SILENCE DIDN'T SAY...
Prejudice dressed in ancestral tradition, but what do you do when your love doesn't fit your lineage's expectations?
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.