BETWEEN FLOODS AND FAITH

Chapter 4:The one who Stayed

The day Mama sent my brothers and sister away, the sky was heavy again — not with rain this time, but with silence.

She packed their small clothes into an old rice bag, folding each piece as if it were made of glass.

“You’ll be safe there,” she told them. “Your grandmother will take care of you.”

My younger brother cried, clinging to her skirt.

My sister didn’t say a word — just stared at the ground, her lips trembling.

I stood in the corner, biting my nails, pretending to be strong.

When the bus drove away, Mama didn’t wave. She just stood there, her arms folded across her chest like she was holding herself together.

That night, she told me,

“You’ll stay with me, Judith. You’re my strength now.”

I didn’t feel strong. I felt empty — like the space my siblings left behind had swallowed me whole.

⸻

The days that followed were long and gray.

Mama washed people’s clothes from sunrise to sunset. The smell of detergent became part of our air.

When she came home, her hands were cracked, her back bent, her face sunburned — but she still smiled.

Sometimes she made soap and sold it at the market. Other times, she washed dead bodies for a few shillings.

When I found out, I asked,

“Weren’t you scared?”

She said,

“You stop being scared when hunger is louder than fear.”

I never forgot that.

⸻

We moved again — another small room, another landlord, another beginning.

Sometimes we were chased out; sometimes neighbors helped us stay.

One woman, Auntie Faith, took us in when we had nowhere to go. She let us sleep on her floor.

In return, I swept her house, washed dishes, and looked after her baby.

When I scrubbed her floor, I’d whisper to myself,

“One day, I’ll have my own floor.”

At school, I tried to focus, but my stomach would growl so loud the teacher would glance at me with pity.

Still, I studied. I didn’t want to end up like the stories Mama told me — girls who gave up too soon.

Sometimes Papa appeared, like a shadow — silent, kind for a few moments, then gone.

He’d buy me chips or a mandazi, pat my head, and say,

“Don’t tell your mother I came.”

I’d nod, even though my heart ached.

It wasn’t fair to love two people who couldn’t love each other anymore.

⸻

At night, when Mama came home exhausted, she’d lie beside me and say,

“My daughter, this life owes us something. I don’t know when we’ll get it, but it does.”

And I’d whisper back,

“We’ll get it, Mama. You’ll see.”

Even though I wasn’t sure I believed it.