04/08/2025
STILL WATERS..
My name is Amaya. I’m 33, and to be honest, this isn’t the life I thought I’d be living.
No husband. No children. Not even close. My phone barely rings unless it’s my mother, asking why I haven’t joined the women’s prayer group or reminding me that her friend’s daughter just got engaged. Again.
I live in a small self-contained apartment in Gwarinpa. It’s not much, but it’s mine. Most days, I sit by the window and listen to the generators humming like tired hearts. The neighbors hardly greet me anymore. It’s not their fault, I stopped reaching out. I used to be the cheerful one, the organizer, the helper, the voice that made people laugh in the middle of chaos. Now I’m just… quiet.
Sometimes I scroll through old photos — me at 25, full of light, arms around friends who’ve since disappeared into marriages, migrations, and motherhood. I used to believe that if you gave love, it would come back. But life is not a straight line.
My last serious relationship ended four years ago. We were already talking about venues, a*o ebi, and children’s names. Then one evening, out of nowhere, he told me he didn’t see a future with me anymore. Said I was “too much in my head,” that I carried my disappointments like luggage. He wasn't wrong. But it still broke me.
Friendships faded too. Some drifted, some cracked under the weight of silence. You can't keep telling people "I'm fine" when you're not — and eventually, they stop asking.
But the worst part isn’t the loneliness, it’s the craving. I crave laughter that’s not forced. I crave arms around me at night. I crave a kitchen with the smell of stew and the sound of small feet running in and out. I crave someone to share both rice and silence with.
Some days I feel ashamed for wanting these things so badly. Other days, I just feel numb.
But I'm still here. Breathing. Waiting. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, this isn't the end of my story.
