BETWEEN FLOODS AND FAITH

Chapter 5:Trauma

By the time I reached Class Eight, I had learned to live with noise — the shouting, the insults, the sound of bottles breaking against walls.

At night, when my stepfather fought with Mama, I’d lie on my bed, holding a pillow over my ears, whispering to myself,

“Just sleep, Judith. Tomorrow is school.”

But the noise always found its way in.

School was supposed to be my escape — my quiet place.

The moment I entered the gate, I could breathe again. My teacher used to say,

“Judith, you’re bright. Don’t let anything stop you.”

I believed her for a while.

Until hunger started whispering louder than hope.

Some days, Mama had no money for food.

I’d go to school with nothing but water in my stomach.

When the teacher asked questions, my head would spin.

Numbers looked like clouds — far, shifting, unreachable.

Other days, I was sent home for school fees.

I’d walk back slowly, kicking stones, pretending I didn’t care.

But when I reached home and saw Mama’s tired eyes, the tears would come on their own.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I’d say.

“Why are you sorry?” she’d ask. “It’s not your fault.”

“Because I want to stay in school, but I can’t.”

She’d hug me, even when her arms were shaking.

“You’ll finish,” she whispered. “Even if I have to wash every floor in this city.”

At home, Daniel’s bitterness grew like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

He’d come home drunk, slam the door, shout that he was tired of feeding people who weren’t his blood.

Sometimes, he’d look straight at me and say,

“When will you leave my house?”

Each time, I swallowed my tears.

I started staying longer at school, pretending to be busy just to avoid going home.

One afternoon, my teacher found me sitting under a tree after everyone had gone.

“Judith, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

She smiled sadly, the kind of smile that knows the truth.

“You’re a fighter,” she said. “Don’t let the darkness make you forget that.”

Her words stayed with me.

As the KCPE exams drew closer, I studied by candlelight, sometimes until midnight.

The candle would melt onto my books, and Mama would scold me gently,

“You’ll burn the house down one day.”

“Then at least I’ll see the light,” I’d joke, half smiling.

Behind my laugh was exhaustion — the kind that seeps into your bones.

But I couldn’t stop. I wanted that exam more than anything.

Then came COVID.

Everything shut down. Mama lost her job.

Daniel started staying home — angry, restless, drinking even more.

The house felt smaller, the air heavier.

He’d play loud music, shout at Mama, throw things when drunk.

I tried to keep my books dry from the spilled alcohol, the noise, the chaos.

Sometimes I’d read with earphones that didn’t even work — just to block the world out.

One evening, after another fight, Mama came to me with tears in her eyes.

“He’s leaving,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“He said he’s going back to Kisumu. With your brothers.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

When he packed his bags the next morning, my heart cracked open.

My two little brothers ran to hug me — confused, innocent, unaware this was goodbye.

“I’ll come back,” the youngest said.

“I know,” I lied, holding him tight.

Then they were gone.

⸻

That evening, the house was silent again — but not the peaceful kind.

The kind that echoes loss.

Mama sat on the bed, staring at the floor.

I sat beside her, my KCPE books on my lap, but the words blurred.

I whispered,

“We’ll be okay, Mama.”

She nodded, but tears rolled down anyway.

“We’ve said that too many times, haven’t we?” she said softly.

I didn’t answer. I just took her hand — rough, cracked, and warm — and held it until the candle went out.