Nyogokuru’s house sits on the sun-kissed hills of Nyanza, amidst the blooming jacaranda trees and the humming of birds in the air. I sit on my bed and scribble in my almost-tattered, yet nearly exhausted notebook, noting down daily happenings from my window view. My hands move quickly and effortlessly, translating the views into a stream of words that mirrors the flow of the stream that runs behind the house. My heart dances to the rhythm of words as they run through my mind, and my imagination soars beyond the terracotta rooftop. My heart thumps impatiently, eager to put all of the words on paper. It is my therapy to heal from the event that happened back home in Kigali. I stare outside my bedroom window, allowing the sun’s rays to illuminate my face and the cold air to rustle through my thick hair. Then, I close my eyes for a few seconds and immerse myself in deep thoughts.
Sometimes, the view I catch through my window is puffy clouds with a few strikes of lightning that threaten rain as planes manoeuvre through them. The planes might land in Kigali, my home city, where the incident first occurred. Now, I confine myself to my grandmother’s three-bedroom apartment in Nyanza. Most of the time, my means of escaping boredom is to watch a busy spider weaving its web at one corner of my room’s ceiling to pass the time or stare out my bedroom window at people going about their daily lives.
I usually peep out the window to admire Shema who is always working in Mr. Mugwaneza’s flower garden across the street. He whistles upbeat tunes now and again while tending the flowers. Today, he is busy pruning and shaping the hedges like a wall. He is slender and tall—perhaps his father’s traits. Periodically, he takes off the face mask he has on to inhale fresh air and then returns to tending without hesitation. It is almost like a master giving his servant a break after every nine minutes of work. My curious brown eyes rest on his half-naked figure, dripping with sweat, oblivious to my affection. It seems he can sense someone intently staring at him from a distance. He turns, looks up and catches sight of me. My heart skips a beat as our eyes lock for a moment amidst the sounds of chirping woodpeckers. He gives a gentle nod, and I wave back shyly in response. But it is not a normal wave. A haze of heat rushes through my body. I feel like I am turning violet-mauve. But in a flash, I recall the incident from home and shrug off the feeling of butterflies in my stomach. I pick up my notebook and continue writing. This time, my mind is dictating the words faster than my fingers can write. Then suddenly, my mind goes blank. The scene begins to replay like a movie in the cinema, but this time slowly.
Sudden laughter echoed through the empty hallway. Bed sheets rustled softly, evidence of their crispness. Whispers of dirty words. The room was filled with the deep moaning of two voices. I recognised the voice of my father, but not the other. But I knew it wasn’t Mother’s. I peeked through the slightly open mahogany door to the bedroom. The now-crumpled white cotton sheet covered two bodies snuggled in each other’s arms, their legs entangled around each other’s. I can’t erase the memory of seeing them together in bed. Discovering my father’s engagement with another woman was like a dagger that pierced my soul and left a deep, bleeding wound unable to heal. If I had not been there and seen it all with my own eyes, I would not have believed it, no matter from whose mouth. The man who had taught me about loyalty and integrity was now a stranger who lived in my memories. I was scarred for life.
One. Love is a time-waster. It causes blindness and betrayal.
Two. Blindness. We cannot see past each other’s flaws and faults.
Three. Betrayal. We have such deep trust in each other that it’s easy to throw dust into our eyes. When we blink and attempt to get the dust out of our eyes, we only feel the pain.
Love is an illusion, or so I thought.
I close my book and tuck it beneath my pillow.
Mother recovered from the incident quicker than I thought. At first, the weight of my father’s extramarital affair took a toll on her. She’d normally wear a black loose dress around the house, like a mourner, except when she had company. She’d roam the apartment perpetually in deep thought, with her phone clasped firmly in her hand as if waiting for an emergency call. Bitterness coated her heart, snatching away her appetite. Her breasts sagged, her neckline and collarbones were visible, and her dress hung loosely around her nearly invisible hourglass figure. Whenever she’d visit me in my room, I’d stare blankly into space while she spoke. My feelings had grown numb at the time. I was always consumed with rage. Perhaps I should have pounced on the woman and beaten her to a pulp on that fateful day. It would have seemed like she had won a jackpot of beatings. My heart bled, much like my mother’s. We needed time to heal. We spoke, but not often. We are not enemies; we are far from that. Giving each other space was the healthy therapy we subscribed to.
