Taz Mulumba
For the next two weeks, the silence in the house was not peace—it was a ceasefire.
Nakira moved through the house like a ghost. She still made breakfast, still laid out Caleb’s clothes, still texted him verses in the morning and left out dinner when he came home late. But something inside her had snapped. Not loud enough for anyone to notice. Just enough for her prayers to start sounding like pleadings. Caleb didn’t speak much. And when he did, it was clipped. Polite. Like they were colleagues. Or strangers. They still shared a bed, but only in geography.
One night, she stood by the window, holding the curtain back just enough to let in the moonlight. She wore one of the older nightdresses he used to love—before things shifted. Before he’d asked for something she still couldn’t wrap her mind around.
“I’m not your enemy,” she whispered aloud. From the bed, Caleb exhaled. “Then stop treating me like one.” Nakira turned slowly. He was lying on his back, eyes open. She hadn’t even realized he was still awake. “I’m not treating you like anything,” she said cautiously. “I’m trying to… keep this house together.”
“That’s just it,” Caleb replied, sitting up. “You keep treating our marriage like a house to clean. Sweep the pain under the rug. Air out the frustration. Fold the anger into neat little prayers and hope it goes away.”
“I pray because I believe in what we have,” Nakira snapped, surprising even herself with the sharpness in her voice. “I believe in you. In us.”
He chuckled dryly. “You believe in what we had, Nakira. You’re in love with the memory. Not the man who’s sitting right here—telling you he’s drowning.” Her heart squeezed. “Then tell me what to do,” she pleaded. “Spell it out. Because right now, I feel like I’m spinning in circles trying to be everything, and still failing.” Caleb stood, walking toward her with heavy steps. He was in a vest and pajama pants, his face a mess of exhaustion and tension. But when he stopped in front of her, his eyes softened. Just a bit.
“You keep saying what you do,” he said quietly. “I cook. I clean. I take care of the house. Nakira…” He leaned in slightly, voice low and even, “I want more.” That did it. She flinched, like he’d slapped her. His eyes widened in regret—but she had already turned away, shoulders tense. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“No,” she whispered. “You did.” Nakira walked toward the dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out one of her journals. She clutched it like a lifeline. “I gave up everything for this marriage,” she said. “I chose this life. Chose you. And now I’m being punished for not being enough?” Caleb’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“But that’s what I hear,” she snapped, her voice rising despite herself. “That I’m not evolving fast enough. That the woman you married is now too simple, too spiritual, too ‘stuck’ in her ways for you.” He didn’t respond. Not immediately. The silence grew thick. Finally, Caleb sighed. “You know what hurts the most?” She looked at him, tears now forming.
He hesitated, then said, “You’d rather hold on to prayer than hold on to me.”
That stung deeper than anything else. Nakira stood frozen. She opened her mouth to speak—but nothing came out. Days passed. Then another week. Their home now felt like a hotel. Warm lighting, cold hearts. Coexisting, not connecting. Every time she tried to reach him with something tender, he recoiled. Every time she tried to be silent, he accused her of being cold. She would kneel by the bed at night, weeping softly into the mattress, whispering to God: Please don’t let my marriage die. And every morning, she would wake up and wonder if He heard her.
On Friday evening, Nakira had set the table. She had made rice, beef stew, and fried plantain. Caleb’s favorite. The sound of his car engine had barely died down when she heard the door open. He walked in, tossed his keys on the counter, loosened his tie. “You cooked,” he said flatly.
“I thought we could eat together,” she replied gently. He looked at her, and something unreadable passed between them. “We need to talk.” She stiffened. The four most dreaded words. He sat down without touching the food. “I’m not trying to attack you,” he began, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve just been thinking.” Nakira sat too, hands folded.
He looked up, eyes dark. “Maybe we need a break.” She blinked. “A break?” Caleb nodded slowly. “Time to think. Reset. Get some perspective.” Nakira shook her head. “You mean separation.”
“I mean space,” he said. “I mean… maybe I move out for a bit.” A sharp pain shot through her chest. “Caleb… that’s not how this works. We’re married.”
“And I’m miserable.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. She swallowed. “You promised me forever.”
“And I still want it,” he said quickly. “But not like this. Not when we’re pretending every day.” Her voice trembled. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” He didn’t answer. Nakira stood slowly, heart thundering. “I don’t believe in divorce, Caleb.”
“I’m not asking for one,” he said—but his voice faltered. She looked into his eyes. “But you’re thinking about it.”
He didn’t deny it. Something inside her cracked. The dam broke. And before she could stop herself, she backed away, lips trembling. “I’ve got nothing, Caleb,” she whispered. “No job. No income. No backup plan. I gave all of that up for this.” His expression shifted to guilt—but it didn’t soften her pain.
“I’ve prayed. I’ve fasted. I’ve kept this home. And now you’re talking about leaving?”
“I’m not leaving,” he said, standing now. “I’m trying to save us before we break completely.”
“I already feel broken,” she said, almost laughing through the tears.
They stood there, inches apart, neither moving. Then he looked at her, his voice dropping low. “I need to breathe, Nakira. And if you love me, you’ll let me.” She watched him walk out of the room, her knees shaking. She clutched the edge of the table, everything spinning. And in that moment—beneath the soft hum of silence, the untouched dinner, the dull ache in her chest—Nakira knew one thing.
She wasn’t going to let the enemy have her marriage.
But she didn’t know if her faith was enough to stop what was already unravelling.
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