They say old Baraka got tired of being alone and bought himself a wife. Young just the way men like them added a third. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. The laughter was quiet, like distant thunder before the storm of malice, but no one dared say these things to his face. Baraka was respected, but feared. He was never one for easy smiles or small talk at the market.

Always walked with a straw, had pulled low over his eyes, and when he spoke, every word seemed heavier than his own body. That’s why the whispers stayed at the edges in the corners of homes, on the seamstress’s benches, in the riverside chatter between loads of laundry. A Z I M A on her end said nothing but she felt it. She knew. She caught fragments, noticed the sideways glances and twisted smiles.

Still, she kept washing, sweeping, harvesting. She didn’t want to be seen, but she didn’t want to disappear either. She existed in between, caught between a past that still hurt and a future that still frightened her. It was on one of those calm mornings that Baraka upon finding the corral fence broken asked the closest neighbor MZ Kum for help.

As they repaired the wood, they overheard a woman in the distance, her tone dripping with sarcasm. They say he even serves the maid coffee now. Maid or wife? Hard to tell. Baraka looked up but said nothing. He simply hammered harder as if the sound of the nail could drown out the insult.

Hours later, when he got home, Azima was sweeping the porch. He approached slowly and said without looking straight at her. They’re saying, “I bought a wife.” Azima froze. She didn’t know what to say. Her cheeks flushed, not from pride, but from shame. The word bought still stung. Even after everything, Baraka sighed, leaned against the door frame, and said firmly, “I bought her freedom. Nothing more.

” There was no performance in those words. No attempt to play hero, just the plain truth. Raw like dry earth before rain. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but for the first time, he chose to give one. Not for the people, for her. Azima gave a slight nod. And in that silent gesture, something aligned.

It wasn’t affection yet. It was respect, solid ground. In the days that followed, the gossip continued, and as usual, it morphed. They said Baraka gave the girl new clothes. that he let her sleep in late, that he wasn’t the type of man to raise anyone, so that situation must have another name. But there was something curious.

No one ever said it to his face. One afternoon, Mama Jalia, the same one who started spreading those venomous lines, tried to bring it up at the market while Baraka was picking out okra seeds, taking good care of the girl. Huh, Baraka? They say she’s already running the place. Baraka raised his eyes, stared at the woman for too long, heavy seconds, and said simply, “I take care of what’s mine,” and of other people’s freedom to dot.

Mama Jalia dropped her gaze, and never brought it up in front of him again. In the village, silence could speak louder than any answer. And slowly the jokes withered like plants without water, because there was no scandal, no secret, just a girl who now walked with her head held high. And a man who wasn’t ashamed to protect what the world tried to cast aside, and that kind of courage, even in silence, had always been stronger than the spiteful laughter of the neighbors.

The weather in Kiwania was unpredictable. The sun would scorch for weeks, and then suddenly a cold front would sweep across the mountains, bringing with it the damp wind that made the roof tiles sing at night. It was during one of these sudden changes that Azima began to cough. At first, a soft irritation, muffled into the back of her hand.

Then came the fever, uninvited, relentless, breaking her body into pieces that couldn’t be seen, only felt. The next morning she didn’t get up. The floor of her room, always clean, bore the footprints of forgetfulness. The water in the picture hadn’t been touched. The halfopen window let the cold wind dance over her sweaty skin. Baraka noticed her absence.

It wasn’t the silence of chores that caught his attention, but the silence of movement. He called out once, no answer, called again. Nothing. He pushed the door open with his fingertips like someone afraid of what they might find. Azimma was curled up in bed, face flushed, eyes half closed, breathing shallow, her hand hung off the edge of the mattress, trembling like a fragile branch in a storm. She said nothing. Neither did he.

Baraka went back to the kitchen, grabbed a clean cloth and a bucket of fresh water. He dampened the cloth and began to cool the fever the way he’d seen his grandmother do when he was a child. Swapping cloths, placing them on her forehead, then her neck, offering spoonfuls of thin porridge. No skill, no training, just will.

That first night, he slept sitting at the edge of her bed, eyes wide open, alert to the slightest movement. When Azima mumbled in fevered delirium, he whispered, “You’re staying. No need to run.” It was like talking to the air, but each word carried a quiet faith. The second night, she woke with a start.

Tried to sit up, but fell back onto the pillow. Her eyes wide, confused, unsure of where she was. Baraka held her hand firmly, but gently, “Easy, you’re safe. No one’s going to touch you here.” It was the first time he said, “Here,” with that tone, a hear that meant shelter, promise, solid ground. Azimma, even if she didn’t fully understand, closed her eyes and slept.