That scene from our home in Kigali was traumatic for the sixteen-year-old me. Sweet sixteen was sour. Bitter. Following their separation, I felt uneasy around my father. So, I followed Mother to my grandmother’s house, which she inherited upon her death a year after we moved in.
Now, I am eighteen. We continue to live in Nyogokuru’s house. We eat from the same pot. We laugh. We cry. We gossip. We curse the other woman for creating division in our once warm and loving home.
The sun is high in the sky again, casting its warm rays on the town. As midday approaches, it starts to hammer down on passersby. I stare out the window, my eyes scanning every nook and cranny. The street is congested with vehicles stuck in traffic and honking at one another. And the murmuring of voices from passersby fills the air like angry, boiling water. The air has a fresh, somewhat damp feel as a cold breeze intermittently passes through. From about half a mile away, at the bus station, I can smell Mama Ingabire’s fried snacks. Her fresh mizuzu makes the air so ripe. I inhale the aroma; saliva floods my mouth, and my craving for fresh mizuzu grows.
Across the street, an obituary poster on a graffiti wall catches the attention of two elderly women. Perhaps of a friend. They look worried. Was it for their friend’s death, or for their fear that death would soon knock on their doors too? I wonder.
Adjacent to where the older women stand, a group of children emerge from Mr. Ngabo’s confectionery holding one mandazi each. Their faces beam with joy as they sing and hop in a symmetrical line along the shortcut route to the local market. And at one corner of the street lies the town’s drunkard, who, as always, has passed out from his habitual drinking sprees.
I shift my focus to Mr. Mugwaneza’s house across the street. He sits on his porch, reading an old newspaper and enjoying a hot mug of Masala Chai. I know it is Masala Chai because at his wife’s funeral, he disclosed that Masala chai, brewed with fresh cow milk and flavoured with a masala blend of ground ginger, cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, and black peppercorns, was his wife’s favourite, and he would always drink it in her honour. He met Shreesha, his wife, in Mumbai when he was an expat working as a financial auditor. She was an Indian born into a devout Hindu household that strictly forbade intermarriages. Her parents, steeped in tradition and religion, whispered of marriage to their daughter to a family friend. Regrettably, the lovers fled from Mumbai to Nyanza to start life together after her parents rejected Mr. Mugwaneza’s marriage proposal and dowry. They never had children of their own, but they stayed devoted to each other. Even after her demise, the poor old man proved his loyalty by staying alone—no wife, no side chicks. My father is nothing like him. He cheated in broad daylight, with his full chest, and never felt embarrassed. I see Shema coming in through the open, wooden gate to the widower’s house, fully prepared for today’s task. I watch as he takes off his shirt and grabs a helmet and a facemask. My heart leaps. I withdraw from the window, purposefully steering clear of any potential visibility.
Instead, I grab my purse and walk to the parlour. I am leaving the house for the first time in months, aside from stepping out on a few occasions to talk with Shema. I am going shopping with my mother. She usually goes shopping for food on weekends and stuffs the fridge, freezer, and kitchen cabinets with luxury foods previously only admired on the shelves of Mulinja Centre, then runs her personal errands before returning home to prepare us dinner.
These past few months, Mother has been staying out until midnight and returns home feeling all giddy, drunk, and full of energy, like a vibrant child. Her grieving days were shorter than expected. She usually comes home with a particular company. From all indications, it is a man. However, my curiosity isn’t fueled enough to uncover his identity yet, even though his voice and fragrance are familiar. It bears a striking resemblance to a particular scent from Kigali where Mother used to work from home. Those were the days when her clothes had the same fragrance. But I cannot put my finger on it.
We drive to Mama Ingabire’s spot and buy a pack of mizuzu. We sing along to Urban Boys on the radio as we munch on the snack on our way to the supermarket, eight kilometres away from home. We grab a trolley and pick up two packs of ripe tomatoes, a gallon of milk, and a crate of fresh quail eggs before spotting an average-height mulatto with flecked hazel eyes, a lovely face, and a neat moustache. He has a beautiful crop of hair with layered curls of smooth, ebony hair, the outcome of careful maintenance, definitely with a brush and Vaseline. He smiles and waves at my mother. She suddenly turns violet-mauve. The feeling I once felt when I stared through the window at Shema’s physique in Mr. Mugwaneza’s garden. Mother tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling sheepishly at him.
