Maggie married Kamau with a heart full of hope. He was the son of a village tycoon, and in her mind, that meant rest from struggle and a future wrapped in comfort. As she left her parents’ home, she believed she was walking into a soft life, one where her worries would finally sleep. The villagers smiled at her with envy, and Maggie smiled back, unaware that dreams can sometimes lie.
Her joy did not last long. Soon after entering Kamau’s home, Maggie learned a painful truth: Kamau owned nothing. Everything belonged to his mother, Wakarura. The land, the cattle, the money—every coin answered to her name. Wakarura was not just powerful; she was a miser. She counted food, locked supplies, and treated generosity like a sickness. Maggie felt her heart sink as each day stripped away the life she had imagined.
Slowly, Maggie’s spirit began to break. She thought of her parents’ home, where love was free and laughter warm. Many times, she stood at the doorway, ready to return, but pride and fear held her back. Then a cruel thought crept into her heart. Wakarura was old and sick. Diabetes and other illnesses followed her like shadows. Maggie convinced herself that this suffering had an end—that Wakarura would not live long.
Maggie decided to stay. She told herself she could endure ten years, maybe less. She swallowed insults, accepted hunger, and carried silence like a burden. Each day, she waited, counting not her blessings, but Wakarura’s remaining days. Hope no longer meant peace; it meant inheritance. Love turned into patience for death.
But life does not follow human plans. Wakarura lived on, slow but strong, stubborn like an old tree that refuses to fall. Maggie, however, grew weaker. The waiting drained her. The bitterness poisoned her heart. Her body followed her spirit into exhaustion, and sickness found her easily.
One quiet season, Maggie fell ill and never rose again. She died before the woman whose death she had waited for. Wakarura lived on, guarding her wealth, while Maggie was buried with empty hands and a tired heart. And so the village learned a painful lesson: a life spent waiting for another’s end may end first.
Her joy did not last long. Soon after entering Kamau’s home, Maggie learned a painful truth: Kamau owned nothing. Everything belonged to his mother, Wakarura. The land, the cattle, the money—every coin answered to her name. Wakarura was not just powerful; she was a miser. She counted food, locked supplies, and treated generosity like a sickness. Maggie felt her heart sink as each day stripped away the life she had imagined.
Slowly, Maggie’s spirit began to break. She thought of her parents’ home, where love was free and laughter warm. Many times, she stood at the doorway, ready to return, but pride and fear held her back. Then a cruel thought crept into her heart. Wakarura was old and sick. Diabetes and other illnesses followed her like shadows. Maggie convinced herself that this suffering had an end—that Wakarura would not live long.
Maggie decided to stay. She told herself she could endure ten years, maybe less. She swallowed insults, accepted hunger, and carried silence like a burden. Each day, she waited, counting not her blessings, but Wakarura’s remaining days. Hope no longer meant peace; it meant inheritance. Love turned into patience for death.
But life does not follow human plans. Wakarura lived on, slow but strong, stubborn like an old tree that refuses to fall. Maggie, however, grew weaker. The waiting drained her. The bitterness poisoned her heart. Her body followed her spirit into exhaustion, and sickness found her easily.
One quiet season, Maggie fell ill and never rose again. She died before the woman whose death she had waited for. Wakarura lived on, guarding her wealth, while Maggie was buried with empty hands and a tired heart. And so the village learned a painful lesson: a life spent waiting for another’s end may end first.
