Ma’Shingayi

When Babamukuru stepped out of that car of his, all somber looking, I knew what had come to pass. My poor Nhamo. Dead. My only son. The pain was, it was unbearable. My heart would surely break from all of the grief and pressure. I was no longer crying, I wasn't sobbing either. Noises that were not human came up from my mouth. I knew nothing other than that my dear son, Nhamo, was dead. There was a ringing in my ears, I knew that I must have been a mess from dropping on the ground so suddenly, but I did not care. I would never see my dear Nhamo again, never hear his words, even if he spoke little. Oh! I did not feel the will to live anymore, but then I realized that I still had mouths to feed. I must go on, even if depressed.

Now they are saying that we must send Tambu to that place of death? I will not have it. I must keep some of my children living, and with me, for I shall grow even more depressed. I will die if she goes, anxiety and sadness will rule my life conducting me like a band director at a concert. I will never know a happy moment even when the sun is shining, my days will be dark. Tambu wants to go off and learn, but has she thought of her old mother? No. I want my baby to stay with me, or we both shall die.