AfriEcho (2025)

09/07/2025

Shadows of Choices
PART IV

“Why?” I asked, breathless. “To protect what we built,” she replied softly. “I didn’t want someone else’s children to take it.”

Years ago, we struggled to conceive. Doctors found Sarah healthy but urged me to get tested. I refused, fearing the truth. Instead, I slept around to “prove” myself, fathering two children with another woman. I believed they were mine and moved them into one of Sarah’s houses. My family mocked Sarah’s infertility, torturing her until I distanced myself, despite still loving her.

Sarah was my foundation. When we married, I had nothing. Together, we built shops, houses, and ventures—her business savvy drove it all. Even my relatives’ businesses thrived because of her, though they thought I was the provider.

Sarah suspected my infertility but stayed silent when I claimed my children. She even offered to raise them, despite my family’s cruelty. Later, her trusted agent revealed the truth: the children weren’t mine. The other woman had faked documents. Sarah confirmed it but never told me, sparing my illusion of fatherhood.

During our divorce, we agreed to split properties. I insisted on transferring some to “my children,” ignoring Sarah’s warning that their mother could gain control. She quietly kept the original deeds, giving me fakes to protect me. When Laura tried forging a transfer, Sarah’s agent exposed it. At the municipality, records confirmed I still owned everything. I evicted Laura, closed her shops, and let her keep only one she’d started.

I begged Sarah to reunite, but she refused. “I helped because I cared, not to get back together,” she said. She restored my deeds and walked away. My family, now seeing her worth, praised her, but she ignored them, moving on with dignity.

A fertility test later confirmed my infertility—my s***m couldn’t conceive. Medication hasn’t helped, but I’m accepting it. I’m rebuilding slowly, grateful Sarah was once mine. I’ll never find another like her.

++THE END++

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09/07/2025

Shadows of Choices

PART III

Evelyn blamed my blind trust. I blamed her for ruining my marriage to Sarah. She retorted, “You’re a man. Own your choices.”

Defeated, I agreed to the divorce. It finalized quickly. I thought I still had one house and two shops. I was wrong.

Two men arrived, claiming to be tenants. Laura had transferred the house title to her mother. With the local chairman and police, they evicted me. That house—built with Sarah—was gone.

I moved in with Evelyn. Soon, an eviction notice came for the shops, gifted to Laura years ago. I had one week to vacate. My siblings helped move my stock. I didn’t resist.

Life lost meaning. All I wanted was children, and now I had nothing. I wake at 10, drink tea, wander, wait for lunch, then drink until I stumble home. Repeat.

Evelyn’s upset, but what can she do? I see her as the root of my ruin.

One night, around 10 PM, I stumbled home drunk, craving only sleep. But when I opened the door, I froze. Sarah sat in the living room, chatting with Evelyn. For a moment, I thought the alcohol was tricking me. Staggering closer, I touched her arm to confirm she was real. She was radiant, even more beautiful after childbirth.

It had been four months since my divorce from Laura, and I hadn’t seen Sarah. Guilt over betraying her kept me away—I was a broke, drunken wreck. Seeing her, I sobered instantly, shame flooding me. I mumbled a greeting. Evelyn, grinning as if their past conflict never happened, said, “Your friend’s got good news!”

“I don’t want your news!” I snapped, trying to leave. But my legs wouldn’t move—my eyes locked on Sarah. I sat, drawn to her.

“Your ex-wife’s trying to sell your houses,” Sarah said calmly. Furious, I retorted, “Laura’s not my wife, and she has nothing of mine!” Sarah smiled gently. “She can’t sell them. I have the original title deeds. We need to file a legal block.”

Stunned, I watched her pull three title deeds from her bag, bearing both our names. During our divorce, I thought we’d split them. Sarah never submitted hers—she’d kept them safe for me.

“Why?” I asked, breathless. “To protect what we built,” she replied softly. “I didn’t want someone else’s children to take it.”

To be Continued

09/07/2025

Shadows of Choices

PART II

Gathering courage, I visited Sarah’s home after learning she’d given birth. Her aunt welcomed me warmly. Alone, I asked, “Whose child is it?”

“I’m not married or in a relationship,” Sarah said softly. “I needed a child. I struggled with fertility, but an old woman’s herbs worked.” She paused. “You were never the problem, David.”

Her words hit hard. I apologized, congratulated her, and left, feeling lighter but shaken. At home, I blamed work stress to my wife, and we took the kids to Zanzibar. Life seemed normal—until my wife grew secretive. She started a business, siphoning money from me without explanation.

I was stunned. I provided everything for Laura, yet she siphoned money, claiming it was for sick relatives. Worse, she grew hostile toward my family, especially Evelyn. They’d once been close, but now every visit sparked arguments, leaving me caught in the middle. Evelyn tolerated it, wary of ruining another marriage after Sarah. But things worsened.

