Amukelo: The Burdened Path-Chapter 12: Care For Yourself Too

The flicker of hope that Lyna's condition might be improving was swiftly extinguished the following day as she regressed back to her weakened state. Amukelo's heart sank as he watched his mother, once the pillar of their small family, struggle with her health. With a heavy heart, he administered the herbs once more, his voice gentle yet tinged with a firm insistence. "Mom, please, don't do anything even if you feel better. Rest is crucial for you." Lyna, seeing the worry etched deep in her son's face, nodded weakly and complied, "Okay, Amu."

Returning to the field, Amukelo found himself distracted, the tasks at hand feeling trivial compared to the weight of his mother's illness. Late fall was upon them, and the work in the fields was dwindling, giving him more time to worry about their diminishing savings and the approaching cold months. Determined to keep his mother as comfortable as possible, he used most of their remaining money to buy extra blankets, fearing that the ones they had wouldn't suffice if the winter turned harsh.

Amukelo also began to eat less, rationing their food to ensure that Lyna could eat whatever she might want or need without concern. He meticulously prepared their food supplies for the winter, his actions marked by a quiet desperation to maintain some semblance of stability.

One evening as Amukelo came back home from the field, his body was much more exhausted than usual. The day's work had drained every ounce of strength from him, but there was no time to rest. He set down the small bundle of firewood he had gathered and moved to the small, dimly lit kitchen.

With slow, deliberate movements, he gathered the ingredients for his mother's meal. The broth he had prepared earlier was still warm, barely. He stirred it slowly, his hands trembling from hunger and fatigue. His stomach clenched painfully, but he ignored it. The food wasn't for him.

When it was ready, he carried the bowl carefully to his mother's bedside. Lyna lay there, her frail body propped up against a thin pillow. Her breathing was slow, uneven. As Amukelo approached, she opened her tired eyes and gave him a weak smile.

"You're back," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Amukelo forced a smile and set the bowl down beside her. "Of course, I am. You need to eat."

He helped her sit up slightly, adjusting the blanket around her thin shoulders before handing her the spoon. She took it hesitantly, but before she ate, she turned her gaze to him and frowned.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "That you have to do all this because of me."

Amukelo shook his head immediately. "It's fine," he said, his voice dull with exhaustion. "It's not your fault."

Lyna didn't look convinced. Her gaze swept over him, and her frown deepened. "Amukelo," she said softly, "why are you so skinny?"

Amukelo's fingers twitched against his knee. He glanced away, avoiding her gaze. "I'm fine," he muttered. "It's just your imagination."

"No." Her voice was sharper now, more urgent despite its weakness. "Look at you. Your cheeks are hollow. Your eyes are dark. You're not taking care of yourself."

He clenched his jaw, irritation prickling beneath his skin. He had spent all day working himself to the bone, fighting against exhaustion, against hunger, and now, after all of it, she wanted to lecture him? He exhaled sharply through his nose. "I told you, I'm fine."

"You're not," Lyna insisted. "You need to eat more. You need to take care of yourself."

His frustration flared. "I'm doing fine!" he snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. "I have to take care of you first! I can't just eat all the food when we don't have enough to last through the winter."

Lyna's expression was pained, but she didn't back down. "I don't want you to starve yourself for my sake. I need you to care for yourself, too."

Something inside Amukelo snapped. The exhaustion, the hunger, the weight of responsibility—it all pressed down on him until he felt like he couldn't breathe. His hands curled into fists.

"What do you want from me?" he said through gritted teeth, his voice shaking. "You want me to just stop? To let things fall apart? Do you think I want to be like this? That I don't know how miserable I look?" His breath was uneven, ragged. "I'm doing everything I can, and you're sitting here telling me I should be doing more? That I should be thinking about myself when you can't even get out of bed?"

Lyna's eyes widened slightly, her lips parting as if to speak. She raised a weak hand toward him. "Amu, I didn't mean—" But he was already turning away.

"I don't want to hear it," he muttered, his voice cold. He stormed out of the room, his legs weak beneath him. He barely made it outside before collapsing onto the cold earth, his back resting against the wall of their small home.

The night air was crisp, biting against his skin, but he barely felt it. He dug his fingers into his hair, gripping tightly, his heart hammering in his chest.

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"Why?" he whispered to the sky. "Why is this happening?" His voice cracked. "Why do I have to be like this?"

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head at himself. "Why couldn't I just shut the fuck up?"

His anger drained out of him just as quickly as it had flared. Now all he was left with was guilt. The image of his mother's sad, tired eyes burned into his mind. She hadn't deserved that. She was right. He was wasting away. She just wanted him to be okay.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and pushed himself up. He needed to apologize. He couldn't let the night end like this.

He stepped back inside quietly, moving toward his mother's room with careful, hesitant steps.

"Mom..." His voice was soft as he entered. "I'm..." But she was already asleep.

She lay curled slightly on her side, her breathing slow, the blanket pulled up around her thin shoulders. The untouched bowl of soup sat beside her, now cold.

Amukelo swallowed hard. His throat ached, and a deep sense of shame weighed on his chest. He hadn't just hurt her with his words—he had upset her so much she hadn't even finished eating.

He stepped forward and carefully took the bowl, placing it aside before pulling the blanket up a little higher around her.

"...I'm sorry," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him.

His hands trembled as he sat beside her for a moment, watching her frail form rise and fall with each slow breath. He had to do better.