“He is not coming into this house,” Mariam said.
Kassim still held a spanner. “That's what I told him.”
“And?”
“He said if I have nothing to hide, why refuse?”
Tunu felt the words settle on her chest. She had taken nothing. She had never even been to Kassim's garage since returning. Yet the whole house now seemed to be treated as evidence.
“Let him come,” she said. “Let him look.”
“No,” Kassim replied.
“If you lose your job because of me—”
“Not because of you.”
“He is talking about me.”
“He is talking nonsense about you.”
“That difference doesn't pay your salary.”
Kassim dropped the spanner onto the table. “Then what am I supposed to do? Bring someone here to inspect your things after everything that happened yesterday?”
Mariam stayed quiet. The question reached her too.
The next morning Kassim went to the garage. His boss, Salim, was counting a socket set.
“You said you wanted to inspect my box,” Kassim began.
“Yes. We want discipline.”
“You said it was because of someone I live with.”
“Don't take it personally. The neighborhood has stories.”
“The tool box is here. Check the garage equipment. Nobody is coming to our home.”
Salim frowned. “Kassim, I give you work.”
“And I do the work.”
“Are you teaching me how to run my garage?”
“No. I'm saying the tools are a work matter. My home isn't part of the inspection.”
Salim laughed. “Did that girl teach you these words?”
Kassim felt anger rise, but remembered how easily one accusation could become a person's permanent character.
“Has anything gone missing?” he asked.
“No.”
“Has anyone seen me take anything?”
“No.”
“Then inventory the box. Don't use Tunu as the reason.”
A mechanic nearby stopped his ratchet for a second. Kassim knew he had heard. Embarrassment climbed his neck, but he did not take the words back.
Salim opened the box and checked the list. Everything was present.
“You can work,” he said.
“My job?”
“Continue.”
It was not an apology, but it was not dismissal either.
At school, Rehema gave Tunu two sheets of paper. On one she wrote **SOMETHING I DID**. On the other: **SOMETHING PEOPLE SAY**.
“You left school without permission.”
Tunu put it on the first page.
“You took tools from the garage?”
“No.”
“Second page.”
“You asked Mama Pendo to raise the rent?”
“No.”
“Second page.”
“You hid from Mariam that you met Jabi?”
“Yes.”
“First page.”
Rehema pushed both sheets toward her. “Accountability does not mean carrying everything. If you carry even what is not yours, you won't know what you actually need to repair.”
Tunu folded the papers into her notebook.
After school she went directly home and messaged Mariam from the gate even though she could simply walk in. Ordinary evidence mattered.
Kassim told her what happened at the garage.
“You refused to let anyone come?”
“Yes.”
“And you still have the job?”
“For today.”
“Thank you.”
“Don't thank me too much. I mainly don't want my boss to see how messy my room is.”
Tunu threw an eraser at him.
At dinner, Mariam brought out the old notebook with Tunu's name crossed out.
“Who did this?” she asked.
Kassim stopped eating.
“I did.”
“Why?”
Kassim looked at the table. “After Tunu left, everything became Tunu. Calls, searching, transport, Mama closing the stall early. I would come back from work and if I complained, I was reminded that my sister was missing.”
Tunu said nothing.
“One day I needed a notebook. I saw that one and crossed out the name because I was angry.”
“Why didn't you throw it away?” Tunu asked.
“I don't know. Maybe I wanted one thing in the house not to remain yours.”
“Did you want me not to come back?”
“Sometimes I wanted the house to stop waiting. Not because I wanted something bad for you.”
Tunu touched the black line. She had imagined it meant Kassim believed she would never return. Instead, it meant her absence had filled the house.
“I'm sorry,” Kassim said.
“I don't know if I forgive you yet.”
“Okay.”
He did not pressure her.
The next day Kassim brought brown paper from the garage and covered the notebook.
“You can write your name again.”
Tunu took a pen, then looked at him.
“Tomorrow we remove the boxes from my corner.”
“All of them?”
“All.”
“Okay.”
Tunu wrote in large letters across the new cover:
**TUNU BARAKA.**
The old black line still existed underneath.
It simply no longer had the final word.
---