After finishing my conversation with the doctor, we got into the car. I had changed—every bit of hope I once had for life had vanished. Irere and my mother wouldn't give me a moment of peace; they kept asking what was wrong, but I remained silent. The whole journey, they tried to comfort me, encouraging me to believe in the doctor's words that I would heal and regain my sight. But the issue I had was beyond just losing my sight.
When we arrived at our new home, I heard the voices of many people. I instantly recognized Ayinkamiye's voice—she was always so loud. She ran toward me and gave me a warm hug, welcoming me to my new home. Migisha did the same. Our little daughter had gone to stay with her grandmother. Friends of our family and Irere's were all present. Everyone who loved me was celebrating, but for me, it felt like a funeral.
Irere asked me to smile and show our guests that I still had hope. But if only she knew what I knew, she would never have dared ask me to smile. My mother spoke on behalf of my father, thanking everyone who was present and especially appreciating my wife for staying by my side from the first day to that moment. The crowd clapped and cheered in joy. Food and drinks were being served everywhere. I heard them laughing and wondered what was making them so happy. If God had lent them eyes to see inside my thoughts, they would never have laughed. Their laughter would have mirrored my own sorrow.
I wanted to go back to the hospital—that was where I belonged now. I didn't deserve to be among the living. As night approached, fear overwhelmed me. I wished someone could give me the strength to stop the sun from setting, to make sure night never came. I wished people would just keep eating and drinking forever. But that wasn't possible. People began to leave. Even Irere's parents came to say goodbye, encouraging me to stay strong and promising that Irere would continue taking care of me.
Just hearing Irere's name filled me with dread. I regretted ever deciding to get married. Once everyone left, I was alone in the house with Irere. But I wasn't calm—I was battling fear and wishing I could turn back time, though that was no longer an option. I was caught in a crisis I couldn't handle. A voice inside me tried to comfort me, saying, "Be strong, Kalisa. It will be okay."
Irere got herself ready, then came to me and gently guided me to our bedroom. I had no sight; I was now someone who followed the one who could lead.
I wanted to share my conversation with the doctor with my wife, but every time I tried, I choked up, not knowing where to begin. Irere asked why I kept sighing. I told her I hadn't yet accepted this life of blindness. I had lived nearly thirty years with my sight, and I began recalling the beautiful nights we had shared—nights I would never visually experience again. I reminded her of so many memories until I started making her sad. She wanted to ask me to stop talking but held back, knowing that speaking was the key to healing.
I kept telling her painful stories until sleep finally stole her away. The king of the night, sleep, combined with fatigue, claimed her without her realizing when dawn broke. I, however, had left the bed and went to the living room. I was lost in thought, reflecting deeply on what the doctor had told me and realizing he was right.
Irere came out of the bedroom calling my name. I didn't have the strength to respond. I felt I no longer deserved to be called her husband. She reached my side and asked why I hadn't answered. I took her hand and told her, "Forgive me."
I was quiet and cold, longing to be far from everyone. But Irere wanted to be close to me. That morning, Mubaraka came to see me before heading to work. Irere welcomed him warmly as usual. Her heart made her treat everyone with kindness. She never allowed our maid, Musabyi, to greet my special guests—she did it herself.
Irere received Mubaraka, and he joined us. They tried to make me laugh with jokes, but it didn't work. Mubaraka observed me and realized I was burdened by something heavy. He looked at Irere and asked, "What happened to Kalisa? He's changed." Irere replied, "Even I'm confused. He spent the whole night sighing and remembering the good times his eyes once showed him."
Mubaraka turned back to me and said, "Kalisa, trust what the doctors told you—you'll see again." I remembered my father's words the last night at the hospital when he told me I had a true friend. I asked Irere to give us some privacy. She stood up reluctantly and walked away. Once she was gone, I asked Mubaraka if we could talk outside.
He held my hand and led me to his car. When I touched it, I realized it was a different one. I was about to ask when he said my father had given him a raise, so he bought a new car. I smiled and said, "It feels like a nice one." He looked at me and asked, "What's really going on? And don't lie to me. This isn't just about your eyes."
Mubaraka knew me well. I told him, "If I had known this was how I'd end up, I wouldn't have married Irere." He cut in and said, "Irere loves you. And going blind isn't the end of life. That's not the Kalisa I know. The Kalisa I know faces problems and overcomes them."
I continued, "If I'd known, I wouldn't have held back. I would've lived like you, enjoyed my youth while I could. I regret listening to your advice about giving everything to work."
Mubaraka stopped me, urging me to speak directly about the real issue.
I calmed myself and told him, "Yesterday, before I left the hospital, I had a private conversation with the doctor."
