That night Salma did not turn on the television after dinner.
That alone told Mariam the conversation they had been postponing had reached its end.
Salma’s three children had gone to bed early in their room. Musa was on night shift. Tunu sat on the floor near the sofa finishing homework, though the same page had stayed open for too long. Mariam’s boxes had decreased since the first day, but they were still everywhere: beneath the table, behind the curtain, beside the refrigerator. Her smaller sewing machine stood covered with cloth near the wall.
Salma placed her household notebook on the table.
“Do not think I want to throw you out.”
“I don’t.”
“The three weeks we agreed on end in two days.”
“I remember.”
Tunu lowered her pen.
Salma looked at her, then back at Mariam.
“Musa has not complained. The children have not complained either. But the house is crowded. He sleeps during the day after night shift. You open boxes. Tunu wakes before dawn. I am managing three children. This cannot keep going like this.”
Mariam nodded.
She did not need Salma to become a villain before she was allowed to feel hurt.
“I have started looking for a bedsitter.”
Tunu looked up sharply.
“Where?”
“Near the market. Not too far from your school route.”
“How far is not too far?”
“One bus, then a short walk.”
“How short?”
Mariam exhaled.
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
Tunu closed her notebook.
Salma said gently, “Tunu, your mother is trying.”
“I didn’t say she isn’t.”
“Then do not make every answer into another case.”
Tunu stood and went into the bedroom without replying.
Mariam felt the sting of it but did not follow. They were all tired of borrowing space from someone else.
Salma pushed the notebook across the table.
“These are the expenses that changed after you arrived. I am not asking you to pay everything. I only want you to see why I keep saying we need a plan.”
Food.
Water.
Electricity tokens.
Transport for moving boxes.
Storage contribution for the larger sewing machine.
Mariam took out her calculator.
“Give me my fair share. I will pay Friday.”
“Do not cut yourself down to nothing. You still have stall rent, SACCO, and now temporary housing.”
“I will pay what is fair.”
Salma watched her.
“That is your problem. You want everything to be fair while you are living inside an emergency.”
“If I stop counting, my emergency becomes someone else’s debt.”
“Your sister is not a creditor.”
“I know.”
“Then behave like you know.”
Mariam lowered the calculator.
The words hurt because they were not cruel. Salma had opened her home. Her children had lost their sitting room. Musa slept with earplugs in the afternoon. No one had asked Mariam for a receipt for kindness.
“I’m sorry,” Mariam said.
Salma leaned back.
“I am sorry too. I am tired.”
They sat quietly for a while.
Then Mariam opened the housing listings she had saved on her phone.
One bedsitter near the market wanted two months’ deposit.
Another was cheaper but would force Tunu back onto two buses.
A third sat in an area where water was rationed three days a week.
Salma pointed at the market listing.
“This one?”
“The landlord wants deposit plus first month.”
“Do you have that cash?”
Mariam did not answer immediately.
She had business float. She could take from it. But doing that would leave the stall unable to buy zippers, thread, and fabric for emergency orders. Her SACCO installment was also due. And BM-AUD-118 still had no timeline.
“I have part of it.”
“Part is not a deposit.”
“I can fill the gap from two orders this week.”
“And if the customer delays payment?”
Mariam smiled wearily.
“Then another spreadsheet.”
Salma did not smile.
“Do not joke. This is where Tunu will sleep next.”
Mariam nodded.
She went into the bedroom. Tunu lay against the wall, still in her school uniform.
“Tunu.”
“Mm.”
“We are moving from here.”
“I know.”
“Not because Salma does not want us.”
“I understand.”
“And it does not have to be permanent.”
Tunu rolled over.
“Mama, stop saying permanent and temporary. Just tell me where we sleep next week.”
Mariam was quiet.
“That is what I am solving tonight.”
“And the audit?”
“It continues.”
“The stall?”
“It continues.”
“School?”
Mariam managed a small smile.
“That is why your route is my first condition.”
Tunu closed her eyes.
“Okay.”
After Tunu fell asleep, Mariam began removing everything that did not need to stay at Salma’s. She separated customer garments, documents, school items, and household things. The small sewing machine would go to the stall the next morning. Two boxes of cookware would go into storage. Only clothes and bedding would follow them to the bedsitter.
Salma helped in silence.
Each box they sealed felt like a smaller version of demolition, except this time they were doing it themselves.
“Mariam,” Salma said, “if you finally get that Makazi ya Tumaini unit, do not tell yourself all this waiting was worth it just because there is a key at the end.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cost of waiting is real. Keep your receipts. Transport. Storage. Rent. Not because they will repay every shilling. Because I do not want you to forget what the delay cost you.”
Mariam stopped taping a box.
“I will keep them.”
Salma laughed softly.
“That part I was never worried about.”
At eleven that night, Mariam called the landlord of the market bedsitter.
“The room is still open,” he said, “but two other people came to see it.”
“Can I bring part of the money tomorrow morning?”
“Full deposit holds the room.”
“I can reach you by ten.”
“If you arrive with the money and it is still available, fine.”
“Please hold it until tomorrow.”
“I do not give verbal promises.”
Mariam almost laughed from the bitterness of it. Even a bedsitter landlord was now teaching her the same rule she had spent the past week learning.
“Then send me the deadline by message.”
“I’ll send it.”
She ended the call and opened her calculator again. She entered deposit, rent, storage, transport, and the SACCO balance. Then she entered the cash she could raise without touching Tunu’s school money.
There was still a shortfall.
She placed the phone beside the folder marked CASE BM-AUD-118. The number looked official. It did not pay for a mattress.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from the landlord.
Her phone lights up: “I’ll hold the bedsitter only until noon tomorrow.”
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