BETWEEN FLOODS AND FAITH

Chapter 5:The Man who promised peace

For the first time in a long while, Mama laughed again.

It was the kind of laugh that filled the room — small, unsure, but real. I hadn’t heard it since Kisumu.

His name was Daniel.

He came into our lives quietly — a customer at the hotel where Mama worked. He’d wait for her shift to end, help her carry the basin home, sometimes buy us bread.

“You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” he’d say.

“Who said I’m alone?” Mama would answer with a smile.

For weeks, she glowed like someone who had finally exhaled after years of holding her breath.

I remember her singing while sweeping the house, her voice soft but alive again.

When Daniel asked her to move in with him, she hesitated.

“Judith,” she said, brushing my hair one evening, “maybe this is our chance to rest a little.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to see her happy.

So we packed our things — which wasn’t much — and followed hope into a new house.

⸻

The first few months felt like a dream.

Daniel was kind, funny, gentle. He’d bring food home, buy me small gifts — a notebook, a pen, a lollipop.

When Mama gave birth to my two baby brothers, I thought maybe God had finally remembered us.

But peace has a way of testing you — softly at first, then suddenly.

One night, I heard voices. Daniel’s voice wasn’t soft anymore.

“You think I’m made of money?!” he shouted.

“I’m just asking you to help with food,” Mama pleaded.

The slap came so fast it sounded like thunder.

Then silence.

Then sobbing.

I froze in my room, staring at the wall, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would wake the babies.

From that day, things changed.

Daniel still went to work, still smiled in front of neighbors, but at home his eyes turned cold.

He stopped buying food.

Stopped talking to me.

Stopped pretending to be kind.

One day, when Mama wasn’t around, he looked at me and said,

“You’re not my child. Don’t expect me to feed you.”

His words felt like stones hitting my chest.

I didn’t answer. I just nodded and walked away — to cry where no one could see me.

⸻

Mama tried to protect me. She worked harder, stayed up later, prayed louder.

But prayers can’t cover bruises forever.

At night, Daniel would come home drunk, angry about things I didn’t understand.

He’d throw plates, shout, hit the wall, sometimes hit her.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore.

He was shouting again, calling her names, pushing her against the door.

I ran between them and screamed,

“Stop! Leave her alone!”

He turned, eyes blazing.

“You think you can talk to me like that?”

He pushed me so hard I fell, but I got up again. I didn’t care anymore.

We fought — his anger against my courage.

He beat me until my face stung and my arms shook, but somehow, I still swung back.

When I saw blood drip from his eye, I froze.

He froze too.

Then Mama screamed, neighbors knocked, and he ran outside.

That night, I sat on the floor, shaking, tasting fear and pride at the same time.

Mama held me, crying, whispering,

“You shouldn’t have done that, my girl.”

“I couldn’t just watch,” I said softly.

For the first time, I realized I was no longer just her daughter.

I had become her defender — and her shadow.

After that, silence became our new routine.

Daniel avoided me. He told my little brothers not to play with me, said I was “trouble.”

I could see it in their eyes — confusion, love, and fear mixed together.

Sometimes, I wondered if we were cursed.

If love was something we were meant to chase but never keep.