Laura expelled my siblings from our businesses, accusing them of theft, and brought in strangers. Peace vanished. I dreaded going home. My siblings cut contact. Daily fights with Laura escalated over trivial matters. When I asked what changed, she’d cry, “If you’re tired of me, just leave.” Her words haunted me.

I started drinking heavily. I lost my job, trapped at home with her. The business collapsed as I clashed with customers. One day, I lied about going to the shop, returned home, and overheard Laura with her sister Rachel.

“He still sees James,” Rachel said. “Still smokes w**d. Does he even remember his kids?”

Laura replied, “He’s never reached out. When I told him the child wasn’t his, he seemed relieved. Jobless, clueless then—and now he can’t even care for himself.”

They were discussing James, someone from Laura’s past she’d called a friend while I was unfaithful. Their words hinted at a hidden truth about a child—possibly mine. I searched for James, studying his face against my children’s. No resemblance, but doubt lingered.

I confronted Laura, demanding a DNA test. She agreed confidently, making me question myself. Then I grabbed her phone, texting Rachel as Laura: “He knows about James. He’s furious. Wants DNA tests.”

Rachel replied instantly: “Only we know. Not even the guy who forged the birth certificates knows. Not even Mom. How’d he find out? Does he know about Lily too? Her real father?”

Lily, my second child, wasn’t mine either. I was shattered.

I called Rachel on speaker, shouting, “Come get your sister before I lose it!” I threw Laura the phone and stormed out. I tried Sarah’s place, but she wasn’t there. At Evelyn’s, I spilled everything. She urged me to kick Laura out. Returning home, I found it empty—Laura had taken the kids.

Two days later, Laura returned with a lawyer, requesting a divorce. I snapped, “Just show me where to sign. She gets nothing!”

To my shock, Laura said calmly, “I don’t want anything. Just peace.”

Relieved, I told Evelyn. She slapped me. “A woman who lied about children and fought to marry you doesn’t walk away empty-handed! Open your eyes!”

Then it hit me: I’d registered two houses in the children’s names. Laura controlled them. Only one house remained mine, but the shops were already under her relatives’ names. She’d outmaneuvered me.

Evelyn blamed my blind trust. I blamed her for ruining my marriage to Sarah. She retorted, “You’re a man. Own your choices.”

09/07/2025

Shadows of Choices

PART I

“Why did you speak to Evelyn like that?” I shouted, though I knew Sarah would never disrespect anyone. It was my flimsy excuse to justify leaving her. Deep down, I feared society’s judgment.

In our ten years of marriage, Sarah was loyal, kind, and patient. But her inability to bear children became my reason to walk away. Evelyn’s frequent visits didn’t help—she’d taunt Sarah about the children I had with another woman.

After two childless years, I had a child outside wedlock. I kept it secret at first, but eventually told Sarah. She accepted it, even offering to raise the child. But the other woman refused to let go, so I stayed with Sarah, torn.

I waited for Sarah to slip up, to give me a reason to leave. But she was flawless. Then, during one of Evelyn’s visits, things escalated. She insulted Sarah’s late mother, who’d passed just a month earlier.

“Your mother taught you witchcraft! Now she’s dead, let’s see how long you last!” Evelyn spat.

I overheard from the bedroom. Sarah’s mother, a single parent who raised her after her father’s death, left her houses, cars, and businesses. Those words cut deep. I was about to defend Sarah when she spoke.

“You can’t insult my mother like that!” she said, then walked away.

Evelyn screamed that Sarah disrespected her. I forgot my duty to defend my wife. Instead, I chased Sarah, yelling, “Why would you insult Evelyn?”

She looked at me with resignation, not pity. Without a word, she grabbed her keys and left. Evelyn urged me to end the marriage, and I did.

Four years later, I’d made peace with my past, accepting my children. Visiting my brother’s shop near Sarah’s store, I saw her. Pregnant. Her belly was unmistakable, close to delivery. I froze.

Anger surged. I confronted my brother, who admitted Sarah was pregnant and he’d tried to keep me from seeing her. I drove home, spiraling. I’d thought Sarah was the issue, not me. Her pregnancy shattered that belief. I questioned my children’s paternity, their features haunting me.

Gathering courage, I visited Sarah’s home after learning she’d given birth. Her aunt welcomed me warmly. Alone, I asked, “Whose child is it?”

To be continued__

30/06/2025

When Home Becomes the Enemy

The evening sun bled orange over our Nairobi village when I stepped into the house, my heart seizing at the sight of my wife, Wanjiku, crumpled on the sofa. Tears carved paths down her swollen face, her left arm bruised purple, thighs stained with blood. “I just fell... it’s nothing,” she whispered, voice trembling. But doubt ignited my rage. “I slapped her hard across the face and accused her of lying.” No mere fall could leave such marks. I cursed, struck her again, deaf to her pleas, blind to the life she carried within her.

