LOGINI stare at David’s name on my screen. My heart rate spikes. My throat tightens.
Amon notices incontinently. “ Everything okay? ”
“ It’s my partner. He keeps calling from different numbers. ”
Amon’s expression darkens. Not with jealousy. With concern. “ That’s not okay, Sarah. Is he draining you? ”
“ No. I mean, not really. He just wants to talk. Says Zainab broke up with him and he made a mistake. ”
I declined the call. It incontinently rings again.
“ Do you want to talk to him? ”
Amon asks it precisely. No judgment. Just a genuine question.
I look at him. This man who sees me. Who doesn't try to control me? Who asks rather than assumes?
“ No. I really, really don't. ”
I answer anyway. Put it on a speaker, so Amon can hear. So I have a substantiation. So I’m not alone.
“ What, David ”
“ Sarah, thank God. Hear, we need to meet. In person. I’m outside your apartment right now. I’ve been staying — ”
My blood runs cold. “ You’re WHERE? ”
“ I’m at your structure. I need to see you. We need to talk in person. These phone calls aren't enough. I can explain everything if you just — ”
“ Don't you dare come to my home unasked. ” My voice is shaking. “ We're disassociated, David. Disassociated. That means you don't get to show up whenever you feel like it. ”
People at nearby tables are starting to look. I do n’t care.
“ I’m trying to fix this! Why are you being so delicate? Is someone there with you? Is that why — ”
“ This discussion is over. However, I’m calling the police if you don't leave my building in the next ten minutes. ”
I hang up. My hands are shaking. I looked at Amon, eyes wide with wrathfulness and fear mixed.
“ I'd have to go home. I've to make sure he actually leaves. ”
“ I’m coming with you. ”
“ You don't have to — ”
“ Sarah. I’m coming with you. You’re not facing him alone. ”
I want to argue. Want to prove I can handle this myself. But the truth is, I don't n't want to be alone. I’m tired of being alone.
“ Okay. ”
We leave the café quickly. My coffee untouched. The white rose forgotten on the table.
The boda- boda lift to my apartment feels eternal. I sit rigid behind the motorist, Amon on another bike following. My mind races with scripts. What if David’s still there? What if he makes a scene? What if —
He’s still there.
Standing by his sleek black Mercedes. Arms crossed. Looking tone-righteous and wounded.
I climb off the boda- boda. Amon arrives seconds later, immediately at my side.
David’s expression shifts when he sees Amon. Surprise. Also wrathfulness.
“ So this is why you won't talk to me? You’re already f*ck*ng someone new? ”
The words are designed to hurt. To shame. To make me small.
They don't work presently.
“ That’s none of your business. You need to leave. ”
“ We were married for three years, Sarah. That gives me the right to — ”
“ It gives you nothing! ” My voice rises. I’m apprehensive of neighbors on sundecks now. Mrs. Nabunjo from upstairs was watching with concern. I don't care. “ You gave up all rights when you cheated. When you prevaricated. When you made me feel crazy for noticing. Leave. Now. ”
David's way toward me. Amon immediately moves between us. Not aggressive. Just present. A physical boundary.
“ She asked you to leave. ”
David’s hands gripped into fists. For a moment, I suppose he might actually swing. Also, Mrs. Nabunjo calls down from her deck.
“ Sarah? Oli bulungi? Should I call the police? ”
David realizes he has an audience. His mask of wounded ex-husband slips. The real David underneath — petty, vengeful, small.
“ Fine. FINE. But don't come for to me when this fantasy falls piecemeal. You’re making a huge mistake, Sarah. ”
He gets in his auto. Peels out too fast. Tires howl. Dust rises.
Silence settles.
I stand firmed . Adrenaline still pumping. My hands shake.
Amon doesn't touch me. Just stands near. Present. Patient.
“ You okay? ”
I nod, Also shake my head. Also laugh. It comes out slightly hysterical.
“ I do n’t know. That was — I can n’t believe he just — ”
“ You were inconceivable. ” Amon’s voice is firm. “ You set boundaries. You stood up for yourself. That took real courage. ”
“ I was alarmed. ”
“ Brave people are always alarmed. That’s what makes them brave. ”
I look at him. This man who showed up. Who stood between me and my partner without being asked? Who’s still here?
“ Thank you. For coming with me. For — for everything. ”
“ Always. ”
We stand in the emulsion. The afternoon sun beating down. The normality of the neighborhood continues around us.
I should go outside. Should reuse this. Should be alone with my thoughts.
“ Do you want to come up?” The words escape before I can stop them. “ I need — I don't want to be alone right now. ”
Amon studies my face. Making sure I mean it. Making sure I’m not just replying.
“ Are you sure? ”
“ I’m sure. ”
We go outside. My apartment feels different with him in it. Lower empty. Less like a prison.
I sat on the couch. He sits beside me. Near but not touching.
“ That was your re-husband. ”
“ That was David. Yes. ”
“ He’s an *ssh*l*. ”
I laugh. “ He really is. ”
“ You earn better. ”
“ I’m starting to believe that. ”
We sit in comfortable silence. The adrenaline slowly draining. My heart rate returning to normal.
“ Sarah? ”
“ Yeah? ”
“ Can I hold you? Not in a romantic way. Just you’re shaking and I want to help. ”
I nod. Ca n’t speak.
He pulls me against his chest. His arms come around me. Solid, safe-deposit box. Asking nothing.
I let myself be held.
For the first time in years, I let someone hold me without expectation. Without a docket.
