Celibacy. Celibacy. Celibacy. How often do you actually believe someone when they tell you they are celibate?

Me? Almost never.

The truth is, people out here are either experts in self-preservation or masters of the no-strings-attached lifestyle. Some people hide behind that celibacy status just so you see them as less sexual, more single and let's say pure of heart.

Frankly, when you tell me you're celibate, I simply walk away. 99% of the time, you're clearly just lying to me and I ask myself why I’d willingly walk through that psychological trauma again.

Because in my head, I’m asking. How the fuck are you not getting anything? Not even head? Yawaa.

It genuinely scares the shit out of me.

Unless, of course, you add the part about self-pleasure. At least then I can understand the mathematics.

Sometime back, I chose this whole padre-kind of path after a lot of shit in my life refused to work out. I had invested way too much in people who clearly weren't in my life for the long run, and somewhere along the way, I started losing myself. Bit by bit. And it thoroughly fucked me up.

Induced stress. Plenty of weed. Insomnia. Then more weed to treat the insomnia caused by the stress. Just another agonizing cycle, if you ask me.

It’s on a Friday morning, and I’m seated here at the University of Nairobi gazebo, sipping my hot Java coffee, wondering how the fuck I keep escaping one deep pile of shit only to fall directly into another, more complicated one. Lemme tell you.

Today my morning class bounced. Apparently, even the lecturer had decided life was too short to waste time attending a class he had explicitly told us to attend. So here I am. Nimechoma fare for nothing, just staring at this ugly fountain across from me.

And all I can think about is yesterday. The day that almost ended my celibacy streak of eight days, to be precise. Don't judge. And it nearly destroyed my friendship in the process.

A while back on one of those scorching Nairobi afternoons where, if you're unemployed, you know well enough that going outside is financially irresponsible. And It's simply none of your business to be outside since you'd just be slowing down the hardworking citizens diligently paying taxes on your behalf.

The sun was doing way too much. A complete show-off if you ask me. So I chose to stay indoors.

I tried watching the new hyped season of Beauty in Black, but honestly, I was already tired of Tyler Perry recycling the same drama with different actors wearing different clothes. I just didn't have another series to keep the hours going. But that's beside the point. I'm not here to rant about shows. Sorry if I poked you though. I know most of you loved it.

Anyway, I’m lying on my bed, half-watching the series and half-dozing off, when my phone chimes.

Messenger. That Facebook messaging app. What the fuck?

I barely use Facebook. So inwas here asking myself Who is texting me here? The only reason my Instagram stories end up there is because I've linked everything together. Instagram, Facebook, WhatsApp. Just for efficiency... or laziness. Same thing.

Someone had reacted to my story with a love emoji. Then, a few minutes later, as if the reaction wasn't enough. A "Hey" followed.

At first, I ignored it. But since I had absolutely nothing else to do, I clicked the profile just out of curiosity.

Now, I'm a very thorough online stalker. My exes can testify. Not in a freaky way, of course. We all do that quick check once in a while just to see how they’re moving on, right? To see if the new shawty or dude in their space is better than you, yadayada. Don't deny it, I know you. If I'm wrong, then props to you for being strong at moving on.

I checked her profile pictures and her albums. She was fine. Very fine, to be precise. But I had to make sure the filters weren't playing mind games on me. After scrolling and scrolling, I found the raw photos. The kind people take nowadays and usually delete. In short, the real, unfiltered photos. And still, she was stunning. The ones we used to keep since filters weren't a thing back then.

But I didn't know her.

Naturally, I started investigating. From common locations, mutual friends, tags, old posts. The usual FBI operations we conduct from our beds. Then I saw Jamhuri. I had lived around Jamhuri a couple of years back, so I thought maybe our paths had crossed without me remembering her or something.

Then I checked her mutual friends. And there he was. One of my homeboys. The kind of friend whose name you always see under a girl's pictures with a suspicious number of likes. The "Liked by..." kind of guy who is always out there hunting, and the whole clique knows it. The kind of brother who has definitely tried his luck with every fine shawty you meet online.

That immediately drained some of my enthusiasm. I didn't even bother checking her relationship status. I already knew it would say SINGLE in bold capital letters.

So instead, I replied. "Hey. Have we met before?" Just to be sure.

Before I could even exit the app, she was already typing. Fast, like it was an emergency:

"I've been seeing your stories and I just had to say hi... you know."

Baas.

Now I knew I was in for something. I had completely forgotten about my celibacy mission for a second. Day eight was a big milestone, but then she added.

"No, we haven't met before. But I wouldn't mind if we met someday."

I stared at my screen.

Huyu kwani ametumwa? My mind was suddenly very curious and, I'll admit, happy. It felt like my lucky day. I had definitely hit the jackpot.

You know how men behave when a woman enters their field uninvited? Internally, I was like, Come on, shawty. You're playing with fire. Okaaay. I see youuu.

Obviously, I didn't send that. Instead, I asked: "Then how do you know me?" She replied. "We're friends here, right? I've just been seeing your stories."

Fair enough. I didn't know how to keep the conversation going because, for once, my background investigation hadn't yielded enough intel. So I asked for her number. WhatsApp was easier and Facebook was feeling kinda old and boring as fuck.

She sent it. Without wasting a single minute, I texted her WhatsApp.

Within minutes, we were talking like two people who had known each other for years, despite having absolutely no idea who the other really was. The conversation flowed effortlessly.

Then she suddenly said. "I like your tattoo. How much did you get it for?" I refused to disclose the price. As always, that’s classified information. I didn’t want her profiling me at first. Instead, I asked: "You want one?"

That opened another door. She told me she'd always wanted a ka small tattoo but was kinda scared. "Does it hurt?"

I gave her the classic Kenyan tattoo line: "Ahh, imagine, sio uchungu. You'll be fine." Which is basically code for. You'll understand when the needle hits your skin.

Then she said: "Soon, you'll take me."

I replied: "I wouldn't mind."

She asked for a picture of it. Since we had just started talking and I didn't want to disappoint her, I sent it over.

The funny part? Five minutes later, my tattoo was her WhatsApp profile picture.

I stared at my screen like, What the fuck? I wanted to ask why, but then I thought, Hell nah, let the world appreciate art. It had been a while since someone posted me or a part of me, so I let it slide.

Since I knew she was expecting a reaction, I gave her one: "Your DP is dope... 🔥🔥🔥 And she replied: "It's cute..sindio?…"

And there I was, lying on my bed, wondering. Is this another talking stage? On day one?

