10/01/2026
THE SILENT WITHDRAWAL
They had promised each other discipline.
Every month, without fail, K25,000 went into their joint savings account. No excuses. No touching it unless they both agreed. After years of consistency, the balance finally smiled back at them:
K500,000.
For Mary, that money was hope.
A plot in Chongwe.
A backup plan.
Proof that marriage could be built brick by brick.
Her husband, Joseph, worked a good job. A solid salary. Respectable. The kind of man people pointed at and said, “Uyu ndiye mwamuna weniweni.”
One Saturday morning, Mary checked the account while preparing breakfast.
She blinked.
Refreshed the screen.
Checked again.
K300,000.
Her heart skipped.
Two hundred thousand kwacha had vanished.
No alert.
No conversation.
No explanation.
She waited.
That evening, Joseph came home, ate quietly, scrolled on his phone, and went to bed. His voice was cold. Distant. Like someone already living elsewhere.
Mary said nothing.
She waited for an apology.
For honesty.
For respect.
Days passed.
Then one afternoon, while buying vegetables, she met Peter, Joseph’s longtime friend.
They exchanged small talk until Peter hesitated, shifted his weight, and finally spoke:
“Ba Mary… nali fye ndefwaya mukwete ukwishiba. Joseph sent money ku Copperbelt. To his baby mama. The child was ‘in need’, he said.”
The words hit harder than the missing money.
Not because of the child.
But because of the silence.
Joseph had not asked.
Had not explained.
Had not trusted his wife enough to talk.
That night, Mary didn’t cry.
She cooked.
She cleaned.
She slept.
But something inside her closed.
Marriage didn’t end with shouting or slaps.
Sometimes it ended quietly — with withdrawals that were never discussed.
Joseph never apologised.
Mary never asked.
But the marriage became colder than the Copperbelt nights he sent money to.
And the joint account?
It remained joint only in name.