He slowly pushes his half-filled trolley towards us, beaming with smiles all the way. She exhales deeply and straightens up to show off the best possible version of herself. I eye her mysteriously. As he speaks to her, he grows receptive, and for a brief moment, I skim through the shopping list as if I’ve overlooked an item. Naturally, I watch them from the corner of my eye, like a hawk stalking its prey. They exchange coded messages, their eyes betraying their intentions. I watch the adults squirm and playfully touch each other for minutes. I listen to Mother’s infectious giggle and the man’s persistent flirting until I cough. I observe the subtle glance exchanged between Mother and the man.
Mother abruptly returns to reality and gestures towards me. She introduces me as her daughter. I mean, it is evident that I am her spitting image. Her ebony skin and slender waist stood in stark contrast to her broadened hips and thick curly hair, which naturally coil into little gorgeous nods. He shakes my hand softly, and there appears to be a spark. His palm is warm and soft, like a baby’s buttocks. I now understand the intensity of Mother’s emotions around this man. And he sounds and smells familiar.
“That man nearly became your father. But he married a Ugandan lawyer after he learned I had settled with your father,” Mother whispers to me as we wave at the man until he’s out of sight.
“His name is Shema. Mr. Shema Kamanzi,” she continues, causing my eyes to widen with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. Mother and I have something new in common—a “friend” named Shema.
My parents’ marriage ended a year ago after a stretch of contention between them. Even though it ended as planned, they were defective. Father was a charismatic professor who spent late nights at the university. But his private life was far from perfect. He couldn’t resist the seduction of single, younger women. Identifying and criticising my father’s weaknesses was easy. His temperament, word choice, and adultery. His infidelity began innocently enough—a flirtatious conversation at a work event, a lingering touch during a business trip. But soon, it escalated into a full-blown affair. He wasn’t the sole breadwinner at home, and whether he was present or not, we were okay. Mother was a successful artist who painted vibrant canvases that disguised the dullness of her own heart. Her imperfections were smooth. Elegant and composed. Master in the art of eloquence—coaxing men who knocked on her door without hesitation. Life rarely caught her off guard. She was a career-driven woman who still made room for her family. On holidays, she’d take me to the salon as compensation for missing dinner. In a month, she earned enough money to feed the family for a couple of months.
Regardless, Mother remained submissive to Father. They were a solid team that built everything from scratch and watched it grow and expand. They’d take others, especially extended family members, under our roof. They even put orphans through school. Driven by their love of helping others, we settled in Kigali, where they built our home. We lived there until I discovered my father’s double lifestyle.
Father knew that I knew. And I couldn’t be silenced. I chose not to kiss and tell for fear that it would ruin our beautiful home. My parents had always been the image of a joyful couple. They held hands during family outings, laughed over dinner, and whispered secrets late at night. Gradually, their laughter turned to hushed tones, and they ceased to share secrets. They started discovering each other’s secrets instead. Mother found incriminating messages on Father’s phone—the evidence of his betrayal. Heartbroken and furious, she confronted him. They separated. Then we ended up at Nyogokuru’s house.
The moon is low in the sky, creating a silvery glow through the bedroom window. I lay in bed, my eyes wide open, listening to the soft murmur of voices from the room adjacent to mine. My heart begins to race, and I know something is up. I slip out of bed, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. The hallway is dimly lit. As I walk towards the other room, I catch glimpses of my mother’s thick curly hair let loose, as well as a stranger’s silhouette. They are standing close, too close for comfort; their whispers are like a forbidden melody. My pulse quickens as I draw closer to have a vivid view of the room, its door left ajar. There, in the room, with the illumination from the television, I see my mother—beautiful, vulnerable, and unfaithful. Father’s tiny, framed photo sits in the corner of the TV stand, watching silently as the scene unfolds. The stranger is of average height and has a well-defined jawline and eyes that hold secrets. His hand rests on Mother’s waist, possessive yet gentle. His fragrance is familiar like that from our home back in Kigali. My stomach churns. Every other night, I hear voices from her room. I wasn’t curious enough to investigate. But I did today. I’d never seen Mother look at anyone the way she did this man, not even father. My skin crawls. The lingering shock of discovering Mother’s secret after so many years brings back those traumatising days.
