The days in the village passed slowly, like clouds drifting across the wide sky.
By the time three months had passed, MaSimukonda had settled fully into the rhythm of the homestead. She woke up when the sun was already high and spent most of her mornings sitting beneath the musangu tree near the cooking hut.
Nalubamba, however, woke up long before sunrise.
Each morning she prepared breakfast, swept the yard, milked the cows, and helped her husband organize the day's farm work.
At first, MaSimukonda had helped occasionally.
But as time passed, she stopped offering assistance altogether.
Instead, she watched.
Sometimes she would call Nalubamba over.
"Daughter," she would say, "bring me some sour milk."
Nalubamba would bring it.
Later she would ask again.
"Cook more nshima today. I feel hungry."
Nalubamba obeyed politely.
Still, she noticed something troubling.
MaSimukonda no longer spoke about buying her own farm.
It was as if that plan had quietly disappeared.
One evening Nalubamba mentioned this to her husband.
"Mwiya," she said carefully, "our visitor seems comfortable here."
Mwiya nodded.
"Yes. But she is family."
Nalubamba did not argue.
But inside her heart, worry had begun to grow.