And you know the routine. Talk, flirt, create imaginary futures, meet, get carried away, probably fuck. If the sex is good, you both stick around for the pleasure. If it's bad, that's when things get messy and suddenly you're blocking each other on social media and throwing shots through Instagram reels and statuses. I knew the drill but never the less I was willing to take my chances on this one.

At this point, my celibacy streak was hanging by a thread. The tension was building, and the Nairobi weather wasn't helping. Sun scorching afternoon with extreme cold nights. And it wasn't doing me any favours.

We talked for almost two weeks, and the vibe was undeniable to be honest. She would text me at ridiculous hours. Sometimes I'd finally be preparing to sleep at 4 a.m., 6 a.m., or even 7 a.m. You know how we jobless comrades are. Only for my phone to light up with a "Good morning, handsome" text.

“Good morning? Madam, I'm just about to go to bed.” I would say internally.

Then she'd ask how my night had been. She'd double-text. She'd send voice notes and God knows my weakness for soft voice notes from shawties. Those "How was your day?" voice notes hit different.

Like what do you mean you wanna know about my day? It’s sweet, and that's what gets me. That shit can make a man reconsider his entire five-year plan. Makes you want to say, "Imma marry you" or "Climb bed…" respectfully.

I would stay awake talking to her until noon. My sleep schedule completely disintegrated. My body was operating in a different time zone from the rest of the city. When people are outside working am sleeping and when people are sleeping am awake. You know. Eventually, we decided to meet.

First, I had to fix my sleep. Sleep doesn't respect romance or important occasions for that matter and I didn't wanna learn it the hard way. It surely can embarrass you anywhere, whether in a meeting or on a date. Imagine meeting someone gorgeous and falling asleep halfway through her sentence. Embarrassing. I wasn't going to take any chances.

After two days of forcing myself back into a normal sleep routine, Thursday arrived.

Thursday was perfect for both of our schedules. Friday was reserved for FIFA and Boyz Night Out. Saturday and Sunday were Premier League days and there was no occasion on earth who could make me willingly miss Bruno Fernandes playing or miss watching Chelsea and Arsenal fans suffer. That was my religion.

We agreed to meet around Aga Khan Walk or Archives.

That early evening we eventually found each other near Archives. Because apparently, every serious Nairobi meeting must pass through Archives first. We crossed the road, took a few unnecessary detours and ended up at Peach Restaurant. Nothing fancy, but not exactly comrade-friendly either. Still, I had done my math and we were good for the date.

We sat down and ordered food. I spent most of the evening just looking at her. She was gorgeous and I must admit, the photos on her socials had done her dirty. She was even prettier in person. Snapchat filters had somehow hidden the natural details that made her so attractive.

The conversation flowed easily that night. The laughter, teasing, subtle flirting and enough chemistry to make it very clear where the night was heading.

By around 10 p.m., just a light drizzle started falling. Neither of us had brought an umbrella. It was apparent that nobody was ready to risk ruining an outfit with an umbrella, so we had to pay the price. Cruising through the stagnant water around CBD was awaiting us. Her stage was far away at Koja Roundabout for the Ngara matatus, while mine was close by around Kencom.

I looked at her and said, "I hope you're not going home alone."

She smiled. "Okay... I wasn't even planning on going home."

Just like that, my eight-day celibacy streak met its final boss. I ordered a cab quickly, before she could change her mind.

When we got to my place, I thanked my past self for having the foresight to clean up earlier. I’d developed a sixth sense and did thorough cleaning.

I was like, What if she wants to spend the night?

If my place wasn't tidy, we would've had to take a detour to an Airbnb. I wasn't about to let a fine woman see a messy house.

She looked around. "Your place is actually very clean."

If only she knew I had scrubbed it just for the occasion. I went downstairs to the shop a couple of floors down and bought two milkshakes. When I came back, she was completely at ease. she'd even changed into something lighter she’d packed in her handbag. I didn't know these shawties came this prepared when their minds were made up. Now I know. She had another set of lighter clothes and footwear. Waaah.

We sat together with our milkshakes. The room was romantically quiet, with a slow Kehlani playlist looping softly in the background. That kind of comfortable silence where words are unnecessary.

She moved closer. Well, I moved closer. We were both smiling like fools in love.

The kisses started flowing and the tension was thick. At this point, I was high. Not on drugs, but that horny-high where you can barely keep your eyes open. She was hovering over me, gently trying to unbuckle my belt, but she was struggling. I offered to help since I actually knew which holes on my belt.

Just as the night was reaching its absolute climax...

Vrrrrr. Vrrrr. Vrrrrrrr.

Her phone vibrated, sliding slightly across the glass table. At first, we tried to ignore it.

Then again: Vrrrrr. Vrrrr. Vrrrrrrr.

It was getting out of hand and clearly pissing her off more than the way it was pissing me off. I watched her face darken as a notification popped up on the screen.

Someone named Bill had sent a message. Then another. And another. The tone visible on the screen wasn't friendly at all.

I looked at her. "Are you expected somewhere?" I asked politely, trying not to ruin the vibe before getting what we came in for.

She stuttered. "No. It's my baby daddy. Ananisumbua."

My brain completely stalled. What the fuck? Internally, I was screaming. "Your what?" I asked softly.

She looked at me. "My baby daddy. I was going to tell you, I just didn't know how you'd react."

Mind you, we had been talking for almost a month.

"You have a kid?" I asked. Silence.

"You couldn't have told me?"

It wasn't even about the kid itself. it was the lie. Once someone drops a lie like that, you start expecting a pattern. Fool me once, shame on you. fool me twice, the joke's on me. I wasn't going to let a lie like that slide. Though, let's be real. she was still fine, and it’s not like we hadn't just spent the last five minutes making out. So these are the moments the horny high drops from 88 to 10 just after hearing thhat banger of information.

The entire mood shifted instantly.

Imagine this. I’m in my room with a shawty I was about to risk it all with, only to find out she has a kid and the father is some guy named Bill. I was sitting there trying to process the whole thing.

She picked up her phone and unlocked it. That's when I saw her wallpaper. A little boy, around three years old, with the cutest smile, holding a dude's hand. For a split second, looking at that adorable kid gave me a brief moment of baby fever. The kind that makes you want one of your own. I'm kidding, I'm just a comrade. And kids can be alot. But when I look at her and hiw fine she is. Am teeling myself all those lies, maybe Imma step up as a step dad. She is fineeee.

