Part 2: Silence in the House
The first signs were small.
Mwansa started to come home a little later than usual. At first, Thandiwe said nothing. She told herself he was working extra hours. The site supervisor must have asked him to stay behind and help with the night shift, or maybe traffic in town was just getting worse.
But slowly, excuses began to wear thin.
Some evenings, Mwansa returned home with barely a word. His boots would be covered in dust, his shirt soaked in sweat, but instead of the warm greetings and laughter they once shared, there was silence. He would wash, eat in silence, and turn to the wall to sleep.
Thandiwe tried to spark conversations. She brought up the old dreams they used to speak of, the house with a garden, the children’s names, the small farm they once thought they’d retire to. But Mwansa no longer answered with smiles. His eyes were distant, and sometimes, even when she was sitting right beside him, it felt like he wasn’t there at all.
Then came the harsh words.
It started with a sigh. Then a careless sentence. And one night, when Thandiwe asked gently if he was okay, Mwansa snapped.
“I’m tired of pretending everything’s fine,” he said, his voice sharper than a blade. “We’ve been married how long now? Four years? Five? And still, nothing!”
Thandiwe’s heart sank.
“Maybe it’s just not the right time,” she said, her voice shaking. “Maybe we need to be patient. These things.”
He cut her off. “Don’t give me that. I see other men at work. Younger men. Married just last year, and their wives are already carrying babies.”
She tried to hold back tears. “You think I don’t want to be a mother? You think I don’t cry when I see women at the market with babies strapped to their backs?”
Mwansa looked at her then, not with love, but with something else. Disappointment? Anger? It was hard to tell.
“All I know,” he said coldly, “is that this house is too quiet. Too empty.”
From that night on, their silence grew heavier.
Some days, Mwansa didn’t come home at all until past midnight. Other times, he came back smelling of something unfamiliar, perfume that wasn’t Thandiwe’s, soap that wasn’t from their bathroom.
One morning, as he tied his boots, Thandiwe gathered her courage and asked, “Is there someone else?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at her.
She felt something shatter inside her, but she kept her voice steady. “If there is, please… just tell me. Don’t let me suffer in silence.”
He sighed, stood up, and grabbed his lunch.
“I haven’t done anything yet,” he said, pausing by the door. “But I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should. I’m a man. I need a child. Maybe if I just… try with someone else, I’ll know for sure.”
Thandiwe sat still long after he left.
She felt numb. The walls of their little home seemed to press in around her, mocking her with their silence. Her dreams, once so full of hope and joy, now lay scattered on the dusty floor like broken glass.
That night, she cried the way only a woman who has loved truly can cry. without sound, without restraint, and with a grief that sat deep in her bones.
She thought about leaving. She thought about writing to her mother, asking to return to the village, to go back to the world where she was still someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, not a failed wife.
But something kept her rooted. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was that quiet voice inside her that whispered, “Don’t give up. Not yet.”
Days later, as she swept the house with no energy in her limbs, a strange idea began to form.
It started as a whisper.
Then a thought.
Then a plan.
And one evening, when the sun had dipped and the orange sky glowed through their single window, she called Mwansa to sit down.
“I have something to say,” she began, her hands trembling in her lap. “And I need you to listen.”
He looked at her, guarded.
“I know you want a child,” she said slowly. “And I know you’re thinking of finding another woman. But maybe… maybe there is another way.”
Mwansa narrowed his eyes.
“I can call my young sister from the village,” Thandiwe continued. “She’s still young. Unmarried. Innocent. If she comes here, maybe… I can talk to her. Explain. Maybe she can help us.”
He stared at her, as if unsure whether he’d heard correctly.
“You’re saying… you’d let your sister…?”
“I’m saying,” Thandiwe said, “that I would rather it be someone I know. Someone who won’t take you away from me. Someone who can give you a child, but won’t destroy this home.”
There was silence.
A long, heavy silence.
And then Mwansa stood up, slowly.
He walked to the door, placed his hand on the frame, and said without turning,
“Call her, then.”
Watch out for Part 3.
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