The Shadow Clara Left Behind

After Clara’s burial, silence became my companion.

I would wake up, sit on the edge of my bed, and stare into space as if the walls could speak her name back to me. My phone rang endlessly—family checking on me, colleagues sending condolences—but nothing could fill the void Clara left behind. Every vibration of the phone felt like an insult. People wanted to hear me say I was “strong,” but how do you sound strong when your soul is collapsing?

Each morning, I found myself at her house. It became a ritual I couldn’t explain. I would walk through her sitting room, the curtains still smelling faintly of her perfume, and touch the framed photos of her smiling face. I whispered, “Clara, why did you leave me? Who will I tell my secrets to now? Who will remind me that being a faithful wife is still worth it?”

Her absence felt like a hole in my chest, widening each day.

But soon, whispers about her husband began spreading like wildfire. At first, I dismissed them. Grief makes people cruel; gossip is their way of entertaining themselves with another’s tragedy. But the whispers grew louder. The police started investigating, and it didn’t take long before the truth crawled out like worms from a corpse.

Witnesses came forward. Neighbours testified. Even the herbalist who had been bribed by his mistress confessed.

Clara’s death was no accident.

Her husband had pressed the very life out of her, strangled her with his own hands—all for property, greed, and the promise of another family hidden elsewhere. The betrayal cut deeper than a knife. She had fought so hard in life, only for death to expose her killers.

When I heard the full story, my body went cold. My lips trembled, and I cried afresh. “How can a man kill the woman that fed him? Slept beside him? Shared her dreams with him?” I shouted, though no one was there to answer.

The police arrested him, but justice brought me no comfort. Courts and prisons couldn’t return Clara’s voice, her laughter, or her counsel. She was gone forever.

That night, sleep refused to come. I turned from side to side, my heart beating like a drum. A thousand thoughts ran through my mind:

What if my own husband was no different? What if the rumours were true—that he had another wife and children abroad? What if my faithfulness was nothing but foolishness?

Tears soaked my pillow. I had given Tony the best years of my life, my body, my loyalty, my soul. And what had I received in return? Silence. Absence. Doubt.

Clara’s betrayal sharpened my own wounds. It made me question everything.

By morning, my eyes were red and my spirit heavy. I looked into the mirror and whispered, “Stella, you are breaking… and nobody sees it.”

And indeed, I was.

Life, however, does not pause for anyone’s grief.

I buried myself in work. I signed ministry documents like a machine, attended meetings with forced smiles, and returned home with my mask still plastered on. My colleagues praised my “strength,” not knowing every laugh was just another disguise hiding my bleeding heart.

At night, I sat on the floor of my sitting room with the lights off, hugging my knees like a child. I asked God, “Why do the faithful ones suffer? Why do women who give everything end up with nothing?”

Meanwhile, Tony no longer spoke like the man who once called me “my baby, my sunshine, my Stella star.” His voice was now plain, distracted. He would ask about his siblings, his properties, his family—but rarely about me.

Yet, I still held on.

If he asked me to attend his uncle’s birthday, I went. If he told me to visit his parents, I went, carrying gifts he sent. When his family needed money, I became the courier. I was constantly in service to him, even in his absence.

But the rumours never stopped. They came like daggers, sharp and uninvited.

“Stella, are you sure your husband doesn’t have another family abroad?”
“People say he already has children there. That’s why he hardly comes back.”
“My sister, be careful oh, men can deceive.”

Each word stung like pepper on an open wound. Many times, I locked myself in the toilet at work and cried quietly into my handkerchief. But through it all, I remained faithful.

Clara’s death had taught me something bitter: once a woman compromises, even slightly, the world judges her harshly—even if her husband is the devil himself.

One evening, I returned from work exhausted. I cooked rice and stew, set the table, and sat down. But I couldn’t eat. I just stared at the food until it grew cold. My mind drifted back to Tony.

If these rumours are true… if he really has another family, why keep me here waiting, running errands like a shadow of myself? Why won’t he set me free?

Anger bubbled inside me, but it drowned quickly in love. Despite everything, my heart still beat for him. After all, who else would want me at such age?

So I prayed that night, tears flowing freely:
“God, don’t let my husband be another Clara’s husband. Don’t let me end up like my friend who died faithful but unloved. Please, vindicate me.”

But little did I know—the answers to my prayers would not come as I expected.

A week later, Tony returned from abroad. His smile was faint, his hugs mechanical. As we sat together that evening, I tried to draw close to him, but he pulled away, claiming fatigue. His phone buzzed, and I saw the name flash across the screen—Amara.

He quickly turned it face down.

Something inside me broke. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. My reflection stared back at me, weary and hollow. I whispered, “Clara, is this my own unveiling too? Will I be you tomorrow?”

That night, I dreamt of her. She stood at the foot of my bed, her white burial gown torn, her voice echoing through the room:

“Stella, open your eyes before it’s too late. The truth will not wait forever.”

I woke up trembling, my bedsheet soaked with sweat.

The following day, while cleaning the house, I stumbled on an envelope inside Tony’s drawer. My hands shook as I opened it. Inside were photographs—Tony smiling with a woman and two children. The resemblance was undeniable. His secret family.

My knees buckled. I slid to the floor, clutching the photos to my chest, sobbing until my throat ached.

All the rumours were true.

And in that moment, Clara’s presence felt alive in the room. Her betrayal and mine had become the same story, written by different hands but with the same ink of deceit.

I whispered into the silence, “Clara, now I understand. You tried to warn me.”

From that day, my world shifted. The woman who once believed in love above all things became someone else—cautious, hardened, awake.

Tony still does not know I discovered his secret. He moves around the house casually, calling me “wife” as if the word still holds meaning. But deep inside, I am no longer blind.

And every night, before I sleep, I hear Clara’s voice again, whispering:

“Don’t die faithful for a man who has already buried you in lies.”