wealthy family, except… There are too many.

One for the gate, another for the garden, two more near the windows. Paranoia-level coverage. I’m about to keep walking when I hear a voice behind me. “You looking for trouble, boy?” I turned immediately. It's old Nana Kweku, the gardener who’s worked for our family since before I was born. He’s standing there with his watering can, eyes darting towards the next compound like it’s cursed ground.

“What do you mean?” I ask casually, and he shakes his head, lowers his voice. “That house… It’s not the same since her father died 3 years ago, but I was home for his funeral, and I didn’t notice any changes, I replied. Strange people are coming and going at night. No laughter anymore. The girl,” he pauses, glancing around before leaning in, “she’s not free.”

Something sharp twists in my chest. “Not free? How? Who is that man? ”He steps back quickly, like he’s already said too much. “Forget her, Kobby, some doors, once you open them, you can’t close.” Before I can ask more, he walks away, head down.

That night, I parked my car down the street, out of sight. If Rose won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll find out for myself. Around midnight, the lights in the next compound start going out one by one, until the whole place is dark. Then, just as I’m about to give up, a black SUV pulls up to the gate. Two men in dark suits get out. One is the same stone-faced man from before. The other… carries a heavy, locked briefcase, and they’re let in without a word. I watch as they disappear into the house, and fifteen minutes later, they come out without the briefcase.

Something is happening inside that house. Something dangerous, and then I see her, from an upstairs window, Rose is standing there in the dark, looking straight at me. Her lips mutter three words. I can’t hear them, but I know what she said. “Please. Leave now.”

I wait until the neighbourhood is sleeping, even the crickets sound half-asleep tonight. The wall between our compound and Rose’s isn’t that high. I've jumped it before, but tonight, it feels taller, as if it knows I shouldn’t be crossing.

I land softly in her garden, crouching in the shadows, no lights, no sound except the faint rustle of leaves. I make my way to the side of the house, where I know her bedroom window should be. I’m just about to try it when I hear voices, not loud, just a low, sharp conversation from somewhere inside.

I follow it, careful not to break a twig. It’s coming from the far end of the house. The window there is slightly open. Two male voices, one is deep, controlled, and the other is rough, & impatient. “She hasn’t said a word,” the deep voice says. “But she knows, you can see it in her eyes, the rough one snorts. “Then maybe it’s time she understands what happens to people who know.”

My stomach turns cold, a chair scrapes against the floor, someone gets up and approaches closer, right toward the window. I duck behind a hedge, heart hammering. The curtains shift, and for a moment, I see him. The stone-faced man again. Only this time, his right hand is wrapped around a pistol. I force myself to stay still until he goes back inside. He said to the other It’s the breeze, no one is there.

He didn’t call for two days. I packed my bag twice and unpacked it once, booked a bus ticket & cancelled it. I sat by the window of my apartment with a half-cold cup of tea and the weight of almost leaving pressed against my chest.

Was this the kind of silence that means “I need space”… Or the kind that means “I don’t know how to say goodbye”? I didn’t know, so I waited.

When his message finally came, it was short.

“Come. I need to see you.”

No emojis or explanation, just a location pin. It was his father’s grave.

I wore a soft blue dress, the one he once said made me look like “a morning prayer.”

When I arrived, he was already standing there with his shoulders straight, but his head bowed like a man at war with himself. I approached slowly with no words.

He looked at me, eyes rimmed red but dry. “I brought you here because this is the last time I let someone who is no longer alive dictate the course of my life.”

He exhaled…

“I loved my dad. I love my mother. But I love you too, Abuto. And if I have to lose one to keep the other, I choose you.” He knelt by the grave, rested his hand on the marble.

“Forgive me, Papa,” he whispered. “But this is my story now.”

Later, we walked through the cemetery hand-in-hand, saying nothing, moments where silence speaks more truth than words and in that silence, I felt the shift.

The storm didn’t end, but it softened and created space for hope.

A week later, we sat with his mother. She didn’t say much, sipping her tea slowly, like it gave her time to calculate which parts of her tradition she was willing to bend.

Finally, she said, “I don’t know how to unlearn what I’ve always believed.”

