BETWEEN FLOODS AND FAITH

Chapter 2:The locked out

That evening, the sky looked tired — heavy with rain, heavy with stories it didn’t want to tell. Mama had spent the day moving from house to house, looking for someone who needed clothes washed. She came home with sore hands and only thirty shillings.

Papa wasn’t home yet. My brother and I sat outside on the doorstep, our legs dusty, our stomachs empty. Mama kept whispering to herself, “Maybe he’ll come with food… maybe.”

But when we heard footsteps, it wasn’t Papa.

It was the landlord.

He was holding a padlock. His face looked like it had forgotten kindness.

“Maureen,” he said, “three months. Three months of empty promises. Today, you sleep outside.”

Mama stood up quickly. “Please, just two more days—”

“No more days!” he shouted. “I’m tired of waiting.”

He snapped the padlock shut, and that click sounded louder than thunder.

Mama tried to beg again, but her voice broke into tears before her words could find shape. My brother buried his face in her skirt. I just stood there, staring at the door — the place that had been our home yesterday but was now someone else’s.

When Papa finally came, his shirt was torn, his eyes cloudy. Mama didn’t even look at him.

“Ben, what are we going to do?” she whispered.

He said nothing. Just looked away, ashamed.

We walked that night — past the muddy roads, past the closed shops, past people who turned their faces away. I remember the rain starting to fall, slow at first, then harder. Mama carried my brother on her back, holding my hand so tight it hurt.

We ended up at the police station, soaked, shivering. The officer at the gate looked at us — a woman, two children, and a man who smelled like broken promises.

“What do you want here?” he asked.

“Just somewhere to sleep,” Mama said softly.

He sighed and pointed to a wooden bench under the roof. “Sit there. But be gone by morning.”

That bench was cold and hard. But that night, it became our bed, our house, our safety.

Mama sat between us, her arms around me and my brother. Her clothes were still wet. I could feel her heart beating fast against my cheek.

I didn’t sleep. I just listened — to the rain, to her breathing, to the silence of a man who had nothing left to say.

And in that moment, something inside me changed. I stopped waiting for miracles. I just wanted morning to come.

When it did, the world smelled like damp clothes and despair. But Mama stood up, straightened her skirt, and said,

“Let’s go find somewhere else to start again.”

That’s what she always did — start again.

Even when everything around us said don’t.