The air in Lusaka hung heavy, thick with the scent of dust and simmering discontent. You'd never felt so suffocated, not even during the hottest summer months. It wasn't the heat, though, that weighed you down. It was the weight of your decision, the one you'd made in a moment of reckless passion, a decision that had shattered your world and left you adrift in a sea of guilt.
The familiar brick house on Chilenje Road, your home for the past fifteen years, now felt like a prison. You'd become a stranger to your children, their faces etched with a sadness that mirrored your own. You'd walked out, leaving behind a life that, despite its flaws, had held a semblance of order, a sense of rootedness. Now, you lived in a cramped apartment on Independence Avenue, your world reduced to the size of its small, cramped rooms. You were free, or so you'd thought, but freedom felt like a hollow victory.
Your secretary, Grace, had been a bright spot in your life, a beacon of understanding in the monotonous haze of your marriage. She'd listened to your complaints, your frustrations, offered a shoulder to lean on. Your attraction had bloomed slowly, a quiet, unspoken longing that had finally erupted in a passionate embrace one evening after work. You hadn't intended for things to go this far, but the intoxicating pull of her presence, her quiet strength, had proven too potent to resist.
The moment you'd confessed your love for Grace, your wife, Evelyn, had crumpled before you, her face a picture of devastation. You'd watched your children, their eyes wide with a mix of shock and disbelief, as you'd packed your belongings and walked out. The silence that followed your departure had been deafening, a silence that now echoed in your soul.
Every day, you fought against the gnawing guilt that gnawed at your insides. You'd told yourself it was for the best, that you were tired of a marriage that had become a hollow shell. You'd convinced yourself that you deserved a chance at happiness, that you were finally taking control of your life. But the truth, the harsh, brutal truth, was that you'd chosen your own selfish desires over the people who loved you most.
You missed your children. The laughter that used to fill the house, their excited chatter, the smell of their freshly baked cookies, were just memories now. You’d been their rock, their protector, their source of strength. Now, you were the one who needed strength, the one who needed to be protected from the pain of your own choices.
You tried to reach out, to bridge the gap, but it was like building a bridge over an ever-widening chasm. Your calls were met with silence, your texts ignored. Your attempts to visit were met with closed doors and stony stares.
One afternoon, you found yourself walking past their school, a knot of longing tightening in your chest. You saw your son, Ben, playing basketball with his friends. His laughter, once a joyful symphony, now sounded like a bitter reminder of what you’d lost. You wanted to go up to him, to hug him, to tell him how much you missed him. But the fear held you back, the fear of rejection, the fear of seeing the pain in his eyes.
Your daughter, Sarah, was a quiet girl, her love for you unspoken but profound. You'd always known she was sensitive, but now it was clear how deeply your decision had wounded her. You’d inadvertently taught her that loyalty and commitment could be discarded at a whim, that love itself was a fragile thing that could shatter without warning. The thought of the pain you’d inflicted on her, the fear you'd planted in her heart, was almost unbearable.
The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. You hadn’t just broken your marriage; you’d fractured the very foundation of your family. You’d made the ultimate sacrifice to your own desires, and in doing so, you’d sacrificed the most precious thing in your life.
You were a prisoner of your own choices, trapped in a self-made cage of regret. The weight of your actions bore down on you, a constant reminder of the love you’d lost, the children you’d hurt, and the future you'd shattered. The air in Lusaka still hung heavy, but now, it was the weight of your guilt that suffocated you, the awareness that even in the midst of freedom, you were utterly alone.
