Editor's Note: Petero Wamala is a story teller and doctoral research fellow in urban mobility and happiness. He lives in Uganda and is passionate about sharing the secular dharma through stories, without mentioning the words dharma or Buddhism.

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The Woman Who Hated Temples but Loved the Silence

In a modest home at the edge of a rising city, where the scent of charcoal mingled with jacaranda blossoms, lived a woman named Nalongo Sarah and her husband, Mzee Kintu.

Now, Mzee Kintu had entered what villagers politely called “the slow season of life”—the one where knees ache, tempers mellow, and one starts talking to dogs like they are grandsons.

Lately, Kintu had become unusually quiet.

He no longer argued with the radio.
He did not curse the traffic.
He even stopped fighting the mosquitoes—they were, he said, “just looking for peace like all of us.”

Instead, each morning and evening, he sat on an old mat under the guava tree… and did nothing.

No prayers. No chants. No scripture.
Just sat. Breathing like the wind itself.

Nalongo Sarah thought he had finally gone mad.

She had seen this before.
Men who retired and grew strange—joining cults, buying herbs from Radio Munansi, or watching too many Chinese kung fu movies.

Worse still, one Sunday, Kintu took her to a “meditation temple.”

It was a disaster.

Statues everywhere.
People bowing to things made of stone.
Chants in a language that sounded like a cat choking on a stone.
Even little children in orange robes, shaved bald like eggs!

Nalongo hissed under her breath the whole time.
“Cult. Cult. Cult.”

That night, she told Kintu plainly:

“If you want to become a monk, shave your head and go. But leave me out of it!”

Kintu simply smiled. “I only wanted to share a piece of what is making me a better husband.”

The days passed. She waited for him to crack.

But he didn’t.

Instead:
• He stopped interrupting her stories.
• He started washing his own plate.
• He even apologized after raising his voice once—something she thought he was physically incapable of.

Then one afternoon, she found a warm cup of tea waiting by her chair.

No note. No noise. Just warmth.

She blinked. Looked outside.
There was Kintu, sitting under the guava tree, his back to her, just breathing.

“What are you thinking about?” she called.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Being.”

She sat beside him. Not because she understood. But because the silence felt strangely safe.

⸻

Years later, when the grandchildren asked how they kept their love alive without religion, Nalongo Sarah laughed and said:

“Religion? No. But your grandfather…
He brought peace into our home without preaching.
He taught us to listen—without sermons.
He bowed to no statue.
But every day, he bowed to presence.”

“I never followed his path.
But I blessed every step he took.”

⸻

 Moral of the Story:

You do not need someone to walk your path.
Sometimes, it is enough if they walk beside you—because they see it makes you gentle, steady, and kind.