He cut in, asking, "So he lied to us? It's over—you'll never see again?"
I reassured him, "No. Sight isn't the real problem anymore. I'm no longer a man."
He tried to comfort me, saying I was still a man any other man would envy. He reminded me I had a beautiful wife. "Kalisa, my friend, don't give up. Irere loves you."
I said, "I know that."
Then he asked, "So what is the problem?"
I answered, "I can't fulfill my marital responsibilities."
He was speechless. He asked me to repeat it. I said again, "The doctor told me that even though I was in a coma for two months, for the past month there's been no sign of sexual function returning."
Mubaraka became cold. Even though I couldn't see him, I felt his sadness. He finally asked, "Did he say why?"
I replied, "He said he's not certain, but it might be a problem with brain nerves responsible for that function."
Mubaraka was devastated. But he truly understood my pain, as if it were his own.
We stayed outside, thinking about what to do to avoid shame. After a while, he said, "Kalisa, go tell your wife."
That was the worst advice he'd ever given me. I refused immediately, telling him it wasn't possible. He said, "She'll find out eventually."
I begged him to help me find a solution but to keep it a secret from Irere. I felt like less than a man.
Mubaraka thought hard—it was a headache for him too. He finally said, "Even if I don't know how to help you, your wife deserves to know. I'm sure she loves you and will understand."
I reminded him that I married Irere as a virgin. "We never had sex, not once. I don't even know how to begin explaining this to her."
He didn't have a response. He promised to help me search for other doctors who might help. I asked him to keep the matter between us. He reassured me he was trustworthy. Then he left, with Irere seeing him out.
Later, Musabyi came in to tell me breakfast was ready. I asked her to help me get to the table. As I sat, I heard a film playing on the TV and was overwhelmed with sadness. I asked her to turn it off and told her I didn't want noise. She did so and said, "Enjoy your meal, Boss," before leaving.
I began training myself to live like a blind man—learning to feel my way around. But a voice in me asked, "Why are you eating when you're no longer a man?" Anger surged through me, and I threw the food. By misfortune, I threw it at my wife. I heard her cry out. I tried to stand to apologize, but I tripped over a chair and fell.
Irere came and helped me up. She asked me to be patient. I apologized, telling her I didn't mean to hurt her—I loved her too much. But this marriage was turning into her source of pain. She helped me back to my seat and began feeding me. Looking at my face and seeing my pain, she asked gently, "What's hurting you, my dear husband?"
My heart wanted me to tell the truth, but my mind resisted. I took her hand and asked, "Do you love me?" She answered without hesitation, "Kalisa, I love you very much." She held my left hand and pressed her wedding ring against mine.
She continued, "The love I have for you—I declared it before people, before our ancestors, and before God. Did you forget? I vowed to love you in good and bad times. That vow will never change."
Her words reminded me of our vows. Instead of bringing me joy, they brought tears. She wiped my tears away with her hand. Her own tears fell on my hand resting on her lap. I lifted my hand and wiped her tears too, telling her, "Irere, I love you so much."
But even those words no longer felt meaningful.
I feared the night more than a baby fears darkness. I didn't want it to come. But the clock on the wall kept ticking—I could hear every tick. My ears strained to hear if the crickets had begun.
When it was time to take my eye medication, Irere was by my side, helping me take it—hoping I'd see again if we kept trying. I missed seeing her beauty, but a voice inside asked, "What use is her beauty to you now?"
I didn't want to keep taking the medication, but I did it to avoid hurting my wife. I had to calm my heart hundreds of times, and each time, Irere was there, quietly understanding me.
Unfortunately, the night came again. My phone was beside me, hoping Mubaraka would call with some help. But we finished dinner without hearing from him.
Irere asked if we could go to bed. I told her I didn't want to since I hadn't done any work to be tired. I asked her to play a film on TV instead. She reluctantly agreed, trying to support me even though I was pushing her away.
She chose a romantic film. We were alone in the living room—no one to fear, nothing to hold her back. The film's dialogue turned to intimate scenes. I became furious and asked her to turn off the TV immediately. She quickly did so and softly said, "I'm sorry."
I calmed down and silently forgave her. Then she whispered, "Kalisa, it's been more than two months. My body craves you deeply."
I knew exactly what she meant. I silently prayed to the ancestors, begging them to split the earth open so I could disappear. While I prayed, Irere moved closer. My hands touched her and felt that she was now dressed in nothing but lingerie.
I wanted to push her away, to stop her from coming closer because I was no longer a man. I didn't even know what I was anymore. In my language, my name had become synonymous with impotence.