I nodded. “I know.” “But I do know that my son hasn’t smiled in days. And now, he’s smiling.” She didn’t give a blessing, and she didn’t curse us either, but it was a start.

We left her house in the rain, and the drenched clothes felt like renewal.

Maathai looked up and smiled, “I think the sky’s trying to say something.”

I laughed through wet lashes. “What?”

“Maybe it’s time to stop refusing the rain. And in that moment, we stood there drenched, smiling, stubborn in our love and finally choosing our own story.

Not perfect nor painless, but real and ours.

There are some things Maathai never speaks of, like why he still wears his father’s watch, even though it stopped ticking the year he turned seventeen.

Or how he avoids walking past the old courthouse downtown because that’s where his father collapsed on the steps, gripping his chest and whispering a name no one ever caught. Or how he keeps a bottle of 1972 whisky unopened, untouched.

His grief is neat, folded and buttoned up, but it follows him everywhere and today, it sits between us in the car like an unwelcome guest. We’re parked outside a seafood spot, but no one feels like eating.

“She told me about the riots,” I said softly. He flinches, then looks at me.

“I figured she would.”

“I didn’t know your grandfather…”

He interrupts, “My grandfather was hard. He raised my mom like she was a soldier, not a daughter. She spent her life trying to earn his affection, only to realise it came with conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“Obedience, Silence, Kukuyu husband, Kukuyu children & Kukuyu legacy.”

He finally turns to me.

“She broke one rule by marrying my dad, which she paid for. And she’s scared I’ll pay for it too.”

We sit in silence.

I think about how much trauma gets passed down because no one cleans it before they hand it over.

I ask, “Is that why you haven’t said anything to your uncle?”

He closes his eyes briefly. “He’s the clan head now. I owe him an explanation.”

I raise a brow. “Do you?” He shrugs. “In my culture, it’s not just marriage. It's an alliance, politics, family and reputation. He sighs.

“But I want you, Abuto.”

His voice cracks when he says it. “And that should be enough,” he adds.

It should. But it isn’t. Not here. Not now.

We walked into the restaurant anyway, when the waitress asked if it was a celebration, Maathai paused for a beat too long before smiling. “Yes,” he lied.
“We’re celebrating… progress.”

I want to believe him that standing in love when the world demands you sit down is something to toast.

But that night, after he drops me off, I cry in the shower quietly, salty sobs that carry no sound. I wonder if love is enough to raise the dead because we’re not just up against prejudice but against memory & ghosts.

And Maathai hasn’t let his father go.

The first time I met Maathai's mother, I was wearing yellow. I remember because she looked at me from head to toe, her eyes pausing on my gele as if it had personally offended her, and her remark was, “Bright colours suit bold women.”

She said it like a compliment, but the silence that followed made it feel more like a diagnosis. I laughed politely and said, “Thank you, ma.”

Now I understand what she meant: bold enough to believe you could belong here. Bold enough to walk into a house where you were never invited. Bold enough to love a man whose mother will never clap for you at your wedding.

Her name is Zawadi, which means "noblewoman." But to me, it sounds like thunder wrapped in Ankara.

She’s regal, articulate, and brilliant, a retired literature professor with a voice like silk and a tongue sharp enough to cut glass.

I had imagined we would connect two women who loved words, culture and faith.
But we’re from different pages entirely. And today, I’m on her veranda again, not because I want to be, but because I need to know if there’s truly no way forward.

She opens the door. No smile.

“Abuto.”

“Good afternoon, ma.”

She nods stiffly and motions me in like someone letting a cat into the house when it’s raining, not out of love, just mild decency. I sit. She remains standing.

“You’re here to plead your case?” she asks.

“No, ma. I’m here to understand your heart.”

This makes her pause.

“My heart?”

“Yes.”

She walks to the armchair and sits with her back straight and her dignity dressed in silence. She takes a long breath.

“Do you know what it's like to watch your son abandon legacy?” she says.

I blink. “Is that what you think he’s doing?”

She folds her hands.

“My husband, Mzee, was nearly disowned for marrying me. He came from a line that believed tradition was law. But he loved me enough to stand against them. I thought we were starting something new. But then he died, and I was left with the burden of raising Maathai in a world that still spits on what doesn’t fit.”

I say nothing. Just listen.

