BETWEEN FLOODS AND FAITH

Chapter 1:Dandora Dust The first thing I remember about Dandora was the dust — thick, red, and everywhere. It clung to our feet, our faces, even our laughter. Mama said it was the color of survival. We lived in a small iron-sheet house squeezed between two bigger ones. When the wind blew, the walls whispered. When it rained, the roof sang — out of tune but honest. I was too young to understand why we kept moving, why Mama’s eyes were always tired, or why every month we packed our things into old sacks and looked for another place to sleep. “Judith, hold your brother’s hand!” Mama would shout as we crossed muddy alleys. My brother, two years older, never complained. He just squeezed my hand tighter, as if afraid I’d float away with the dust. Papa would come home late, smelling of cement and sweat, his shirt torn, his smile weak. He’d sit on the edge of the bed and whisper to Mama, “We’ll make it, one day. Just hold on, Maureen.” Mama never answered with words. She’d just nod, eyes glassy, hands trembling over the sufuria as she stirred the ugali. Sometimes, when the landlord came knocking, we’d pretend no one was home. We’d sit in silence, barely breathing, while Papa whispered, “Shhh… don’t move.” But when the man shouted, “Rent! I said rent!” Papa’s shoulders would fall. Mama would clutch me close. The next day, we’d be gone again. I remember one night more than the others. The air was heavy with smoke and worry. Papa came home later than usual. His eyes were different — red, wild, like someone else had borrowed his face. He stumbled inside, a paper bag dangling from his hand. “Here… cook this,” he said. Mama looked inside and froze. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it wasn’t food. “What is this, Ben?” she whispered. “You always complain there’s nothing to eat! Now cook!” Then he laughed — that strange, broken laugh that made my stomach twist. That was the night I realized love could hurt, and hunger could make people forget who they were. Outside, the neighborhood dogs barked. Inside, Mama cried quietly, rocking me and my brother until we fell asleep on her lap. When morning came, the sunlight touched her face like a blessing she didn’t believe in anymore. “One day, my girl,” she whispered, “you’ll tell this story. But not with tears