Then I looked closer at the man holding his hand. My stomach dropped. What the actual fuck.

The man in the picture was Billy. BILLY. My best friend. My homeboy since we were kids. The horniness evaporated instantly. Hell naah.

I pulled my shirt back on, tightened my belt, sat across the room, and asked the only question I could manage: "What is really going on here?"

At that moment, I felt like I had walked straight into a setup. To he honest.

There was more than just a mere explaining to be done. And i wanted to hear every single bit of it. Apparently, she had met Billy a while back, they dated, and she got pregnant. Billy wanted her to terminate it because they were both young and still in campus, but she refused and had the baby. After that, Billy distanced himself. But despite walking away from the relationship, he still couldn't stand the thought of her being with another man. He would constantly pop up without a notice and make just manipulate and disturb her.

The story was long, complicated and genuinely heartbreaking. Since the room was cold and it was getting late, we eventually moved back onto the bed to finish talking.

My Thursday night plans felt completely insignificant compared to the heavy reality of someone else's life. We talked for one hour, two hours, three hours, watching the night stretch on. The more she revealed, the more I realized how little I actually knew about my best friend.

At some point, I stopped thinking about myself entirely and just felt sorry for her.

We eventually lay down, not for what I had originally planned, but simply because it was late, cold, and two bodies naturally needed comfort. I barely slept a wink. But the cuddles were kinda sweet and warm I must admit.

The next morning, she woke up to find me already awake. I had made tea and coffee. Not full-blown breakfast in bed, let's not exaggerate. Just something special for breakfast. We chatted awkwardly for a bit, and then she left.

Before leaving, we promised to keep texting and to eventually "finish what we started," since she felt bad about leaving me hanging. How true that was, I have no idea. But between the awkwardness and the unfinished business, we both knew this story wasn't over.

After all... sex delayed is not sex denied. At least, that's what we told ourselves.

So now, here I am on a Friday mid-morning at the University of Nairobi gazebo, sipping this hot coffee while waiting for the rest of my crew. My class bounced, my head is spinning, and I'm staring blankly at the fountain.

Then I see him walking toward me.

Billy. My day-one homeboy.

The same man whose child's mother slept under my roof last night. The same man whose baby mama almost shattered my celibacy streak.

He walks up casually, smiling like everything in the universe is totally fine. He looks at me, I look at him, and a million questions race through my head.

Do I even bring it up?

Eventually, time reveals everything. Especially considering his baby mama currently has my tattoo set as her WhatsApp profile picture. A unique piece of hard that I personally designed and my arm is perfectly know for.

Most importantly, there's a bro code, and I unknowingly stepped right over the line. And deep down I know. Am man must have a code. And your friend's girlfriend is not your personal friend.

How the fuck do I look my best friend in the eye and say: "Hey bro, I met your baby mama on Facebook, brought her to my house, kissed her, spent the night listening to her trauma, and we're supposed to link up again to finish the job"?

At this point, I realize my celibacy was never the real problem. My friendship was. Now how do I navigate this. Should I back out even if I like the shawty or should I take my chances and show the shawty what I had Confessed I am capable of through those WhatsApp texts?

When you offer complete honesty early on in the relationships that we are in, you are always trying to build a safe space. You are telling someone that they are entering a judgment-free zone, which is one of the rarest gifts you can give. But deep down, you know things can easily backfire. Ladies know this more than us men.

I have made all kinds of connections. Some start with romance, while others are built on deep, platonic bonds. For the people that I consider true friends, I set a strict boundary and keep it high. It is a part of who I am, and I am proud of it.

For me, attraction is not a sliding scale. It is a simple yes or no. Once I decide there is no sexual spark, I make sure it stays that way. There is no gray area, no "maybe one day," and no "let's see where this goes."

When I put someone in the friend zone, that boundary is locked in stone. Some might call it being cold, but I call it radical honesty. By being firm, I protect the friendship and make sure neither of us is living a lie. It also keeps me from making unnecessary enemies. Especially those that are too fragile to accept a rejection for that matter.

Keeping these walls up is not just about keeping others out. It keeps my own peace in. It saves a massive amount of emotional energy when you do not have to play the "will they” or “won't they" game. Always juggling the invisible card of uncertainty.

Nothing changes that internal setup. Once that door is locked, it stays locked. That clarity if you ask me allows real friendships to grow without the weight of unspoken expectations. In the end i always know that, a boundary is not a wall that shuts people out all the time. it can be a gate that makes sure only the right energy gets through.

While I take pride in my strict friendship boundaries, my romantic life is a much bigger mess. I am the first to admit it. I am a weird, overthinking lover boy who fumbles. Most of all, I fall right into a trap of my own making.

In the beginning, things are electric. When I have the money and the drive, the first few weeks or months are amazing. I pour everything into the connection, setting a standard that is way too high. I want to provide the best, be the best, and make sure she feels the full weight of my effort.

Then reality hits.

The problem with setting the bar in the clouds is that there is nowhere to go but down. The moment my bank account dips or life gets heavy, the pressure becomes suffocating. I am haunted by how good those first dates were, constantly wondering how I can possibly keep living up to them. Without lowering the bar. And you know how Nairobi dating life is. Once you show someone that you are abled….Baaaas. Everyone might drown you with their needs without a second thought. Everyone is looking for a soft landing. If its somewhere where you don't have to put in the work, that's the place they wanna stay. And thats being human. Nani hapendi soft life???

Back to me now. Deep down I desperately want to keep her around and make her happy, but I get trapped by my own rules. I have made romance feel like a performance, and when I cannot afford to put on that show, I feel like a total failure.

I know I am a sucker for this cycle. It is a frustrating contradiction. I have the strength to keep a friend-zone boundary forever, yet I have no idea how to handle the messy, imperfect middle ground of a real relationship. My drive to be the "perfect partner" ends up pushing people away. Maybe this is where most of us loose the plot. Trying hard to be perfect without really trying to live at the moment. Perfection is a concept that only God understands. And its as simple as that.

There is real power in taking things slow. While the world is obsessed with fast, rushed moments, I have always wanted to move at my own pace. To me, intimacy is not a race. It is a carefully built experience that needs time, tension, and real intention. Just time. And enough time to be precise.

I look for something extraordinary. I do not just want a quick hangout. I want an event. An event that is built all the way from the mind. From the kinky texts, to the meet ups, to the constant hangouts before indulgence in any sort of romantic body interaction. Maybe just that once in a while holding of hands or something. Or let's say chivalry. I wanna hold sommeone's waist gently as we cross the road or someone upper arm just to protect the from a speeding bodaboda in CBD.

