For ten long years, my home was filled with silence. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of emptiness, the silence of a womb that refused to carry life, the silence of nights soaked in tears, the silence of pain when everyone around me celebrated motherhood while I was left behind.
When I got married at 25, I dreamed of becoming a mother within the first few years. I decorated a small room in our house, painted it soft yellow, imagining the day I would place a cot in it. But years rolled by, and month after month, my womb remained empty.
The pain of infertility is one that only those who have gone through it can understand. My friends who got married after me became mothers quickly. They would gather during baby showers, laugh, and share pregnancy cravings while I forced a smile and prayed the ground would swallow me whole. Some would even ask, “Na wewe una maliza lini?” a question that pierced deeper than a knife.
Doctors became my second home. I swallowed countless pills, endured painful injections, and spent sleepless nights searching for remedies online. At one point, one doctor bluntly told me: “Madam, your chances of ever conceiving are close to zero. You better accept and move on.” Those words broke me. I cried in hospital corridors until my eyes turned red. To continue reading, click here.