Still I Smile

Chapter 12- The House That Wept

The day began like any other, with the sun burning over the old tin roofs of our estate. But that morning, the air carried something else — a kind of silence that doesn’t belong to peace. It belonged to endings.

I woke to the sound of my grandmother coughing, deep and painful, from the back room. Her voice had always been strong — it could silence children, command respect, and comfort the broken. But that morning, it trembled like a candle flickering in the wind.

“Shosho, uko sawa?” I asked, stepping in carefully. She smiled weakly, forcing her usual strength.

“Ni baridi tu, Said. Wacha mimi.”

But I knew her too well. That wasn’t cold — it was exhaustion. The kind that comes from being disappointed by your own blood.

Her eldest son — my uncle — had changed. The same man who once built her a small house when things were better now spoke to her like she was a burden. He had a job now, money, and a new family. And with it came arrogance, a disease that eats the soul faster than hunger.

I remember the first time I heard him shout at her.

“Unajua nini kuhusu maisha ya leo? We ni wazee, kaa kimya!”

Those words stabbed through the air, and Shosho’s eyes filled, not with tears, but with memories — of the nights she stayed hungry so her children could eat.

That evening, I found her outside, staring into the orange sky, her wrinkled hands trembling around her rosary beads.

“I fed him with these hands,” she whispered. “Now he feeds me with insults.”

I sat beside her, speechless. How could I explain to her that success often rots hearts that forget struggle?

---

The following week, things worsened.

My father had stopped coming home early. Rumors spread that he was drinking again. I tried not to believe them — until the day I saw him myself.

It was around 10 p.m. when I went out to buy milk. And there he was, lying beside the road, drunk, muttering about lost years and mistakes. My chest tightened. That man — the same man who once taught me how to pray, how to shave, how to dream — was now someone I couldn’t even recognize.

I tried to lift him. He pushed me away.

“It’s my life, Said! My life!” he shouted, eyes red and lost. “You don’t understand… you’ll never understand what it feels like to fail everyone you love!”

People were watching. Some laughed. Others shook their heads in pity. I felt my heart break in silence, but I didn’t cry there. I held it in — until I got home, and it all came pouring out.

---

The next morning, my grandmother called me to her room.

“Your father is suffering, but not just from poverty,” she said. “He’s suffering from shame. When a man loses purpose, he drowns in guilt.”

Her words hit deep. I had been angry with my father — but that day, I began to pity him.

Still, there was no peace.

My uncle came again, shouting about bills, about inheritance, about who should live in Shosho’s house. “I built it,” he said. “I can take it back if I want.”

I saw my grandmother’s lip tremble. For a moment, she looked smaller than I’d ever seen her — like a child lost in her own home.

I stepped forward.

“Uncle, respect her. This is her home before it was yours.”

He turned to me, eyes blazing.

“Don’t talk to me like that! You’re just a boy who lives off pity!”

Those words stung. Because in some ways, they were true. I was unemployed, struggling, surviving off hope and little else. But I wasn’t going to let him dishonor her.

That night, my grandmother packed her small bag. She said she wanted to go stay with a relative in the countryside. I tried to stop her, but she smiled and said softly:

“Sometimes, Said, love means leaving before they throw you out.”

---

After she left, the house felt hollow. My father barely spoke. My uncle didn’t come again. And I — I just kept moving, doing small jobs, helping neighbors, pretending life wasn’t collapsing piece by piece.

Then one day, I got a message — “Shosho amepata stroke.”

I dropped everything. The world around me blurred.

When I reached her bedside, she could barely speak. Her eyes searched for me, tears sliding down her cheeks. I held her hand — the same hand that once held mine when I was a child afraid of the dark.

She mouthed something I’ll never forget:

“Keep the light, Said. Don’t become like them.”

And with that, she closed her eyes, her breathing shallow. The machine beeped faintly beside her, but the silence that followed felt like thunder.

---

At her funeral, my uncle cried the loudest. But everyone knew what kind of tears they were. I stood still, my heart too numb to break again.

Later that night, I walked home alone, the wind cold against my face. I realized something — life doesn’t collapse all at once. It falls one piece at a time, like rain on a leaking roof.

And yet… somehow, we survive it.

I whispered to the night, “I’ll make it, Shosho. Even if I have to crawl through fire.”

Somewhere deep inside, I felt her voice again — “Keep the light.”