My idea of connection is built on craving. There is unmatched energy in wanting someone for a long time before you even touch them. That slow buildup makes the final surrender feel like an avalanche. I prefer a well-planned weekend getaway or a quiet night where real talking sets the stage for everything that follows.

You cannot rush your way to a ten out of ten. Maybe to truly feel romance, you have to understand that the most powerful tool is not just physical. it is more of the anticipation underneath. There is heavy weight in knowing you can create an impact people cannot easily forget. It is intentional. I know how to use my energy so that the satisfaction is complete, yet a deep craving still remains. Thats why our first lovers will always be in our minds. Because this anticipation script is the same that almost all of us followed.

It is my signature style. High-intensity passion mixed with the quiet confidence of someone who knows how to leave a mark. Once that threshold is crossed, the experience sticks in your memory forever. It doesn't become just another normal night. It's the best night. The kind that makes everything before it feel like practice, and everything after feel like a search for a ghost.

In short, It can be unforgettable. And that is the best part. People get attached, and do not know what to do next. And thats simply being in love.

Things rarely get out of hand right after these kinds of intimacy. They usually come back with more energy and love than before.

But in the meantime, I am stuck in my dark zone where nothing seems to work because the bar I set was too high. Because the energy they show before sex changes afterward, I get completely confused, trapped in a loop with no idea how to handle them. Maybe am chosing the wrong people. Maybe the problem is am going to dates with this people to make them like and want me. And it should not be that way. When was the last time I went on a date with someone that already likes me? Barely. I just view their status, and deep down I know they are meant for me but you know how it goes.

We love chaos as Kenyans. We always want things the hard way. Always preferring the cramps of love rather than appreciating those that are willing to give you everything you need without shutting them out. And its not fair. To them of course.

But I guess its karma. And karma doesn't miss an address. Whatever I have been doing to those that hold me in genuine regard is coming back to me. Simply because I have chosen to sexualize every bond, every connection, every locking of the eyes. Just everything if you ask me. I know my safe space but am addicted to things or people that have over and over again proven that they cannot be mine. And that i should leave.

In my despair, I make things worse. I break hearts and connections, and I hate it. I am just sitting here asking: What on earth am I supposed to do after sex with someone that I genuinely know at the back of my head that we aren't meant for one another?

Because honestly, I have no idea.

If not, stop hiding behind closed doors. Life is way too short to be well-behaved. You should probably go out there and make a terrible decision. Just live.

I’ve had the opportunity to narrow down my own bucket list, and let me tell you: not every fetish feels nice. Some will leave you traumatized; others will leave you with an insatiable quench to do even more. That’s just being human. That’s the very essence of living, if you ask me.

It’s every guy's dream to have a sugar mummy at least once in a lifetime. If you don't believe me, ask your so-called man, boyfriend, or husband. From high school banter to university boyz convos and hyping, every boy dreams of it at some point. And there’s nothing wrong with being curious. What’s life if you don't question how the other side lives?

So, when I joined the University of Nairobi, my mission statement was clear: I wanted to get absolutely wasted. Parties, wild nights, shawties, and drugs—though nothing too extreme, because I didn't want to choke to death on crack or heroin like those anti-drug documentaries they show you in movies or series. I had a purpose, and to be honest, anything academic felt like a waste of time at the time. Just a mere formality and a ticket to higher learning. I wasn't about to burn midnight candles just to satisfy society’s standards. It was simple. I wanted to live.

In my first and second years, I came in with a bang, running on pure adrenaline. I definitely did the most—to the point where I almost tapped out. I’d have those detox, clown-to-clown conversations with myself in the mirror, promising to change my ways, only to plunge right back into the madness less than 24 hours later.

I had almost exhausted everything on my bucket list except one final item. I wanted my fair share of an older lady. Call it whatever you want, but it was sitting right there on my list. A few of my pals had been fortunate enough to land one, but on my side, it was tricky. They’d advise me: "If you want a sugar mummy, hang around Garden City, hit those 18+ clubs in Westlands, or join Telegram hookup groups."

I tried all of that. The only thing I got out of Telegram was getting scammed out of my last coins by an 18-year-old sharp boy from Kayole, feeding off my total inability to control my other head. Eventually, after nothing paid off, I gave up.

Then came a long university holiday. We had way too much idle time on our hands and decided to keep ourselves engaged. My boys and I started job hunting because, frankly, we were going broke. We hit up a couple of corporate agencies looking for social media marketing gigs, but it was a total dead end. We tried getting production gigs here and there, but those old corporate folks don't appreciate young guys who act like they know it all. They look at you with that dismissive eye: "Does this kid really think he knows how to run a business better than me?" It made getting any side quest almost impossible.

I remember chilling one afternoon—actually sleeping around noon because I had nothing important going on—when my uncle called. Weirdly enough, he’s almost the same age as me.

"You remember you told me to call you if I heard of any gig?" he said. "I have one for you. If you’re down, meet me at Yaya Centre before 2 PM."

I scrambled the fuck up. I woke up, rushed through my prep, called my boda guy, and made it to Yaya before 2 PM. For once in my life, I actually kept time.

He hadn't mentioned what the work was. When I arrived at Yaya Centre, he was already waiting. I called him, and he walked up to a car parked nearby. I hopped into the back seat, and I noticed another dude sitting in the front. That’s when my uncle finally broke down the gig. There was an opening for masseuse trainees. He assured me I didn't even need qualifications; they would train me on the job, and in a couple of days, I’d be good to go. I asked for the exact location and company details, but he brushed it off, saying they’d drive me there themselves.

In my head, I pictured a high-end, open-concept spa where I’d meet 10/10 model-like shawties who smile at you while draining 50k from your wallet for a 10-minute session.

Hell no. I was dead wrong.

We drove to Kilimani, pulled into a gated apartment complex, and walked straight into someone's private residence. A housemaid welcomed us and asked my uncle to wait a moment while she called her boss. A few minutes later, a lady walked out. The apartment was a massive three-bedroom house. She asked us to feel comfortable, ordered drinks for us from the maid, and we all sat down.

All along, I was sitting there wondering what any of this had to do with the massage gig explained to me in the car. They were talking and laughing, clearly knowing each other well. After about ten minutes, my uncle and the other guy excused themselves, claiming they had somewhere else to be. In the middle of all this motion, the lady looked at me and asked my uncle, "Is he the one?"

I sat there, utterly confused about what the fuck was happening.

