Chapter 1: The illusion of peace .
My favorite sneakers were gone.
Not stolen hidden. And when I told Mama, everything changed.
Christmas morning in Wema Estate should have been safe, warm, full of laughter. But peace, I was learning, had a way of evaporating around here. Mama’s calm presence could soothe scars, visible or not, yet even she couldn’t stop the undercurrents swirling beneath the surface.
I should have known. Peace in my world never lingered long.
By midday, I overheard whispers in the kitchen Grandma Ruth and Aunt Bella. The words weren’t meant for me, but I heard them anyway. “She’s manipulative.” “Always seeking attention.” “Mad.”
Mad? For a pair of shoes? No. It wasn’t about the shoes anymore. It was about me telling Mama the one person they could never control. And suddenly, I was the villain in a story I didn’t write.
The air in Wema Estate that December was thick with warmth and celebration. The lights shimmered, laughter echoed through the compound, and for the first time in a long time, I felt safe. Mama was there her presence alone enough to soothe every scar, visible or not. She still is. She’s my anchor, my calm, the one person who continues to remind me that I’m not alone, even when the world turns cruel.
But I should’ve known that peace in my world never lingered long.
It all began on the 25th of December, 2023 Christmas Day. The house was full, alive with family, food, and festivity. There was Aunt Mira with her loud laugh and bigger than life stories, Aunt Lina with her quiet judgments, and Uncle Gareth who always seemed to drink a little too much but kept the firepit going. Then there was AuntTalia, the sister-in-law, who walked like she was above us all, her eyes scanning everyone with silent contempt. They were all connected to Mama either by blood or by marriage and yet, I never imagined they'd be the ones to leave the deepest wounds.
After the holidays, the house emptied out, the noise died down, and I remained behind with Grandma Ruth, my cousin Nina, our househelp Zila, and the gardener, Kenga. That’s when the quiet grew sharp. Something shifted in the air.
One morning, I noticed my favorite sneakers missing. They were a gift from Mama ,white with gold stripes, worn only a handful of times. I looked everywhere. Desperate, I reached out to Aunt Alma. She said she’d mention it to Grandma, but her tone was nonchalant, like I was making a fuss over nothing.
I also told Mama ,because she’s Mama. Because telling her things felt safe. I didn’t know that speaking to her about it would light a fire I couldn’t put out.
A few days later, the shoes were found. In a place that had already been searched, twice. But instead of closure, I was met with accusations. They said I had hidden them. That I’d made it all up. Suddenly, I was the villain in a story I didn’t write.
Instead of relief from the people I was supposed to trust, I was met with a different storm. I overheard Grandma Ruth and Aunt Bella whispering in the kitchen. Only it wasn’t whispers they were knives. They called me a liar. A manipulator. Said I was "mad" and "seeking attention." I froze by the doorway, their words crawling into my skin like ants.
It wasn’t about the shoes anymore. It was about the fact that I’d told Mama. That I’d involved the one person they couldn’t control. And for that, I became their target.
I didn’t cry. Not then.I swallowed it whole. And that’s when I began to understand: the people you trust the most can sometimes bruise you in silence where it hurts the longest. But something inside me cracked.
