Love covered in layers of responsibility .
1274 Words
đź’Ś Letter to Myself
Chapter 2: Life at Auntie’s Home
Life at Auntie’s home in Kawempe was a mixture of warmth and weight — love covered in layers of responsibility, care wrapped in discipline. I was still young, maybe around seven when I began to truly notice how different my life was from other children’s.
Our small house sat near a dusty road that never seemed to rest. From sunrise to sunset, people moved up and down — women carrying market bags, men pushing bicycles, children chasing each other barefoot. The sound of the city was always there: the cries of fruit vendors, the loud laughter of boda riders, the steady hum of radios from every shop. That noise became the music of my childhood.
Every morning began the same way. Before the sun even touched the roofs, Auntie’s voice would echo through the small house.
> “Mariam! Wake up and sweep the compound before the dust gets too much!”
Her voice was strong, commanding — not harsh, but firm. I would drag myself from the thin mat I shared with one of my cousins, rub the sleep from my eyes, and pick up the broom. The air would still be cold, the ground damp from the night’s dew. As I swept, I’d watch the first rays of sunlight touch the tin roofs, making them shine like silver.
After sweeping came fetching water. The jerrycan was almost as heavy as I was, but I learned how to balance it on my hip like the older girls. Sometimes, my arms would ache so badly that tears would sting my eyes, but I never let them fall. Auntie didn’t like tears. She believed strength was something you practiced every day.
By the time the chores were done, Auntie would already be making tea and frying chapati for sale. The smell filled the whole compound — warm, comforting, and somehow hopeful. Uncle Masembe would be outside, fixing bicycles or chatting with neighbors before heading to work. He always found time to smile at me.
> “Eh, my little soldier,” he’d say, patting my head. “One day, you’ll make us proud.”
Those small words kept me going.
School was my escape. I loved learning. Even though my uniform was old and faded, I wore it proudly. I didn’t have shiny shoes like other children — mine were always dusty — but I carried something they didn’t: a quiet hunger to become someone more.
I remember sitting in class, watching the chalk dust rise as the teacher wrote on the blackboard. The smell of books, the sound of pencils scratching — it all made me feel safe. In that classroom, I wasn’t the orphan or the last born; I was just Mariam — a girl who loved to read and dream.
But school came with its own challenges. There were days I couldn’t go because there was no money for books or lunch. Sometimes, I’d watch my friends eating while I sipped water from my bottle, pretending I wasn’t hungry. Still, I never complained. Auntie and Uncle did what they could, and I was grateful.
In the evenings, when I returned home, the house would be full of noise again — my cousins arguing, Auntie shouting instructions, the radio playing an old love song. I’d help with cooking, washing dishes, and folding clothes before finally sitting outside under the dim light bulb that hung above the door. That’s where I’d write in my little exercise book — not homework, but letters.
Letters to my mother.
“Dear Mama,” I would begin. “How are you in heaven? I hope you are watching me. Today Auntie smiled at me because I fetched water fast. I think you’d be proud of me.”
I never showed those letters to anyone. They were my secret world — the only place I could talk freely, where I could cry without being seen. Sometimes I would imagine her replying, telling me she was proud, telling me I was loved. That thought gave me strength to face another day.
One afternoon, I came home from school to find Auntie sitting quietly in the kitchen. She looked tired, her hands resting in her lap. I hesitated, wondering if she was angry. Then she spoke softly.
> “Mariam, you know why I make you do all these things?”
“Because I’m the youngest?” I asked, half joking.
She smiled a little.
“No. Because one day, you’ll live on your own. I don’t want life to break you. You’ve already been through enough.”
Her words touched me. For the first time, I saw her not as someone who just gave orders, but as someone who cared deeply in her own way. She didn’t know how to say “I love you,” but every early morning, every scolding, every meal she prepared for me — it was love. Tough love, but real.
Uncle Masembe was different. He had a quiet soul. When I failed in school or got into trouble, he didn’t shout. He’d just sit me down and talk.
> “Life is not fair, Mariam,” he once told me. “But you can still choose to be kind. That’s how you win.”
Those words stayed with me.
The years went by quickly. I became more responsible, more understanding. Auntie started trusting me with her small business — sending me to deliver chapati to her regular customers. That made me feel proud. Every time she handed me money and said, “Be careful,” I felt like she was finally seeing me not as a child, but as someone growing up.
Sometimes, in the quiet evenings after dinner, Uncle would tell us stories from his village — stories about how he and my father grew up, how they used to fight over mangoes and laugh until their stomachs hurt. Those stories connected me to a father I rarely saw. Life had separated us, but Uncle’s words built a small bridge between us.
There were still hard days, of course — days when I missed my mother so much that my heart physically hurt, days when I wished my life could be easier. But Kawempe had a way of teaching you endurance. Even when the rains came and flooded the roads, life went on. People laughed, sang, worked, and loved. And I learned to do the same.
One Sunday evening, as the sun dipped behind the roofs, I sat on the doorstep watching the sky turn orange. Auntie came out and sat beside me. For a while, we didn’t speak. Then she said quietly,
> “You’ve grown, Mariam. You’ve become strong.”
I looked at her, surprised. Compliments were rare from her.
> “I learned from you,” I replied.
She smiled faintly. “Then I did something right.”
That night, I wrote another letter to my mother.
“Dear Mama,” I wrote. “I think you can rest now. Auntie and Uncle are taking care of me. I am learning. I am growing. I still miss you every day, but I’m okay. I think you’d be proud.”
When I finished, I folded the paper and placed it under my pillow. I didn’t need to send it anywhere. Somehow, I believed she would receive it anyway — through my heart.
Life at Auntie’s home wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. It shaped me, taught me, and held me. And deep down, I knew — this was just another chapter of a much bigger story that was still unfolding .
- Writer