My uncle was handed a slightly thick brown envelope—a little handout for his troubles. He turned to me and whispered, "Atakusort... mkimaliza nipigie." Then they vanished.

I was left alone with this woman. I hadn't even taken the time to scan her face properly or ask for her name. But since I was promised work, I stayed quiet and chilled. After we finished our drinks, she introduced herself and told the housemaid she’d be back in less than an hour. She walked out, and I followed her down to the basement garage.

Damn, let me tell you. She was driving a clean, black Mercedes-Benz with a panoramic sunroof. With my deep fascination with cars, my inner child was screaming. She unlocked it, told me to get in, and cracked open the sunroof. I could see the sky from the front passenger seat, and for the first time that day, I was genuinely happy.

After a short drive, we pulled into another apartment complex in the area, took the elevator up, and entered a unit fitted with full spa equipment. I saw a logo on the reception counter reading Creation. I wondered why a spa like this wasn't located in the CBD or an open commercial building, but I kept my mouth shut.

She turned to me and said, "Tomorrow, you will be taken through what you are supposed to do in detail." She pointed to a promotional poster mounted on the wall with a phone number for clients seeking services that I initially assumed were strictly professional spa work. "Your job is simple. Answer the phone calls, take down the necessary information and coordinate the clients."

Then she asked, "What kind of salary do you have in mind?"

Before I could even speak the humble 10k I was praying for, she cut in. "How about 25k to start? Take that as a courtesy for knowing your uncle."

I was shocked, standing there completely speechless. She handed me her business card, told me to call her if I ever needed anything, and sent 5,000 Ksh straight to my M-Pesa. "Grab something on your way home, fare is in there," she said smoothly.

I ordered a cab and went home, my mind spinning as I anxiously waited for the next day.

When morning came, I realized the work was ridiculously easy. Not many people called during my shift. I’d report for duty, wait for a call, answer it, and when my shift ended, I went home.

A week passed, then two. She started dropping by the spa just to check on how things were moving, and every time she visited, she left me something small—upkeep money. I was thoroughly enjoying this setup. It was smooth sailing.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out what was actually going on. she was a high-end pimp. The "spa" was a front. You call, I answer, and I direct you to another line where you get connected to male or female escorts depending on your preference. The phone numbers calling in were local Kenyan lines, but the accents on the other end were distinctly foreign or polished, and business was booming.

Now, be very careful out there. Not all spas in Kilimani are spas. When you’re cruising through Westlands, Kileleshwa, or Kilimani and see those laminated posters slapped onto electric poles featuring a gorgeous lady with the caption "In need of a masseuse? Call 07..."—that’s a completely different kind of enterprise.

At the end of my first month, my salary hit, and I was stacking good money. Because I was doing a great job in her eyes, the incentives doubled the following month.

This is where it gets interesting.

We grew closer as she took the personal initiative to constantly check up on me. She asked about my family, my studies at UoN, and my social life. She was getting all up in my business. Soon, she started inviting me over to her main apartment for "coffee" after work. I’d go over, we’d sit and talk, and she’d crack jokes. At first, I was too stiff to laugh because she was my boss, but she insisted that work topics were banned at her place.

The casual hangouts escalated fast. I’d leave work, head straight to her place, and hang out. Knowing I’d walk out with at least a 5k tip just for spending time with her, tell me you wouldn't go! I started making twice my actual salary just from those evening visits.

I also noticed that whenever I went over, her maid was conveniently absent. It became the new normal. We moved from coffee to top-shelf whiskey and wine. Our comfort levels skyrocketed, and her dress code changed dramatically—from official, decent suits to light, silk sundresses and lounge wear.

During one of our late-night conversations, she dropped a bomb. she wasn't married, and she was 38 years old.

I was stunned. She was one of those women who simply refuse to age. I genuinely had assumed she was around 26 or 28. She was shorter than me, perfectly built, with an amazing bosom and effortless charm. It had me questioning how on earth a woman like her was completely single.

The inevitable happened on a hazy Friday night.

I had come over as usual after work. We had a few drinks, but both of us were utterly exhausted from the week, so we didn't talk much. I don't even remember the exact transition, but when morning came, I woke up on her massive living room couch. She was wrapped in my arms, completely unclothed, and I was just as bare.

Shit had officially gone down.

I was the first to wake up, my heart pounding in my chest as I took in the scene. I got dressed as fast as humanly possible, grabbed my shoes before she could stir, and let myself out since the maid wasn't around. The apartment was a complete disaster area. It looked like a fraternity party had taken place. Empty bottles littering the floor, overflowing ashtrays, clothes tossed everywhere, and leftover food on the table.

When I got to my crib, my phone was dead. I threw it on the charger, booted it up, and locked eyes with an M-Pesa notification: You have received KES 20,000.00.

Payday was nowhere near, and my mind was racing. I wanted to call and ask what the money was for, but deep down, I was terrified of acknowledging what had happened. An hour later, her name popped up on my screen.

She asked if I had made it home safely and confirmed she was the one who sent the cash. When I hesitantly asked about last night, she simply chuckled and said, "Thanks for yesterday night..."

That’s when I knew I was in deep. My bucket list item had been checked off. But I was caught in a crossfire. Should I cut ties immediately, or enjoy the massive financial perks? Mind you, all of this was happening right after I had gotten my heart broken, and I was still recovering from the emotional damage.

Naturally, my survival instincts kicked in, and I justified everything. She said she isn't married, so no angry husband is going to show up at my doorstep with a panga. Plus, the money is insane. I might as well enjoy the ride. I was fully trapped.

Looking back, we genuinely underestimate what it takes to find a real, healthy partner. Finding someone who is physically attracted to you is effortless. If you disagree, you’re just not paying attention. But finding someone you actually want to build a real life with? That’s where the real struggle lies.

Right now, as you read this, you might be seeing someone. But ask yourself: Would you truly be okay spending the rest of your life with them? If the answer is yes, you’re blessed. If it’s no, you’re just two fools lying to each other and wasting time. Most of us are just "fools in love," chasing temporary fixes.

Do you have someone who is emotionally available? Someone who communicates when things get tough instead of shutting down? Someone who stays consistent and takes accountability? Above all, someone who would choose you unconditionally if the tables turned?

Probably not.

We take love for granted. Don't think you're special just because you’re in the honeymoon stage of a new fling. The script never stays smooth forever. People can make you feel special. They can give you butterflies without breaking a sweat. They can fake it so well it feels 100% real. But finding someone who makes you feel safe without second-guessing? That is extremely rare.

