Taz Mulumba
Saying yes wasn’t like unlocking a door. It was like agreeing not to lock it again. When Nakira finally nodded — eyes dry, voice flat, hands clutched tight in her lap — Caleb didn’t celebrate. He only exhaled, long and low, like he’d been holding his breath for years. He kissed her forehead that night. Told her thank you. And then curled into her like a man clinging to a lifeline. That was what confused her most. The tenderness. He changed, but not in the way she expected.
Not into a stranger — no. Into something more dangerous. A man so familiar and tender she almost convinced herself she had imagined the whole thing. He started coming home earlier, his hugs lasting longer. He helped her carry groceries from the car, rubbed her shoulders when she looked tired, and laughed — really laughed — at her old, dry jokes. There were mornings when he’d wait for her to wake up just to say, “Look who’s finally up,” with that same teasing grin he wore when they were dating.
Their intimacy returned. Softly at first. Tentatively. And then fully. Completely. And yet, somewhere deep beneath her skin, something still trembled. To silence it, she threw herself even harder into church life. She volunteered to clean the sanctuary on weekdays. Joined the choir. Led morning devotions in her prayer group’s WhatsApp chat. The more she gave to God, the more she hoped He would return to her something she had quietly lost — peace. It was during this new season of spiritual dedication that he arrived.
James.
The pastor’s half-brother, introduced casually during a Sunday service. Their father had once travelled to the UK for theological studies, fallen in love with a white woman, and had a child — James — before returning to Uganda and remarrying. The congregation hadn’t seen James since he was a teenager. Now he stood before them, tall, warm-skinned, with light golden-brown eyes that looked almost out of place on his Ugandan features. A soft, perfectly trimmed afro crowned his head — not coarse, not silky, but curled like warm cotton.
But it was his Luganda that stole the show. When Pastor asked him to greet the congregation, James stepped forward, cleared his throat, and said, “Ab’oluganda, gyebale ko nnyo. Nze James Kintu.” There was stunned silence, then delighted laughter.
Someone in the back shouted, “Omuzungu anyumya mu Luganda!” And James, without missing a beat, grinned and replied, “Ssi muzungu! Ndi half-half!” and the entire church erupted. Nakira laughed too — not at him, but with the joy of something unexpected going right. James wasn’t trying to be impressive. He was just… comfortable.
The pastor beamed. “He’ll be joining us for a year, helping out with our youth programs and the church clinic.” After service, the girls swarmed him. You would’ve thought he was a celebrity. The single girls — and even some of the not-so-single ones — offered to show him around Kampala, suggested the best food spots, and even volunteered to help him “practice his Luganda.”
Nakira smiled from a distance. He didn’t seem interested in the attention, though he handled it graciously. Calm. Courteous. Almost distant. It wasn’t until two weeks later, when she was tidying up the small back room used for choir practice, that they spoke properly. He caught her singing. She had been alone, humming one of the worship songs softly to herself as she arranged hymn books.
“Is that your voice?” James asked from the doorway. She jumped. “Oh! You scared me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he said. “But you should be in the choir. That voice is… wow.”
She blushed, slightly. “I am in the choir.”
“Well, I haven’t heard you lead.” She looked down, fiddling with a stack of folders. “I’m just background vocals. I don’t… I don’t like too much attention.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough. But your voice deserves to be heard.” A pause. Then, lightly: “You have that kind of voice that makes people feel like maybe God hasn’t forgotten them.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. They became friends quickly. Warm, familiar. But strictly platonic. There was never any flirty teasing. He never overstepped. And she never imagined he would. He respected her marriage. It was clear. In fact, one day, Caleb came to church unexpectedly to help usher visitors. James shook his hand, politely greeted him, and even made a joke about Caleb being lucky to have Nakira.
“You’re married to a powerful singer,” he said with a respectful smile. “You might lose her to the worship team.” Caleb chuckled. “I’m more worried about the worship team losing her to me.” Everyone laughed. James excused himself. Later that evening, Caleb had asked, “That guy. James. He’s the one they’re all fussing about, right?”
Nakira shrugged. “He’s alright.”
“You’ve mentioned him before,” Caleb said.
“I mention many people.”
“Hmm.”
But that was it. Caleb didn’t seem jealous. Or threatened. Maybe because he had no reason to be. Nakira had become the perfect wife again. Even better, really. She made his favorite dishes — groundnut stew with smoked fish, katogo with matoke and offals. She learned how to properly iron his more expensive work shirts.
She laughed at his jokes. She bought him games for his PS5 and sat beside him while he played, even when she didn’t understand a single thing happening on the screen. And she believed, with growing certainty, that maybe their marriage had survived the worst.
Then came the Thursday evening.
Caleb had left early that morning for a business meeting in Jinja. He said he might sleep over if things ran late.
Nakira had spent most of the day cleaning the house, humming worship songs, feeling… good. At around 8:30 PM, she heard the gate creak. Surprised, she went to the door. It was Caleb.
“You’re back?”
“Meetings finished early,” he said, stretching. “I’m starving.”
She beamed. “I made rice and beef stew.”
He smiled, kissed her on the cheek, and went to the bedroom to change. She brought out a plate, setting the table with extra care. Her heart was light. Maybe she really had imagined the worst. Maybe she just needed to stop overthinking. In the bedroom, she went to put away the clean laundry she had folded earlier. She lifted the trousers he had worn that day to hang them—and that’s when it happened.
A condom fell out of the back pocket. It bounced lightly on the floor. She froze. Her hands, still clutching the trousers, started to shake. She stared at it like it was a snake. Maybe it was old, she told herself. Maybe he had carried it from a long time ago. Maybe—
Then, tucked in the same pocket, folded into a neat square, was a small, white paper. She opened it. An HIV test receipt. Recent. Very recent. Her legs buckled, and she sat on the bed. The stew still simmered on the stove.
Caleb’s voice rang from the living room: “Babe, do we have juice?”
Nakira couldn’t respond.
She just sat there, condom in one hand, receipt in the other, her soul unravelling in silence.
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