I do n’t cry. I just breathe. Let his steadiness anchor me.
“ I’ve got you,” he whispers. “ You’re safe. He’s gone. ”
And I believe him.
[SCENE: Mulago Hospital, pediatric oncology ward. Day twenty-eight of induction chemotherapy. One week after Amara’s birth. AYANA sits on her hospital bed, legs dangling, wearing a colorful headscarf that MIRIAM brought to cover her bald head. She looks thinner, frailer, but her eyes are alert. SARAH sits beside her, AMARA is sleeping in a carrier strapped to her chest—she’s learned to nurse, change diapers, and comfort a newborn while sitting in a hospital room. AMON stands by the window, unable to sit still, waiting. DR. ASIIMWE enters with a folder—the bone marrow biopsy results from two days ago. His expression is carefully neutral, giving nothing away.]DR. ASIIMWE: “Good morning, Kato family. Ayana, how are you feeling today?”AYANA: “Okay. Tired. When can I go home?”DR. ASIIMWE: “That depends on these results. Your parents and I need to talk about what we found in your bone marrow test. Do you
[SCENE: Mulago Hospital. Three weeks after the diagnosis, 3:47 AM, SARAH woke up in the reclining chair beside AYANA’s bed, sharp pain radiating from her lower back around to her abdomen. She gasps, grips the armrest. The pain builds, peaks, then slowly releases. She knows immediately—contractions. The baby is coming. AMON sleeps in another chair, exhausted from two weeks of dividing time between hospital and home. AYANA sleeps fitfully, her bald head visible now—all her beautiful hair gone. The chemotherapy port in her chest rises and falls with her breathing. SARAH has another contraction, stronger this time. She needs to wake Amon but doesn’t want to wake Ayana.]SARAH: (whispered urgently) “Amon. Amon, wake up.”[AMON jolts awake, immediately alert—hospital life has trained him to wake quickly.]AMON: “What’s wrong? Is it Ayana?”SARAH: “No. It’s the baby. I have contractions. Real ones. Five minutes apart
[SCENE: Mulago Hospital, pediatric oncology ward. Two weeks after diagnosis. The ward is a specialized unit—colorful murals on the walls trying to make cancer treatment less terrifying for children, but the medical equipment and IV poles tell the real story. AYANA’s room is semi-private, shared with another child whose family sits quietly on the other side of a curtain. AYANA lies in bed, the central port visible on her chest, IV tubes running to a chemotherapy bag. She’s pale, thinner already, dark circles under her eyes. She she’s awake, alert, watching a tablet that MIRIAM brought her. SARAH sits in a reclining chair beside the bed, her pregnant belly enormous now—due any day. She looks exhausted, hasn’t left the hospital except for quick showers at home. AMON arrives with breakfast for both of them, having spent the night at home with DAVID.]AMON: (entering quietly) “Good morning, my loves. How was the ni
[SCENE: Mulago Hospital, oncology consultation room. The next afternoon. A small, sterile office with medical posters on the walls showing blood cells and treatment protocols. DR. ASIIMWE sits behind a desk with test results spread before him. Across from him, SARAH and are on in plastic chairs, holding hands, so tightly their knuckles are white. SARAH is eight months pregnant, exhausted from a sleepless night in the hospital. AMON looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. AYANA is in her hospital room with MAMA GRACE, who arrived at dawn to help. The air in the room feels thin, hard to breathe.]DR. ASIIMWE: “Thank you for meeting with me. I know waiting for results is difficult. I wish I had better news.”[SARAH’s grip on AMON’s hand tightens. He doesn’t flinch, just holds her equally tight.]SARAH: “Just tell us. Please. The waiting is torture.”DR. ASIIMWE: (looking at them with genuine compassion) “Ayana has acute lympho
[SCENE: SARAH and AMON’s house, Kololo. Six months after the Christmas revelation. Late June, early evening. SARAH is visibly pregnant—eight months along with their third child. The house buzzes with the evening routine. AYANA (8) does homework at the dining table. DAVID (5, almost 6) plays quietly with his toy medical kit, bandaging his stuffed animals with serious concentration. AMON cooks dinner in the kitchen. SARAH sits on the couch, feet elevated, one hand on her belly, the other holding her phone as she talks to a contractor about a housing project. Everything appears normal, domestic, peaceful.]SARAH: (into phone) “Yes, the materials need to arrive by Monday. No exceptions. We have a tight deadline— Okay, thank you.”[She hangs up, winces slightly, adjusts her position. AMON emerges from the kitchen with a glass of water.]AMON: “How’s Baby Kato number three doing today?”SARAH: “Active. Very active. I
Three years later.I’m standing in Java House. The same café where is a’ll started. Same corner. Same table.Bu’t everything’s different now.Ayana’s three. Running around the café like she owns it. Amon’s chasing her. Both laughing. Both paint-stained because they spent the morning in his studio making “art.”I have a cappuccino. Not wearing white. Learned that lesson.My phone buzzes. Email from the Ministry. The national housing initiative—my program—just got approved for expansion across East Africa.Everything I dreamed about when I was a broken divorcee was sitting in this exact spot. It’s happening. All of it.A woman walk’s in. Early twenties. Crisp blouse. Tight posture. Eyes that say she’s holding everything together by force of will.I see myself. Four years ago. Trying so hard to control everything. Drowning and pretending to swim.She orders coffee. Sits at a nearby table. Opens her laptop. He