So when you do find that person, don't take them for granted. Don't make them pay for mistakes committed by your exes.

I knew this Kilimani lady wasn't my dream partner of course. The age gap alone was a massive divide, despite her beauty and wealth. But for once, I wanted to choose myself. Sometimes you’re not continually choosing the wrong people; you just haven't chosen yourself yet.

and sometimes when you don't know who you are or what you truly want, you confuse attention with genuine love, overextending yourself until you’re left completely empty. Just a void with insatiable needs.

For a full month, I rode the high. My M-Pesa account was reading digits I never imagined seeing as a university student. I became a campus shylock, handing out short-term loans to my friends and spending money like water.

But all of this came at a heavy cost.

Because she knew I was on her payroll, she’d call me out of the blue in the middle of the workday to come over to her apartment. Her sex drive was on a terrifying level. Look, physical stamina varies wildly across age gaps, and the math was not mathing. She’d demand my presence in the morning before work, again right after work, and routinely insist I sleep over.

It was pure chaos. Endless cash at the absolute expense of my physical health, stamina, and mental sanity. Mind you its not like I had any emotional connection with her.

It reached a point where I’d walk into her apartment building, and the security guards would look at me with knowing smirks. "She told me to tell you to wait for her upstairs," the guard would laugh, winking at me. Everyone knew what was going on. I eventually got so familiar with the staff that the guard would just hand me her house keys at the gate.

Then came the turning point.

There was an old groundskeeper who worked around the compound. He had been there for years, keeping to himself in his small tool shed. He was a quiet, chilled old man, and everyone who lived in the building treated him with respect.

One afternoon, I arrived at the apartment, but the lady wasn't home, and the main guard was away. She had left with the keys. As I sat on a bench outside waiting, the old groundskeeper walked over, holding his broom. He greeted me warmly and asked if he could borrow a few minutes of my time. Since I was idling, I agreed.

What he told me next chilled me to the bone.

"Kijana" he said quietly, looking around to make sure no one was listening. "I have been watching you come here for a while now. You are the third young university boy who has been visiting that lady’s house since the beginning of this year." All this time not knowing how on earth he knew about me being in school or something.

He paused, letting the words sink in.

"The first boy is dead," he continued calmly. "The second boy is currently lying in the ICU at Nairobi Hospital with severe injuries from a road accident that happened June."

My heart dropped straight to my stomach.

He told me to go home and look up the insurance fraud scandals taking place in Kilimani. Not that I had heard any before.

He explained the exact playbook. And this is how it goes. Certain wealthy operatives place innocent-looking job postings targeting young, broke male university students. They recruit them, shower them with massive financial incentives, hook them emotionally and sexually, and make them feel completely untouchable. They make the boys believe they’re in a genuine, loving relationship.

Then comes the trap. They offer to buy the boy a car. Once the vehicle is purchased and registered, they take out massive insurance policies. Shortly after, a severe, staged "accident" occurs. The vehicle is utterly totaled, and the boy is either left critically injured or dead. The operative then collects millions from the insurance payout on both the vehicle and the life and medical coverage. They invest a few hundred thousand shillings into grooming you, stage the crash, and walk away with millions.

As the old man finished his sentence, a clean Mercedes-Benz pulled up to the gate and honked. It was her.

I walked up to her apartment with my legs shaking but trying as hard as I can to stay at least composed. We sat down in her living room, she poured two drinks, looked at me with a warm smile, and asked: "So, what do you think about getting a car? What model do you like?"

I froze. I was fighting a war in my head between the old man's warning and the stunning woman sitting across from me. I somehow stammered, "Uh... let me think about it for a bit." I collected my usual 5k upkeep for the day and left as fast as my feet could carry me.

When I got home, I spent the entire night researching. Sure enough, there were documented incidents of staged accidents and insurance scams matching the exact template the old man had described. I wasn't about to become the next victim in a Kilimani murder plot aired on Citizen TV by Yvonne Okwara or Jeff. Dead men tell no tales, and I wasn't going to learn that lesson the hard way.

I threw my SIM card away that very night, changed my number, and completely severed all ties. I knew she wouldn't go down without a fight.

I got my fill of the lifestyle, but I barely escaped with my life. Sometimes the sweetest deal is just the bait before the trap springs and no amount of quick money is worth ending up as a headline.

Someone who has a way with food. Someone who can help me think about money and maybe even make some with me. Someone funny enough to make a bad day feel like a joke. Someone intelligent. Someone with good vibes.

And, God forgive me for this one, but sexually? I wanted a sex god.

Yes. That particular department mattered.

I had already tested the opposite of almost everything I ever wanted. I once dated someone who could only boil hot water and cook Indomie. At least that’s where we all start. And it isn't bad at all.The funniest part? We had food in the house. We had money. Not a lot of course. Something that could keep us going. We could literally buy anything we wanted.

But somehow, both of us could sit on opposite ends of the couch, look at each other, and decide that starving was easier.

Eventually, I would get tired, walk into the kitchen and cook something tangible.

It was actually fun, though. Not the starving part. But, obviously, it didn't work. You know how it goes.

Then I met a sex god.

That woman knew things I didn't even know existed. She knew angles, timing, everything. She somehow knew exactly how to make me question every previous relationship I'd ever had.

And because I didn't want to be the useless one in that arrangement, I had to raise my own game. Just to make sure the effort was reciprocated.

The problem?

Every weekend, she would disappear. Not "I'm busy" disappear. I'm talking about gone. The “The number you are calling cannot be reached…” kind of gone.

And you know how this makes us insecure lovers feel. You know that piercing feeling, right?

Looking for her would become chaotic as fuck. And you know how that ended.

Then I met someone with humor. Now, this one understood everything that made life funny.

She knew how to laugh at stupid things. She knew how to make serious situations less serious. With her, life never felt like a board meeting.

But she had her downfall. Just because I knew too much and she wasn't as exposed sexually as I was.

We had that one sexual style she absolutely loved. Missionary. Every time. Everyone loves missionary, but not 24/7. You know.

Eventually I told her, "Babe, surely. Let's at least try doggy."

That was basically the last time I saw her. Maybe I could have been more lenient with her. It wasn't her fault at all.

And that's when I finally understood that I had been chasing perfection without realizing that perfection is just a concept.

It doesn't exist.

You can keep searching for that perfect combination until you end up fucking everyone, because every person you meet has one thing you think is missing.