“He’s all I have… You see love as a cure… I see it as fire… beautiful but consuming. It doesn’t erase culture. It doesn’t rewrite memory.”

“I’m not trying to erase anything, ma.

She leans forward. “You are Lou, Abuto.”

“You think I care about that?” I ask quietly. She smiles, bitterly.

“You don’t have to, but I do. Because I know history. My father was beaten during the riots in ’79. Beaten by a man who called himself your brother. My cousin lost a job because her name gave her away. And now you walk in here and expect me to forget what it cost to survive?”

“I’m not that history,” I whisper.

She stands again. “No. But you come from it.”

“I have come to understand, and I think I do now. But understand me, too, ma. I love your son not as a rebellion or weapon. Just as a woman who saw light in a man and wanted to walk beside it.”

She stares at me and for a second, I almost think she might cry.

She straightens her scarf.

“Then I suppose we’re both asking for the impossible.”

I nod and I leave.

In the car, I exhaled the breath I was holding. I didn't win, but I didn’t lose. I just… existed, bravely, in front of the storm.

Somewhere between tradition and love, I’m still trying to find home.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Maathai and I have to build from scratch.

Even if the rain still refuses to fall.

I haven’t heard from Abuto all day.

And that's loud.

Not the kind of loud that comes with shouting or anger, but the kind that feels like standing alone in a room where you used to hear laughter. She’s never been the one to stay quiet when something’s bothering her. She talks, even if her voice shakes. She writes, even if it hurts. But today, nothing.

No messages. No calls. No “I’m fine.” Not even the default emoji she uses when she doesn’t want to talk but still wants me to know she’s alive.

And I know why.

I don’t blame her.

But God, I hate this silence.

I scroll through our last chat again, the one from last night.

“Don’t lose faith in us.”

Left to unread.

I get into my car and drive back to her place, to the woman who held my hands yesterday in that car, holding back tears like they were intruders.

I park, take a breath, and knock.

Then the door creaks open slowly, deliberately, and here she is.

Still soft, still her “Hey,” I say. She doesn’t reply, just steps aside so I can enter.

The living room smells like cinnamon tea, half-written notes on the table, the pen still uncapped. She’s been writing, but she hasn't finished. Or maybe she couldn’t.

I begin. “I’m not changing my mind, my love” Abuto doesn’t look at me.

She turns to face me, waiting. I exhale and continue

“My mother said you’ve bewitched me.” That makes her laugh, but in a painful way. More of a sigh than a laugh.

“She must think I’m better at magic than I am.”

I want to tell her she is magic, just not the kind my mother’s afraid of. Instead, I ask, “Are you okay?”

“I’m… alive.” Her answer is honest but heavy.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I say. “I’m not asking you to fight your mom, Maathai, but I won’t beg to be accepted either.”

Her voice doesn’t tremble, but mine almost does.

“You’re not the problem, Abuto. This is about history. Tribal scars. Things that don’t belong to us but still bleed through us.”

She nods, I know (Her response). She walks to the window and pulls the curtain aside just enough to peek out. “She made you choose, didn’t she?” she asks without turning.

“Yes.”

“And?”

I swallow hard. “I chose you.”

She turns then. Looks straight at me.

“I needed to hear that. Not because I doubted you. But because I needed to remind myself, I’m not asking for too much.”

“You’re not.”

We sit in the quiet again, but this time, it's different; there’s grief, but something has shifted. Before I leave, she says softly, “She’s your mother. I won’t make you hate her.”

“I don’t hate her,” I say. “But I’m learning to love you louder.”

Abuto walks me to the door.

“I’m scared,” she admits. “Me too.”

We both know this isn’t over.

But tonight, for the first time, we’re not pretending it’s simple. We’re not pretending at all.

I’ve always believed in the kind of silence that heals. The kind that comes after laughter, or just before a kiss. But the silence sitting between us now is not that kind.
It’s heavy and mournful.

We’re back at his apartment. The drive here had been long, quiet, filled only with the sound of the car engine and Maathai's fingers drumming nervously against the steering wheel. Now, we sit in his living room like two strangers caught in a moment neither of us asked for.

He walks to the window and pulls the blinds down halfway, then back up again, like maybe controlling the light will help him maintain this outcome.

