The air in Lusaka hung heavy, a humid blanket that clung to you like the weight of the decision you were about to make. You took a deep breath, the scent of roasting maize and charcoal smoke filling your nostrils, a familiar aroma that suddenly felt alien. You were leaving, not just the small apartment you shared with him, but a life you’d envisioned, a future you’d built together, brick by brick, dream by dream.
He wasn’t a bad man, you thought, but he was…confused. Confused about what he wanted, confused about who he was. It wasn’t something that had happened overnight, this confusion, it had been a slow, insidious erosion of the foundation of your relationship.
You’d met him at the University of Zambia, his charm and wit captivating you instantly. He spoke of dreams, of travelling the world, of starting a family, all those things you dreamt of too. You were young, full of hope, and you fell hard. He was your first love, your first everything.
For a while, everything was perfect. The laughter, the stolen kisses in the library, the late-night talks filled with shared hopes and aspirations. But as time passed, he grew distant. His passion for his dreams waned, replaced by a listlessness that permeated every facet of his life. He began staying late at work, disappearing for days on end with no explanation.
The whispers started, murmurs of his escapades, of his fleeting connections. You ignored them at first, wanting to believe in the man you loved, the man you thought you knew. But the truth, like a persistent weed, slowly choked the life out of your denial.
You’d tried, you really had. You’d talked, you’d reasoned, you’d pleaded. But each conversation ended in the same frustrating loop; promises he’d break, excuses he’d offer, confusion he’d express.
This wasn’t the man you fell in love with, the man with plans, the man who understood your need for stability, your desire for a solid foundation. This was someone lost, adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
And then came the words that sealed your fate, the words your sister had warned you about. “I’m not sure if I want to have kids.” He’d said it so casually, as if it were just another piece of his daily confusion.
It was your sister, your fierce, outspoken sister, who’d spoken those words that had stayed with you, a mantra you’d repeated in the darkest moments: “Sister, be stingy with your womb. Don’t carry a child for a confused man.”
You remembered how she’d looked at you, her eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness, her voice strong and unwavering. She’d seen the signs, had seen the cracks in your relationship before you had, and she’d spoken the truth, the truth you’d desperately needed to hear.
You couldn’t bear the thought of bringing a child into that kind of life, of raising a child in the shadow of his uncertainty. You couldn’t bear the thought of sacrificing your dreams, of sacrificing yourself, for someone who couldn’t even commit to his own life.
So, you were leaving. Leaving him, leaving the life you’d built with him, and leaving behind the hurt, the anger, the confusion, leaving it all behind, like a heavy cloak you no longer needed to carry.
You took one last look at the apartment, at the faded posters of their dreams, at the empty space where his presence used to be. You were leaving, but you were not broken. This was a victory, a new beginning.
As you walked away, the weight of your decision lifted. You felt the sun on your face, the breeze in your hair, the fresh air of a new start. You were leaving a relationship, but you were also leaving a life you no longer wanted, a life that had threatened to swallow you whole. You were leaving, but you were also finding yourself, finding your strength, finding your own way. 'Be stingy with your womb,' your sister's words echoed in your mind, a powerful reminder of your own worth, a powerful reminder of your own freedom.