At some point, you have to appreciate what you actually have. Otherwise, you'll spend your entire life comparing people to an imaginary person who doesn't exist.

As I usually say: One day, you'll get what you want. Time reveals everything.

Eventually, I met someone who was probably two-thirds of everything I had been looking for. The humor. Personality. Intelligence. All in one person.

And sexually? She wasn't bad. Actually, let me correct that. She was too much. At least, that's what I wasn't prepared for.

Very kinky.

I didn't even know how to control my pace. She was older than me, so maybe that explained some of it. Or maybe she had simply decided that life was too short for boring sex.

Either way, I was learning.

And then came my birthday. My birthday is April 23.

This year, she decided she wanted to do something nice for me. The problem was, she refused to tell me what.

"It's a surprise," she kept saying. And Lord knows, I hate surprises. Not because I don't like nice things. I just like knowing what I'm walking into.

April 23 fell on a weekday, and both of us were busy. She was working, and I was dealing with campus shit. So we moved the celebration to Saturday.

She told me she would handle everything. The planning. Logistics. Just everything.

"I don't want you to spend even one shilling," she told me.

I was like, "Okaaay."

At that point, I should have known something was wrong.

Saturday came. Around midday, she called.

"Carlos, afternoon be ready. Utanipata Tsavo, Wanye Road."

She said she wanted something more intimate. Fewer people. Less noise. And I was down with it.So I had to tell my boys there would be no big party, and that I'd make it up to them.

By afternoon, I was ready.

And because she had emphasized the word intimate, I dressed lightly. Sweatpants, to be precise. Nothing complicated. I wasn't trying to arrive dressed like I was going to a wedding.

I got to Tsavo, dropped a copy of my ID at reception, and headed upstairs since she had already given me the room number.

I took the lift. Tenth floor. I reached the door. It wasn't locked. I just pushed the handle and walked in.She knew I had arrived. The first thing she did was smile and hug me. "Happy birthday…"

I hugged her back. Then I looked towards the bed.

And I was kinda surprised.

There was another shawty there. In red lingerie. You heard me right. I didn't know her at all.

I looked at her. Then looked at my girlfriend. Then back at the woman. Then at my girlfriend again.

I whispered, "I thought it was supposed to be us."

She looked at me and simply said, "Chill."

CHILL?

Well… okay. Since it was apparently more her occasion than mine, I decided to chill.

I waved at the woman politely. I didn't want to get too close because, honestly, she was in lingerie and I didn't want to make the whole situation awkward.

So I went straight to the furthest end of the couch.

My girlfriend was in the kitchen doing her thing. And she has one rule: nobody enters the kitchen when she's cooking. We both knew that, and she was strict about it.

So I sat there on the couch. Quietly. Just watching.

Then she called her friend. And that's when the whole thing started becoming suspicious.

The woman in red lingerie walked past me. I don't know whether that was her normal walking style or whether she knew exactly what she was doing. But I couldn't help staring.

Her body type was almost similar to my girlfriend's. And my brain immediately started working overtime.

What is this? Is this a setup? Why am I in a room with my girlfriend and another woman wearing lingerie? And why does this woman look like she's been specifically delivered here?

I was confused. Very confused.

Then my girlfriend opened the fridge. She came out holding my favorite drink: KC.

Now, if you're my friend from Juja, you know KC has been permanently associated with my existence. Those people made sure I knew it—my boys, of course, who introduced me to this shit.

So she poured it into a glass and handed it to me.

Then she reached into her purse, pulled out rolling paper, and started rolling a joint.

Now I was officially suspicious.

How does she know I'm a weed fan? Who has been telling this woman my secrets? What else does she know?

She lit the joint, took one puff, and passed it to me.

Then she picked up the remote and put on music—a proper Dexta Daps mix.

Then she stood in front of us and started dancing. Slowly, this time. Not aggressively. Just enough to make you wonder whether the music was actually the reason she was dancing.

I stayed seated. Just chilled. At least, I was pretending to be.

After a couple of joints, the room started feeling softer. The music sounded better. The lights looked warmer. My body was getting more relaxed.

Then the munchies hit. Hard. You know how it goes. A joint without an actual meal ain't a joint at all.

I wanted actual food. My girlfriend noticed immediately.

She was already halfway through cooking, so I became the official birthday food taster. That was my job—birthday boy privileges.

Eventually, we all sat down with plates. Eating. Drinking. Passing the joint around. Laughing.

The whole thing almost felt normal. Almost.

Four o'clock became five. Five became six. Then around seven, there was a knock at the door.

I was already high. Very high.

So when the door opened, my first thought was, Kwani how many people are coming to this birthday?

Another woman walked in. And this one came loaded. Someone was escorting her—more of a delivery guy.

She had a handbag and a customized liquor-store bag. The kind of bag I already knew meant trouble.

She was clearly in charge of the drinks. She started bringing out bottles after finally being let in: KC, Jack Daniel's, Viceroy, Martell, Smirnoff, and several others. I don't know a lot about alcohol, but that's what my eyes showed me.

But then I noticed something else. A black briefcase.

A proper black briefcase. Not a handbag. Not a suitcase. A briefcase.

I stared at it. Why was someone bringing a briefcase to my birthday?

The woman looked at me, then smacked her lips. No greeting. Nothing.

Then she asked my girlfriend, "Is he the one?"

I was like, The one for what?

At this point, I was questioning my entire life.

She removed her denim jacket. "I'm going to take a shower."

Now it officially felt like a girls' night out. Except there was one problem: I was the only guy.

And I wasn't understanding half the stories or jokes they were making. They had their own conversations, their own references, their own laughter.

I was slowly becoming background furniture. So I sat there, smoking my joint and minding my business.

A while later, the woman came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her. She went through her bag and pulled out another lingerie set.

I looked away. Then somehow looked back. She changed, then came and sat next to me.

My girlfriend was already on my other side. Now I was sandwiched between two women.

I looked left. Then right. My brain was asking questions my mouth didn't have the courage to ask.

My girlfriend came with more alcohol and glasses. She turned up the music, then casually told the new woman, "Feel free to serve yourself if you're hungry."

Then my girlfriend sat on my lap.

By this point, I was on another planet. Cloud nine wasn't even close.

She introduced them properly. "That's Karen." Then pointed to the other woman, "That's Stacy."

Karen? I have a problem with women called Karen. I'd had one before, and nilionyeshwa dust.

So when she said Karen, I quietly told myself, Carlos, be careful.

