By Masimba Junior Mutodza
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The truth does not always arrive screaming.
Sometimes it waits.
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Seven years after Nyasha disappeared, the town learned how to forget her. Not quickly, not kindly just completely. Her name stopped appearing in conversations. Her photograph stopped hanging in the police station. Her absence became ordinary.
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Only Tino refused to forget.
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He was twelve when she vanished. He remembered small things others dismissed the scratch on her wrist, the argument that ended too suddenly, the way the night felt wrong. When he said she was still alive, they said grief had twisted his mind.
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When he said it again, they locked him away.
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Nyasha had been more than a sister. She was the noise in the house, the light in its corners. When she disappeared, silence moved in and made itself comfortable.
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Their mother stopped speaking. Their father drank until anger replaced memory. Rudo, the eldest, grew older overnight, learning how to hold a family together without knowing how to hold herself.
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Tino was the only one who listened.
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Nyasha’s voice did not come as memory. It came as presence quiet, patient, persistent. She spoke in the dark, in moments between sleep and waking.
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I’m still here.
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Doctors called it trauma. They gave it names and pills and white walls. They said the voice would fade once he accepted her death.
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But it did not fade.
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It waited.
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Inside the institution, time lost its shape. Days blurred. Nights repeated. Tino learned that silence was safer than honesty. He stopped arguing. Stopped crying. He listened instead.
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And in listening, he began to remember things he had buried.
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Rudo noticed the change before anyone else.
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Her brother no longer looked lost. He looked focused.
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“She’s alive,” he said during a visit, calm as certainty. “They didn’t want her found.”
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Rudo wanted to believe he was still broken. That believing him would mean breaking herself.
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But love has a way of choosing for us.
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That night, she unlocked the door.
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The past did not resist being uncovered. It waited, just like the truth always does. Files conflicted. Witnesses avoided questions. A former officer refused to meet their eyes.
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The deeper they went, the clearer it became: Nyasha had discovered something. Something that made people afraid.
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And then they found the house beyond the river.
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Nyasha was alive.
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That should have been the ending.
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But endings are rarely kind.
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She stood in the doorway, breathing, watching, unchanged in ways that mattered and altered in ways that did not. Relief flooded Rudo’s chest.
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Tino felt something else.
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Recognition.
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Slowly, the truth returned not as accusation, but as weight.
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The institution had not imprisoned him to silence his truth.
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It had hidden him from it.
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Nyasha had not disappeared.
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She had survived him.
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The voice had not been a ghost.
It had been mercy.
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Sirens broke the morning.
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Nyasha stepped back, her eyes steady. “You were right,” she said softly. “I never died.”
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Tino smiled, calm and complete.
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Because she was still speaking.
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And that was enough.
ns216.73.216.147da2
and then Add to home screen.