My sister, Achieng, burst in, her words sharp as thorns: Wanjiku had insulted our mother, pushed her, sent her blood pressure soaring. I found Mama in her room, tears pooling in her eyes. “I want to leave,” she said. “Your wife insulted me and tried to hit me. If Omondi hadn’t intervened, she might have killed me. I swear she’s not herself—it's as if she’s possessed!” She spoke of Wanjiku with a boda boda rider, their intimacy a betrayal. My brother, Omondi, had beaten her for it. Their story fed my resentment, and I chose to believe them.

In a haze of fury, “I dragged Wanjiku to the storage room and locked her inside.” Her screams echoed through the house, a haunting chorus I ignored, thinking it proved my manhood. Her arm looked broken, but I left her there, pregnant, without food or mercy, through the night. At dawn, I forbade anyone to free or feed her. My family laughed, their approval a twisted comfort.
Mama had raised me through hardship. With my job’s earnings, I built a grand house for her, Achieng, and Omondi. Wanjiku begged to live apart, but I refused—Mama’s word was law. Tensions simmered: fights over chores, money, food. I forced Wanjiku to quit her job, made her a housewife. Six months into our marriage, I gave her one divorce, only reconciling when she bore our son, Kamau. Miscarriages followed, which Mama called witchcraft. When Wanjiku conceived again, Mama swore the child wasn’t mine. I believed her, joining their blows against my wife.

When I finally opened the storage room, Wanjiku lay still, barely alive. Panic clawed at me. A doctor friend confirmed a broken arm, suspected internal bleeding. We spun lies of robbers, bribed police to silence questions. “She lost the baby.” A week later, her arm in a cast, I gave her a second divorce. She pleaded for Kamau; I refused, swayed by my family’s whispers. They pushed me to marry Akinyi, Achieng’s friend. I did, but she left a year later, her note cutting deep: “Tell your family the truth. They only want a baby. They’ll be the end of you.”

I tried to win Wanjiku back, offering a secret home. She refused, wanting only Kamau. She found work, remarried, her radiance a rebuke to my failure. Then police came for Omondi. At the station, Wanjiku’s silent tears unveiled a horror: Omondi had abused Kamau and two other boys. Mama admitted, “Yes, I knew. He did it to neighbor’s children too. I tried to stop him.” Achieng confessed she knew of others but not Kamau. The truth shattered me.

I sold the house, gave all to Kamau, now safe with Wanjiku, and walked away. Omondi rots in prison for life. I send money for Kamau but haven’t seen him. Alone, I carry the weight of my choices. A book on manhood opened my eyes, taught me my fears fueled this ruin. A Luo proverb haunts me: “Ber marach ok nyal wiyi”—good intentions don’t undo harm. To Wanjiku, if you read this: I’m Juma, the man who failed you. I wish you peace, though I don’t deserve your forgiveness.
===THE END==

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26/06/2025

The Heart of Home

My name is Adela, and this is my story—a piece of my heart I share to inspire yours. In Dar es Salaam, where the ocean’s breeze carries the hum of boda bodas and Kivukoni Market’s chatter, my flat was my haven. The scent of chapati sizzling filled the air, blending with the salty wind through faded curtains. I’d smile at small joys—a neighbor’s mango, kids chasing a football.

Then Eric stormed in, his face dark as a monsoon. “She thinks she can own me?” he growled. “Malika won’t win!” My pregnant belly tightened. “Who’s Malika?” I asked, reaching to calm him. He shoved me, and a clay jug shattered like my dreams. He vanished, leaving me breathless.

His phone was dead. Hours later, a woman called from Coco Beach Bar. I found him slumped, mumbling “Malika” and “my children,” reeking of liquor—a stranger to my Eric. I brought him home, heart heavy. Morning came, and I demanded, “Who’s Malika?” He lunged, striking my belly. Pain seared, and blood stained my kitenge. I collapsed, the world fading.

I woke, pain throbbing. Mama Salma, my mother-in-law, took me to a clinic, whispering, “The baby’s fine.” But my heart knew better. Alone at Muhimbili, the doctor’s words broke me: “The baby’s gone.” Eric wept by my bed, confessing Malika was his old love, mother of Amani and Zawadi. He begged me to care for them. Bruised, I agreed—for them.

What storms have shaken your home? Share below—I’m here to listen.

Amani and Zawadi filled my Dar es Salaam flat with giggles over pilau and taarab music. My new pregnancy sparked hope. But Eric grew distant, guarding his phone. I overheard him hissing, “Malika, stop!” I saw daily calls and warned, “Touch me again, and I’ll fight back.”

One evening, Malika’s car roared up. Her beauty cut like coral. Eric shouted, “The kids are mine!” They fought, and he steadied her, ignoring me. Neighbors whispered. Malika sneered, “You’ll never be their mother.” I felt like a stranger in my home.

