He sat by the window, staring into nothing, while inside his
mind, the past returned uninvited. His body trembled with
weakness, his chest rising and falling like a tired bellows, but
his thoughts were restless, clawing their way back into the
shadows of yesterday. The evening light spilled across the floor in broken stripes, but
all he saw was the house of his childhood, the place where
fists spoke louder than words. The childhood that felt like
punishment. The years that dragged him toward a body too
tired for life. It began as it always did, with the sound of
shouting. He remembered the slam of doors, the quick shuffle
of his younger siblings hiding beneath the bed, and the sting of
his father's voice, sharp and merciless. He remembered being
the firstborn, the one expected to stand tall to protect, to
endure. But a ten years old, endurance only meant silence, and
silence cut deeper than bruises. He looked outside the window and saw a small boy chasing
after his father in the orange glow of the setting sun. The man
bent down, lifted the child onto his shoulders, and the boy's
laughter rang through the air, clear and unbroken. For a moment, Umondi's chest tightened. He imagined what it
would feel like to laugh that freely, to be carried without fear of
being dropped, to belong to a father whose hands were made
for lifting instead of striking. The sight stung, because it pulled him back to back to nights
when his father's rage filled the small house like smoke, choking every corner. Back to his mother's cries muffled
behind a locked door, her defiance always answered with fists. Back to the sound of things breaking, utensils, promises, bones of trust that never healed. His father was not just harsh, he was a storm, unpredictable and merciless. He drank his
bitterness, then poured it out on the family until the walls
themselves seemed to tremble. His mother bore the weight of it, but her strength was twisted
into silence and hardness. She rarely showed tenderness, for
life had beaten it out of her. Instead, she carried scars invisible
to the eye, scars that spilled into her voice, into her eyes, into
the way she raised Umondi and his siblings. And the children
learned too early that love was fragile, fragile enough to
shatter under the heel of anger. That was the shape of his
childhood: instability woven into every day, fear disguised as
discipline, and survival mistaken for living. Even now, staring
out the window in his frailty, he wondered what it might have been like to have a father whose voice soothed instead of
scarred, whose presence meant safety instead of dread. Umondi's mind kept circling the memories, each one sharper
than the last. The blows, the screams, the nights when the
small house quivered under the weight of his father's rage. He
remembered how his mother, Jane, would sometimes stare at
the wall long after the violence was over, her silence saying
what her lips could not, this cannot be life. In 2008, the breaking point came. That night, the violence was
rawer, the shouting deeper, the blows heavier. Jane decided
enough was enough. She gathered her strength like scraps of
cloth and told her children they would leave. With only a few
belongings bundled together, Jane, little Umondi, and his
younger brother walked away, their small feet carrying them
back to Jane's mother's home. It was the first time the storm
had been escaped, the first time they breathed air that was not
thick with fear. But broken cycles have a way of pulling people
back. After a few months, Jane returned to her husband's
house, perhaps believing promises, perhaps clinging to the
thin hope that peace was possible. For two months, it seemed
almost true. A fragile calm settled in. Umondi watched his
parents laugh once or twice, watched meals pass without fists, and wondered if maybe life could steady itself. But the storm was only gathering strength. Soon, the shouting came back. The bruises returned. The walls shook again, and Jane's
silence became louder than ever. This time, when she said
enough, the word had roots. By 2011, Jane's resolve had hardened into a plan. Her
husband's suspicion shadowed every move, his eyes always
watching, always expecting escape. To slip away unnoticed
seemed impossible. But Jane was clever, and she leaned on
the one person who could pass under his radar, her son. Every
morning, on his way to school, Jane entrusted Umondi with a
small bundle of clothes. Nothing too heavy, nothing too
obvious. Just enough to seem ordinary. He would carry them
to a church nearby and leave them there, piece by piece, day
after day, until the church itself became a secret storeroom of
their survival. Umondi never said a word at school, never
hinted at what he carried. The mission weighed more than his
small shoulders, but he bore it like a soldier. That was the shape of his childhood: instability woven into
every day, fear disguised as discipline, and survival mistaken
for living. Even now, staring out the window in his frailty, he
wondered what it might have been like to have a father whose
voice soothed instead of scarred, whose presence meant
safety instead of dread. But memory was cruel, it never stopped where it hurt less. It dragged him back deeper, to the
days when his mother's silence had become a shield and her
tenderness a rare luxury. Jane bore her scars in her eyes, in
the way her laughter had thinned into something brittle, in the
way her hands trembled when his father's footsteps echoed
outside. And yet, amid the ruins of her endurance, she was the
one who whispered the plan. At first, it felt impossible. His father was everywhere, his
shadow in the yard, his voice in the air, his anger waiting at the
smallest provocation. Yet Umondi also knew another side of
him: the man who sometimes called him "my boy," who taught
him how to fix broken radios at the workshop, who placed a
rough hand on his shoulder as if they were comrades in a
secret world of men. Those moments confused him, because
they made the monster look like a father. It was this fragile
rapport that gave Umondi the courage and the cover to
become his mother's accomplice. The plan was delicate, piece by piece, shirt by shirt, life by life, they would smuggle themselves out. Jane trusted only
Umondi, for he could move close to his father without raising
suspicion. He was "the good son," the one his father joked
with, the one allowed to hover near the toolshed, to ask
questions no one else dared. The first trial came sooner than expected. One evening, as
Umondi slid a folded shirt into his schoolbag, his father
stepped into the room, wiping grease from his hands. His eyes
landed on the bulging bag. "What's this?" he asked, voice
casual but edged. Blood rushed to Umondi's ears. He felt his
throat dry up. "Books," he managed, forcing his tone steady. "We have a lot of homework." His father's stare lingered, sharp
and calculating. Then, with a grunt, he reached for the bag. Umondi's heart stopped. But instead of opening it, the man
only ruffled his son's head, a strange tenderness that almost
felt cruel. "Study hard, my boy. Don't be lazy like your uncles." He let the bag drop back with a thud, and for the rest of the
evening, Umondi could not unclench his fists. Another close call followed days later. On his way to the
church, he stumbled upon his father unexpectedly along the
path. The man was returning early from the workshop, carrying a toolbox, his face drawn with fatigue and irritation. "Where are you going?" he asked sharply. "To school," Umondi said, though the sun was already leaning
toward afternoon. His father squinted at him, then at the bag. "Bring it here." The world seemed to tilt. If he opened the bag, he would find the small bundle of clothes rolled tight between
exercise books. Umondi's chest locked. He wanted to run, but
his father's eyes pinned him in place. Slowly, with trembling
hands, he handed over the bag. The man weighed it, opened it halfway, then stopped at the
sight of a math book on top. He shoved it back into Umondi's
arms. "Don't waste your time. Education is the only inheritance
I'll ever give you. Go." That reprieve felt like the mercy of God himself. Still, each success fed their resolve. Each hidden cloth at the
church was another step toward freedom, though the risk
grew heavier with every secret carried. Jane would sometimes
grip his hand too tightly at night, whispering, "Just a little
longer, my son. Just a little longer." By 2011, the church held their second life, stitched together
from the fabric of their escape. The night finally came. Jane's
voice was steady, though her hands trembled as she gathered
the children. "Tonight, we don't come back," she said. And for
the first time in years, Umondi felt a flicker of something
almost forgotten hope, raw and dangerous, beating in his
chest like a second heart.