weight of quiet rooms

The sun was hitting the back of my neck like a hot iron when my sister’s voice crackled through the air, "Muthoni, Dad is dead." I stood there looking at her, waiting for the punchline, waiting for her to burst out laughing and tell me I’d been punked, but her face was as dry as a Kajiado riverbed in January. I tried to squeeze out a tear, to perform the grief I knew was expected of me, but my eyes were as stubborn as a donkey on a hill. I thought I was being a "G," a stoic queen who could handle anything, so I packed my boxes for campus with a heart full of slogans. I told the empty air in our living room, "I got this, Dad; I’m going to make you proud," walking into that university gate like I was the CEO of my own destiny, my chin tilted so high I could...