The day my husband died, the entire village in Machakos gathered at our small home. Mourners wept openly, children clung to relatives, and neighbors whispered prayers and condolences.
Everyone expected me, his widow, to collapse into tears, to wail and demonstrate the depth of my loss. But I remained calm. I sat quietly, composed, and refused to give the performance they seemed to demand.
People stared, some muttering under their breath. “Msinilazimishe kulia,” I said firmly when my mother-in-law tried to pull me..CONTINUE READING