“Bwana Kito?” Mariam repeated.
Mama Pendo nodded.
Tunu remembered the man standing in his doorway on the day of the rent notice. Months before she left, he had once paid her to fix a radio wire. He had never shouted at her. He had barely spoken to her beyond greetings.
“Why?” Tunu asked.
“He says he has younger children. He's afraid of people who might start coming around.”
“Which people?” Mariam asked.
“People from the bus stage.”
“Has he seen them?”
“He says he doesn't want to wait.”
Mariam laughed bitterly. “Everyone is afraid to wait for a mistake that hasn't happened.”
The issue remained unresolved until Mama Pendo announced a tenants' meeting for Saturday afternoon.
“I don't want Tunu sitting in front of everyone defending herself,” Mariam said.
“Neither do I,” Pendo replied. “We're discussing the house.”
The tenants brought plastic chairs into the small compound yard. Bwana Kito came with his wife. Three other households attended. Kassim sat beside Mariam. Tunu chose a chair at the edge, not the center.
Mama Pendo opened her rent book.
“I made a mistake mixing rumor with rent,” she began. “Today I want us to write down what we actually agree to as tenants.”
Kito frowned. “We don't have some big contract here.”
“Exactly. That is part of the problem.”
Pendo produced a new sheet listing simple matters: rent amount, notice before increases, shared areas, visitors, noise, damage, and how complaints should be made.
“Why now?” Kito asked.
“Because I've seen what happens when I make decisions from people's talk.”
Kito looked toward Tunu. “This isn't only talk. I have children.”
“And I have a child,” Mariam said.
“I didn't mean—”
“You said if she stays, you leave.”
“I said if the environment changes.”
“How has it changed?” Kassim asked.
“People appear.”
“Who?”
“That young man.”
“How many times has Jabi entered this compound?”
Kito did not answer.
“Zero, as far as I've seen,” Mama Pendo said.
Kito turned sharply. “Now you're calling me a liar?”
“No. I'm asking for an event.”
Tunu recognized the language from the school meeting: an event, not a rumor.
Kito rubbed his knees. Then, for the first time, he explained his fear. At a previous home, his family had experienced a break-in after unfamiliar visitors had begun appearing around the property. The memory had followed him here.
For the first time, Tunu saw that his fear carried another picture, one that did not begin with her face.
“I'm sorry that happened,” Mariam said. “But Tunu did not do it.”
“I didn't say she did.”
“You are asking her to leave because you fear someone else might.”
“I want my family safe.”
Tunu almost answered, but Mariam gave her a small shake of the head—not to silence her from shame, but to remind her she did not have to argue for permission to exist there.
“Then let's make visitor rules for every household,” Mariam said. “If something happens, we deal with it. But my child will not stand here asking you to approve her right to live at home.”
They debated gate hours, visitors, noise, and reporting threatening behavior. The rules applied equally to everyone. No clause named Tunu.
After nearly an hour, Mama Pendo returned to the rent issue.
“The extra twenty thousand I announced for Mariam's household is withdrawn.”
Tunu released a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“Why?” Kito asked.
“Because there was no rent basis for it. If rent changes in future, everyone gets the same proper notice.”
Mariam did not thank her. “That is how it should be.”
Kito stood before the meeting ended. “I'm still not comfortable.”
“You do not have to be comfortable with Tunu's life,” Mariam said. “You only have to stop punishing her for something she has not done.”
He left without answering.
That evening Mariam returned five coins to the emergency tin instead of three.
“Does that mean eggs are back?” Kassim asked.
“Don't become greedy.”
Tunu laughed.
Later, while she studied science at her crate-table, the old phone vibrated.
Jabi.
*The truck leaves tomorrow morning. I got a place. I don't know when I'll be back.*
Another message followed.
*Don't come if you don't want to. You don't owe me.*
Tunu remembered the radio, the market, the water they had shared, and Jabi's warning that people liked telling someone to return more than they liked changing the place of return.
Some things had changed now. Not everything.
She typed: *I want to say goodbye. Daytime, public place. I'll tell Mariam.*
Jabi replied a minute later.
*Okay.*
Then one final message:
*I leave tomorrow. If you don't come, I'll understand.*
---