Cracks in the glass

Days turned into weeks, and I kept Emmanuel’s mother’s warning tucked away like a thorn beneath my skin. I smiled on the outside, laughed when he made his silly jokes, but inside, doubt quietly gnawed at me.

It was in the little things that I first noticed the change.

Emmanuel, once eager to spend long afternoons with me, began arriving later than usual. Sometimes he would say, “I’m sorry, something came up at home,” or “I had to run errands for Mama.” His excuses were harmless enough, but they left a trail of unease in my heart.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in streaks of orange, I sat waiting by the old neem tree where we usually met. Children played in the distance, their laughter rising like music, but Emmanuel did not come. I waited until the last of the light faded, then walked home with heavy steps.

When I reached the compound, Lydia was at the doorway, her arms folded.

“Ei, Sister, where have you been? Emmanuel didn’t come?” she teased.

I forced a smile. “He must have been busy today.”

But as I lay on my mat later that night, staring at the ceiling, a hollow ache spread in my chest.

The next day he appeared at my door with that familiar grin, carrying a small bag of bread.

“I’m sorry for yesterday, Matilda,” he said, his eyes bright, his voice warm. “I should have told you I wouldn’t make it.”

I wanted to scold him, to let my hurt spill out, but his charm always melted my resolve. I took the bread and smiled. “It’s alright.”

And for a while, it was.

Yet the cracks widened slowly, like glass under pressure.

Sometimes when we walked together, I caught him staring into the distance, his mind far away. Other times, he would pause mid-conversation, as if remembering something he wasn’t supposed to forget. When I asked what was wrong, he would wave it off with a laugh.

One afternoon, as we sat by the river, skipping stones, I gathered my courage.

“Emmanuel,” I said softly, “is something bothering you? You’ve seemed… distracted.”

He turned to me, his eyes unreadable for a moment, then smiled. “No, my love. You worry too much. I’m just thinking about the future—how I’ll take care of you, of us.”

His words were sweet, but they tasted like smoke, vanishing too quickly to believe.

I nodded, though my heart whispered otherwise.

At home, Mama noticed my mood.

“Matilda,” she said one evening as we pounded fufu together, “your eyes look troubled. Is everything alright with Emmanuel?”

I hesitated, then forced a cheerful tone. “Yes, Mama. We’re fine.”

She studied me for a long moment, her hands steady on the pestle. “Hmm. Remember, my daughter, love should not make you restless. It should bring peace.”

Her words stayed with me long after the pounding was done.

That night, Emmanuel visited again. He told stories, made my siblings laugh, even carried Emerald—my niece—for a while, bouncing her gently until she giggled. Everyone saw him as the perfect young man, and I wanted to see him that way too.

But when he kissed my forehead before leaving, I caught a fleeting shadow in his eyes.

Something was changing. I could feel it.

And though I didn’t yet know what it was, deep inside, a quiet fear began to take root.

The glass of our love, once whole and shining, had begun to crack—and I was too afraid to admit it.

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