One afternoon, Mama Jalia, the same one who had started spreading those venomous stories, tried to bring it up at the market while Baraka was selecting okra seeds.
“Taking good care of the girl, huh, Baraka? They say she is already running the place.”
Baraka raised his eyes, stared at the woman for several long, heavy seconds, and said simply, “I take care of what is mine. And of other people’s freedom too.”
Mama Jalia lowered her gaze and never brought it up in front of him again.
In the village, silence could speak louder than any answer.
And slowly the jokes withered like plants without water, because there was no scandal, no secret. Just a girl who now walked with her head held high, and a man who was not ashamed to protect what the world had tried to cast aside.
And that kind of courage, even in silence, had always been stronger than the spiteful laughter of neighbors.
The weather in Kiwana was unpredictable. The sun could burn for weeks, and then suddenly a cold front would sweep down from the mountains, bringing with it a damp wind that made the roof tiles sing at night.
It was during one of those sudden changes that Azima began to cough.
At first, it was only a slight irritation, muffled into the back of her hand.
Then came the fever.
Uninvited.
Relentless.
Breaking her body into pieces that could not be seen, only felt.
The next morning, she did not get up.
The floor of her room, always clean, still bore the footprints of neglect. The water in the pitcher had not been touched. The half-open window let the cold wind dance over her sweaty skin.
Baraka noticed her absence.
It was not the silence of chores that caught his attention, but the silence of movement.
He called out once.
No answer.
Called again.
Nothing.
He pushed the door open with his fingertips, like someone afraid of what he might find.
Azima lay curled up in bed, her face flushed, her eyes half-closed, breathing shallowly. Her hand hung off the edge of the mattress, trembling like a fragile branch in a storm.
She said nothing.
