Baraka looked up, but said nothing. He simply hammered harder, as if the sound of the nail could drown out the insult.
Hours later, when he got home, Azima was sweeping the porch. He approached slowly and said, without looking straight at her, “They are saying I bought a wife.”
Azima froze.
She did not know what to say.
Her cheeks flushed, not from pride, but from shame. The word bought still hurt.
Even after everything.
Baraka sighed, leaned against the doorframe, and said firmly, “I bought her freedom. Nothing more.”
There was no performance in those words. No attempt to play the hero. Just the plain truth, raw like dry soil before rain.
He did not owe anyone an explanation, but for the first time, he chose to give one.
Not for the people.
For her.
Azima nodded slightly.
And in that silent gesture, something aligned.
It was not affection yet.
It was respect.
Solid ground.
In the days that followed, the gossip continued, and as usual it changed shape. They said Baraka gave the girl new clothes, that he let her sleep late, that he was not the type of man to take in anyone, so that situation must have another name.
But there was something curious.
No one ever said it to his face.