“Kalisa,” mother whispers, startled by my presence. “What are you doing here?” My voice trembles. “I heard voices.”
Mother’s eyes dart to the stranger, panic flickering across her face. “This is Shema. Remember?” she asks, her voice straining. “My old friend.”
“Your old friend?” I scoff. “Friends don’t touch each other like that. You have been seeing him before we moved in here. Haven’t you?”
The man steps forward, his expression apologetic. It is Mr. Shema Kamanzi, the man Mother and I met at the supermarket.
“Your mother and I have a complicated history,” he said.
My anger flares. “You were equally cheating on Father, weren’t you? Mr. Kamanzi is married and has a family.”
Mother’s tears spill over. “Kalisa, it’s not that simple. Your father—”
“And I thought father was the devil and you were the saint!” I cut her off.
Mother’s shoulders sag. I turn away, my heart heavy.
“Kalisa,” Mother says, reaching out. “I am sorry I disappointed you.”
I retreat to my room, leaving Mother and Shema behind. Now I know the truth. Some betrayals can’t be undone. A sliver of the night sky shone. And as I lay in deep thought on my bed, the moon watches over me; its light, both comforting and accusing.
Love is fragile, like glass. Could love, once shattered, ever regain its wholeness? My eyes turn glassy. I close my eyes, tears slipping down my cheeks, and think to myself: neither Father nor Mother have clean hands. They all eat and wipe their mouths clean. Now, I stand at a crossroads. To my left, Father is guilty. To my right, Mother is equally guilty. I dare not look back because it is the past; instead, I focus on the path ahead.
I step out at the start of a new dawn. The floors and sliding windows are sparkling. The house smells of clean soap and water, and the air is fresh. I observe Mother diligently cleaning the house like a maid with limited time. Probably out of guilt. She washes the curtains, washes the oil-painted walls, and sweeps the parlour, sweat trickling down her back and visible through her loose grey dress. The sweat on her brows shimmers, while wet patches form in the shape of semi-circles under her arms, staining her dress. Watching her clean so hard makes me feel bad and lazy. I think of picking up a duster to join her. But I am still mad at her. Instead, I stroll out of the house without a word to while away time and clear my mind.
My life is like a carefully folded origami crane—it is complicated yet delicate and hides secrets within its intricate layers. It hurts. My eyes are no longer innocent, but tired. My parents, once the epitome of love, have become strangers in my eyes. Like broken glass, they shattered my trust in them.
At twenty-five, desperation drove me to seek comfort in the arms of Shema, the gardener. He inherited Mr. Mugwaneza’s wealth after his death a few weeks ago. Engaging in periodic conversations with him and staring at him through the window for all those years made me feel as though I had known and loved him for a thousand years.
Like a liferaft in a stormy sea, I cling to him. Our lips taste like rebellion as we share secrets under the full moon. But weeks run into months, and I begin to juggle a double lifestyle. My past has made me shrink and become a convincing liar—the kind that tastes like honey but leaves a bitter aftertaste. In the shadow of my parents’ crumbled marriage, I kiss Shema, and guilt fights at my insides. Yet, I cannot stop. He is my escape, my refuge from the shards of my broken family. It is no fault of mine; the complexity of love has made me needy and greedy. One man is not enough. Shema isn’t the only man. There is another. My eyes hold stories of betrayal. And like déjà vu, I am repeating my parents’ mistakes. My eyes reflect decades of pain as I stare at my face in the mirror one gloomy afternoon. Their infidelity has defined my heart. I am scarred for life. I don’t know how to love; I just know how to hurt.
My parents’ infidelity isn’t a curse—it is a lesson that I failed to learn. Perhaps I can refold, reshape, and redeem love, even though it wouldn’t be easy. So I unfold my heart, revealing its creases and scars. But I know that love has taken an exit.
This story emerged as the winner of the 2024 African Writers Awards for Short Stories.
Please click here to view the full list of the winners and to read their stories
