There were nights when the silence in my house echoed louder than the noise of my past. After the children were asleep and the television dimmed, the walls seemed to whisper reminders of the choices I had made, the love I had dismissed, and the loneliness I had earned.
It was on one such night, with rain tapping gently against the windowpane, that I found myself seated on the floor beside my bed, Yona's old Bible resting in my lap. It was the one Mama Jalia had given me in the village — its spine weathered, its cover faded, but its contents alive with a spirit I had once resisted.
I ran my fingers across his name, still inscribed on the first page in neat, firm letters: Yona Mshana – If found, return to the truth.
The words stung. Return to the truth. That's what I had been trying to do ever since that cold day at the baptismal pool, when I gave my heart — trembling but willing — to Christ. Still, I felt like a novice wandering through the corridors of grace, unsure whether I belonged in the house.
I turned to Psalms. It had always been my favourite — poetic, raw, brutally honest. My eyes fell on Psalm 34:18: "The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."
I don't know why, but I began to cry. Softly at first, then uncontrollably. My sobs were not born of regret alone, but of longing — a deep ache to be known, to be held, to be whole again. I whispered into the darkness, "Lord, I don't deserve You… but I want You."
A breeze slipped through the slightly open window. It was warm, tender, as if God Himself had breathed into the room.
That night, I made a habit — a covenant of sorts. I would read a passage every night, no matter how tired or busy I felt. Not as a ritual, but as communion. I needed the Word to reshape me — not my face, not my clothes, but my soul.
The next morning, Zawadi found me asleep on the sofa with the Bible still open on my chest.
"You prayed yourself to sleep again?" she asked, her tone teasing but kind.
I smiled. "Yes. And I slept better than I have in years."
She didn't reply immediately. Then, with a maturity that surprised me, she said, "I'm glad you're finally finding peace, Mum. I see it. It's changing us too."
Indeed, something had shifted — not just in me, but around me. The atmosphere in the house felt lighter. The children bickered less, laughed more. I wasn't preaching to them. I was simply… different. And they noticed.
My colleagues at work, however, were less kind. They mocked my new "phase" as they called it.
"She's trying to be holy now — after all that?" one of the women muttered within earshot.
"She thinks Scripture will clean her past?" another chuckled.
I didn't retaliate. I couldn't. My old self would have thrown a biting remark, maybe even stormed out. But now… I found myself whispering prayers instead of curses.
At lunchtime, I sat alone with my Bible, flipping to Isaiah 43:18-19: "Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!"
It felt personal. Almost like God was talking straight to me.
The mocking didn't stop. But the sting dulled. The Word was doing its quiet work inside me — healing the broken parts, untying old knots, rebuilding me from within.
One evening, after reading the story of the prodigal son, I closed the Bible and said aloud, "Thank You for letting me come home."
And I meant it. Home wasn't just the village or the house Yona built. Home was this — the still, sacred space where I met my Redeemer daily, between pages inked in hope and verses breathed in mercy.
Some evenings, I'd light a candle before opening the Bible — not for ceremony, but to create a kind of quiet sanctuary in the corner of my small living room. The soft flicker of light against the pages made the words feel even more alive, like they were whispering secrets I had ignored for too long.
I began to keep a journal — a simple notebook where I copied verses that stirred me and wrote short prayers in between. At first, the pages were clumsy, my handwriting unsteady. But with time, those scribbled thoughts turned into conversations — honest, tear-stained dialogues with God.
One entry read: "Lord, teach me how to forgive without forgetting — how to remember without bleeding."
Another: "Today I felt judged, but I kept my mouth shut. Please help me respond with grace again tomorrow."
And one night, after a long call with Subira where we talked for nearly two hours without arguing — a record — I wrote: "Thank You. My daughter is coming back to me. I can feel her trust returning."
But not every day was light.
There were moments when the shame returned, like a tide that refused to retreat. I'd remember my past flirtations, the nights out, the cruel words I spoke to Yona when I thought I had outgrown him. The worst part was that I had convinced myself he was holding me back. Yet in truth, I had been the one unravelling.
One Friday evening, just before sunset, I came across Lamentations 3:22-23:
"Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness."
I read it aloud, my voice breaking. Then I knelt on the cold tile floor and stayed there for a long time, whispering, "Thank You… Thank You…" over and over.
Later that weekend, our small church group met for a women's fellowship in the home of Sister Miriam, a kind widow with soft eyes and a hearty laugh. We were only five women, seated cross-legged on woven mats, sharing tea and testimonies.
When it came to my turn, my heart thumped. I hadn't planned to speak. But something — maybe the Spirit — nudged me.
"I was once the woman who had everything but peace," I began. "And now… I have little, but my heart is full."
They listened. No interruptions. No judgement.
"I chased the world," I said quietly. "I hurt the man who loved me. And I lost more than I ever imagined. But God didn't leave me there. He met me in my mess. And He gave me a second chance."
There were tears in more eyes than mine. One sister came forward and hugged me tightly.
"You're not alone," she whispered. "We've all been broken. But God is good at mending."
That night, walking home beneath the streetlights with my Bible tucked under my arm, I felt something I hadn't felt in years: belonging.
Not the shallow kind that came with status or attention. But the kind rooted in being fully seen and still fully loved.
Zawadi opened the door before I could knock. "You look… peaceful," she said, a smile tugging at her lips.
"I am," I replied. "For the first time in a long while… I really am."
I took a deep breath, the scent of roasted groundnuts wafting through the house. Home wasn't perfect. My children were still finding their way. Bills still piled up. Temptations still lingered. But now I knew where to run when the waves rose high — straight into the Word, straight into the arms of the One who had never stopped calling me back.
The days that followed settled into a kind of rhythm — not one free from difficulty, but grounded in something firmer than circumstances. Mornings began with soft prayers whispered while the water boiled for tea. I'd read a passage, sometimes aloud, letting the words float gently through the small kitchen as I prepared Amani's porridge.
Even the simplest verses began to feel like anchors. "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted…" I'd murmur to myself while scrubbing laundry or sweeping dust from under the bed. The scriptures didn't always answer every question, but they always met me where I was — tired, fragile, and still healing.
One Sunday afternoon, as I reorganised the bookshelf in the sitting room, I found a small, faded card tucked inside an old devotional. It was in Yona's handwriting — unmistakable, with its neat curves and careful lines. I hadn't seen it in years.
It read:
"Neema, whatever storm comes, I hope you always remember the anchor that holds — Christ. Even if we drift apart, I'll be praying for you."
I sank to the floor, the card pressed to my chest, and wept. Not the choking sobs of guilt, but the kind of tears that come when you realise someone loved you deeply, patiently — and never stopped hoping you'd find your way back.
Later that evening, I shared the note with Subira and Zawadi. We sat on the floor with mugs of tea, quiet for a long time.
"Mum," Subira said, running her fingers over the edge of the card, "Did you ever… really believe in all this before?"
I looked at her, honesty sitting heavily in my chest. "I knew it in my head. But now I know it in my bones."
She nodded slowly. "You've changed."
I smiled. "I'm still changing."
That night, before going to bed, I knelt beside Amani's bed as he slept and prayed over him. Not a dramatic prayer. Just a simple one.
"Let him grow in faith. Let him walk in peace. And let me never forget where my healing came from."
And as I slipped under my blanket, the cool air brushing my skin, I opened the Bible once more. My eyes fell on Isaiah 43:2:
"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you… the rivers shall not overwhelm you."
I closed the book and whispered into the darkness: "I believe You now."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was full of presence. And for the first time in years, I fell asleep unafraid.