Eric’s cruelty grew. He stole my savings, vanished, then tossed me shillings. I called Malika: “Take your kids.” She screamed at Amani and Zawadi, slapping Zawadi. My heart shattered. I shielded them. That night, Eric beat me, blaming me. The kids returned, tear-streaked, whispering of Malika’s locked rooms and empty bowls. I vowed to protect them.

Malika sent a video—her and Eric. I deleted it, trembling. He called me “nothing.” My mother urged me to leave. Even Mama Salma blamed me. Eric locked the kids in his car, calling them “devils.” I sang Swahili lullabies until they slept. Then Eric knelt, begging, “Help me raise them.” I agreed, for Amani and Zawadi.

What weight do you carry for love? Share your story—let’s hold space.

Eric seemed to change—bringing fish, laughing with Amani over Simba SC. But he forbade me from visiting Tanga. I gave birth alone, returning to find Malika in my Dar es Salaam flat. “This is my house,” she smirked. She abducted Amani and Zawadi, leaving bruises. I confronted her at Kariakoo: “They’re not pawns—they need love.” She sneered, but I stood tall.

Under a starlit sky, I sat with Amani and Zawadi, laughing over Sungura tales. Eric joined us, softer. “I don’t deserve you,” he said. I replied, “This is about them. They’re my home.” I started a tailoring shop, stitching dreams. Amani shone in school, Zawadi danced to taarab. Eric, humbled, helped, but my strength was mine. Amani’s drawing—us, labeled “Mama Adela”—made me weep.

Now, by the ocean, Amani sketches designs, Zawadi dances, and I know: home isn’t walls. It’s love, built stitch by stitch. Mtu ni watu—a person is people. My pain taught me family is sacrifice, and love mends wounds.

What’s your home? Share your story—your truth matters. Let’s weave our tales together.

20/06/2025

Betrayed Twice – My Journey Through Love and Loss

My name is Halima, a single mother and small business owner in Kariakoo. For years, I poured my heart into raising my children and running my clothing boutique after a painful separation from my husband. Life was a relentless struggle—balancing motherhood with the demands of my business—until Haruni, a charismatic schoolteacher and loyal customer, entered my life.

What began as casual business conversations deepened into personal confidences. Haruni shared the pain of his unhappy marriage, describing a life of neglect and emotional isolation. Fresh from my own heartbreak and weary from raising my children alone, I found solace in his warmth. Over time, our bond grew into a relationship.

Haruni’s support transformed my life. He took out a loan to expand my boutique, and as my business thrived, he became a constant presence in our home. Eventually, he left his wife, issuing her three talaqs and severing all ties with his former family. He moved into my unfinished house, and I dared to dream of a future together—perhaps as his second wife, as our faith permits. My children, especially my eldest daughter, Asha, began calling him “Baba.” They adored him, filling a void left by their absent father, whom I had forbidden them from contacting.

But beneath this newfound stability, cracks began to form. Asha, who was 12 when Haruni moved in, is now 19. After failing her Form Four exams, she refused to repeat school, choosing instead to stay home. Her behavior changed—she grew secretive, dressed differently, and carried a phone I hadn’t bought her. Whenever I raised concerns, Haruni dismissed them, saying, “She’s just enjoying her youth.” I trusted his judgment.

Two months ago, Asha revealed she was pregnant. Devastated, I lashed out, demanding she leave, expecting her to beg for forgiveness. Instead, she packed her bags and moved into an apartment—rented, I later learned, by an unknown man. When I confronted Haruni, his demeanor shifted. He spoke of missing his ex-wife, criticized my appearance, and echoed the same cruel remarks he once made about her.

Last week, Haruni left without explanation. Assuming he had returned to his ex-wife, I contacted her, only to learn she had happily remarried. Desperate for answers, I uncovered a shattering truth: Haruni was living with Asha in the apartment he had rented for her.

When I confronted him, he claimed he was there “as a father,” denying any romantic involvement. But his words rang hollow. I turned to Asha, pleading with her to end contact with him. Her response cut deeper than any betrayal: “Baba? You mean your ex-lover? He was never your husband, Mama. You were just a mistress. If he’s with me now, what’s the problem?” Her words struck like those of a rival, not a daughter.

I am heartbroken, caught between love for the man I thought I knew and fear for my daughter’s future. Even if Haruni’s intentions are not romantic, their living arrangement feels profoundly wrong. I am torn—how do I protect Asha, reclaim my dignity, and heal from this double betrayal?

I am reaching out to anyone who can offer guidance. How do I navigate this pain? How can I protect my daughter and rebuild my life? Your advice, experiences, or support could make all the difference. Please share your thoughts—I need help to find my way forward.

19/06/2025

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