“I didn’t know she still felt that way,” he mutters, voice thick.

I say nothing. (What do you say when someone’s mother looks at you like a sealed fate? When she uses the word “tribe” like a curse, like a line drawn in permanent ink?)

Maathai sighs. “You know... she told me stories when I was younger. About the war. About betrayal. About what she lost. I thought time had mellowed her, but it hasn't.”

He turns to me. “Do you... Still want this?”

That question hangs, still want this?

Do I still want to walk into a home where I will always be met with resistance?
Do I still want to hold the hand of a man I’m slowly watching crumble under the weight of family?
Do I still want to hope, to love, to stay?

I look at him, “Yes,” I whisper. “But I don’t want to be your rebellion.”

Maathai walks over. “You’re not. You’re... my peace.” He sits beside me, fingers grazing mine.

“I just need time to talk to her again. Give me a week.”

I nod. He doesn’t need to know I’ve started packing my emotions, just in case.

And suddenly, like a crack in the silence, my phone buzzes.

It’s a message from my mother with just three words: “Come home. Now.”

I freeze.

Maathai sees the look on my face. What is it? He asked.

I swallow, blinking away the storm. “I think… the war’s just begun.”

I stand by the door and eavesdrop.

It’s not something I’m proud of, but right now, I just need to hear… something. Anything that will help me make sense of the shift in the air from the woman who had sounded so gracious over the phone just two weeks ago.

“Maathai,” her voice slices through the silence like a hot blade through palm butter. “What is the meaning of all this?”

I stiffen.

“Why are you being like this?” he asks her. There’s pain in his voice, but he’s still measured, still my Maathai, the one who folds his clothes before losing his temper.

“I’m not being difficult,” she replies. “I’m being truthful.”

“Which is…?”

“You cannot marry her.”

My heart drops.

“No son of mine is ever marrying from that tribe or any other.”

I lean in closer. The words taste like rusted metal in my mouth. “But Mom, why?” Maathai is pleading now. “She’s the one I love.”

Never! Then find someone else to love, because I am not accepting this one. Not today, not tomorrow. There are equally good Kikuyu women, maybe even better!”

I want to stop listening. I do. But the words have tied invisible strings around my limbs. I am frozen, a bystander in my own life.

“She’s the one I like, Mom. I don’t want anyone else.”

“Impossible. I will not accept a Lou as a daughter-in-law!”

Silence. Then a low gasp. I don’t know if it was his or mine.

“You’re being irrational, Mom,” Maathai says, the tremor in his voice now obvious. “You of all people should know better. You’re educated. You’ve travelled. You’ve"

“Me? Irrational?” Her voice hardens. “Call it what you want. I’ve said my own. And see? She hasn’t even married you yet, and she’s already turned you against me, your mother!”

My throat tightens.

“She’s done nothing wrong, Mom,” he says, weaker now. “She deserves a chance.”

“Then it’s her or me,” she says. “Let me know when you’ve made your choice. I have nothing else to say.”

There’s a long pause.

A breath.

A heartbeat.

Then the door opens. Bangs shut.

Bitterly, my chest feels pregnant with all the words I may never get to say. I stroll toward the car we came in. Each step feels like a betrayal of my hope.

Another door bangs behind me.

Footsteps.

He’s coming.

I sit in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the trees across the compound. I stare at their leaves fluttering like they have no idea someone’s world just cracked in two.

He slides into the driver’s seat. His shoulders slumped, and his energy collapsed into itself. The usual light in his eyes is gone. What remains is… fatigue.

“I know you heard everything,” he says.

It’s not a question. But I nod anyway.

“I’m sorry you had to hear all that, Abuto,” he says. “My mother… she’s not a bad person. I promise I’ll sort everything out.”

I nod again. Smile, but the kind of smile that says, I don’t believe you, but I wish I could. He takes my hand and squeezes it.

I don’t squeeze back.

He starts the car, and I look back at the house one more time. Its orange walls glow gently in the evening sun, warm and cruel at once. Who knows? It could be the last time I ever see it.

As we drive off, I let the tears fall freely. They trace the curves of my cheeks like lost children searching for home. I bite my lower lip and whisper to no one in particular.

“Why does it have to be this hard… to love?”

To be continued…