Absolutely. Here's Chapter 4: Shadows and Angels, the beginning of Part 2 – Survival and Strength. In this chapter, Bonitah faces the daily grind of raising Benaiah while fighting to find her place in a world that still sees her as invisible—but also meets unexpected kindness along the way.
---
Chapter 4: Shadows and Angels
Bomitah never expected motherhood to be easy. But she hadn't imagined it would be this lonely.
Benaiah was two weeks old when they left the clinic. There was no home to return to—only the shelter. She carried him in her arms, his tiny body wrapped in the yellow blanket from Jessica, his breath warm against her chest.
The world outside seemed louder now. Colder. Every honking car and barking dog felt like a threat. She clutched Benaiah tighter and whispered a quiet prayer with every step.
Back at the shelter, the other women welcomed her back with tired smiles and small offerings—an extra bar of soap, a boiled egg, half a packet of maize meal. In that moment, it felt like wealth.
Nights were the hardest. Benaiah cried often. Bonitah rocked him on her lap, too afraid to sleep deeply, afraid he might stop breathing or that someone might try to steal what little she had.
She began waking up before sunrise to wash laundry for nearby apartments. It paid little, but every coin mattered. She'd tie Benaiah on her back with a scarf and scrub clothes while he slept against her, his tiny head resting between her shoulder blades.
Some days, her body ached so much she thought she'd collapse. But she kept moving. Because no one else would carry them.
Yet in all the shadows, there were angels.
One morning, as she stood outside a shop hoping to get cleaning work, an old woman in a green headscarf stopped beside her.
"You look hungry," she said.
Bonitah nodded. She didn't even try to lie.
The woman returned a moment later with a roll and a cup of tea. "Eat," she said, "then come to my house tomorrow. I need help with my garden."
Her name was Mrs. Zane She lived in a small cottage with walls the color of dust and a yard filled with overgrown grass and memories. She spoke softly and moved slowly, like someone who had lived through war and grace.
Bonitah worked for her twice a week—cleaning, ironing, planting vegetables. In return, she got a small wage, warm meals, and silence that felt like peace.
"Don't ever think your life is over," Mrs. Zane said one afternoon, watching Benaiah nap in the shade. "Sometimes, God delays to build your roots deeper. So when you rise, you won't fall again."
Bonitah nodded. She didn't cry this time. She was learning to hold joy without weeping.
But not every day held light.
One rainy evening, the shelter's director announced that some of them would have to leave—the building was overcrowded, and donations were running low. Bonitah wasn't on the initial list, but the warning was clear: they were running out of time.
She didn't sleep that night. She sat by the window, holding Benaiah and watching the rain blur the world outside. She couldn't be homeless again. Not with a child.
The next day, she walked the streets looking for somewhere, anywhere, to go. She passed tall apartment blocks where curtains were drawn tight, and no one looked down. She saw "Room to Let" signs, but the prices were unreachable.
Finally, through a notice board at church, she met a young woman named Thandolwethu who was renting a single room in a crumbling block on the edge of town. Thandolwethu had lost her own baby months earlier and said Bonitah could stay—just for a while.
It wasn't much. A mattress on the floor, cracked walls, and a shared kitchen with broken burners. But it was something.
Bonitah stood in the doorway that night, Benaiah asleep on the bed behind her, and whispered:
"I'm still standing."
And it was