Silence Beneath Our Roof

I grew up in a small village home with a mabati roof that echoed during the rainy seasons. From the outside, it looked like any other home in the village, but inside, it carried a silence that was heavy and uneasy.

My father was a strict man who believed in discipline and order. His word was final, and there was little room for mistakes or questions. At times, he could be distant, especially when alcohol took hold of him. In those moments, he became harder to understand, and the warmth we longed for often felt out of reach.

We learned to listen carefully. The way the gate opened, the weight of his footsteps, the sound of his voice—each detail told us what kind of evening it would be. On difficult nights, we stayed quiet, barely moving, hoping to keep the peace.

My mother was our only source of comfort. She was gentle, humble, and incredibly strong in...