What she hadn't explained was why Karen and Stacy were there, and why lingerie seemed to be the dress code.

We continued partying. Politely, at least initially.

The music kept getting deeper. The room became warmer. Everyone was dancing.

And then my girlfriend grabbed my hand. "Come."

Five minutes. Ten minutes. The music was now controlling my body more than my brain.

And then she kissed me.

I was surprised. She never did that in front of other people. I had always thought she wasn't much of a PDA person.

But I thought, Fuck it. It's her friends. No big deal.

The kiss continued. Longer. More intense. And I knew how that goes. Almost two minutes.

Then she looked at Karen and nodded.

That's when the universe changed direction.

Suddenly, it wasn't my girlfriend kissing me anymore. It was Karen.

I froze. Still in action, but surprised to the core. For a second, I didn't know what was happening.

Karen laughed. "Chill."

That word again. Chill.

So I tried. And that's where things started getting completely out of hand.

The alcohol was doing its job. The weed was doing even more. The room was getting blurry. The music was getting louder.

And then Stacy joined in. Then somehow it came back to my girlfriend.

At that point, I had to ask her, "What is really going on?"

Not that I didn't enjoy it, but the surprise was hitting me hard.

She looked at me. "Babe, chill."

I swear those words became the soundtrack of my downfall.

My T-shirt disappeared. I found myself on the couch.

My girlfriend came over and looked at me. Then she said, "You remember what I asked you that day?"

I looked at her. "What?" I didn't even remember the day she was talking about.

"About the threesome?"

My brain restarted. I thought it was a joke, and we had joked about a lot of things. I didn't know she was that serious.

"Oh," I said.

"Do you remember telling me you were down?" she added.

"Yeah, but at least you could have prepared me, manze…"

She smiled. "Then it wouldn't be a surprise."

That's when I knew I had made a serious mistake.

A surprise? This woman had apparently upgraded my threesome into a foursome without informing the chairman.

And the chairman was high. Very high.

I looked around. Three women. One man. Me.

I started wondering whether I had accidentally entered somebody else's birthday party.

Then Karen walked towards that black briefcase. The mysterious black briefcase.

She opened it. And my heart immediately became uncomfortable.

She pulled out handcuffs. Then whips. Then a strange-looking pink candle that I had never seen before. Then a small bottle of honey.

Some ice cubes were already sitting in the cooler. At first, I had thought they were for the drinks. Clearly, I had been too innocent.

Then Karen pulled out something I had never seen before. I later Googled it—even Gemini had to help me identify it: a butt plug.

Don't laugh. It's serious.

I looked at it. Then looked at Karen. Then looked at my girlfriend. Then back at the object.

My brain simply said: No.

Let's just say that for the whips, the honey, the candles, and the ice cubes, I knew their purpose. I was okay with the honey. I could work with honey. The ice? Maybe. The candle? If it was just for atmosphere, fine. The whips? Let's just say I had questions.

But that last item? Absolutely not. That wasn't in my constitution.

And I wasn't prepared to learn it the hard way. With the few years I have been on earth, I have been in deep shit, and I didn't want more.

Meanwhile, I was sitting on the couch shirtless. Somehow, I was already oiled up—I don't even remember when that started. One of my hands was handcuffed.

I looked around. They were clearly trying to figure out where to attach the other side of my arm.

I looked at their faces. They were enjoying themselves. Laughing. Smiling. Having the best time of their lives while I was fighting for mine.

I was beginning to understand that my birthday surprise had gone completely off-script.

Karen picked up the mysterious object. Stacy started working on my belt.

And something inside my brain screamed: RUN.

And when your brain says run, you must run. Then I noticed the door. It was slightly open. I looked towards the table. My phone. My charger. My keys.

Wait. Where were my keys? I couldn't see them.

But none of that mattered anymore. All I knew was that I was on the tenth floor. The lift was too far and definitely consuming my time, and I wasn't waiting for anything.

I am an athlete, for that matter. And my football training had done me good.That day, those stairs suddenly became my Olympic event.

I moved fast. Very fast. I don't remember how many stairs I skipped.

I only remember reaching the ground floor, then the gate. And just like that, I was outside.

Shirtless, though. One hand still wearing a handcuff. Unbuckled belt. Phone in my hand.

No shirt. No dignity. No explanation. Just pure survival instinct.

They must have seen a madman that day.

There was a boda waiting outside. Not for me, though.

The rider looked at me. I looked at him. Neither of us asked questions.

I got on. "Twende."

And just like that, we left.

I even overpaid the guy. When I got off, he looked at me and said, "Next time nicall tu, Baba."

He must have hit the jackpot. As if he had already understood everything.

Then I reached my apartment door. And that's when I discovered the next problem.

My key wasn't with me. It was in the pocket of the jacket I'd left at Tsavo.

At this point, going back was not an option. So I took another boda to my friend Dave's place.

I knew Dave was celibate. He doesn't bring women to his place. At least I couldn't have interfered with anything. That made him the safest person alive at that moment.

I knocked. He opened, looked at me, looked at my hand, looked at my missing shirt, then looked at me again.

"Kwani umeshikwa?"

I almost cried. "Bro, let me enter first."

I went inside. It was almost 6 a.m.

By then, the alcohol and weed had worn off enough for my brain to start processing what had happened.

So I told Dave everything. From the beginning. The surprise. Tsavo. The red lingerie. Karen. Stacy. The drinks. The briefcase. The handcuffs. Everything.

Dave was laughing. Laughing like someone who had paid for front-row seats to a comedy show. He was dying with laughter while I was still figuring out this traumatic phase of my life.

And then my phone started vibrating.

One missed call. Two. Five. Ten. Eventually, thirteen missed calls.

My girlfriend. I couldn't answer. I was still processing my own life.

Then the message came: "I'm at your place and the door is locked. I have your keys. What's wrong? Are you okay? Please answer me."

I stared at the screen. Would I ever be okay? Then another message: "Umetoka na handcuff... na niko na key." I just stared. She knew. Of course she knew.

Around 8 a.m., she was still calling. Eventually, I answered.

"Niko kwa Dave. Nipate huko. Come alone." I made sure I never left that part out. I didn't want anything to do with Karen or Stacy, for that matter.

"Usisahau my shirt," I added.

She came. Except she didn't come alone. Karen was with her.

The moment I saw Karen, I remembered everything. She was trying to look serious. My girlfriend was trying to look serious.

Dave? Dave was already laughing, and he hadn't even witnessed what happened. How were these women not laughing, I asked myself.

My girlfriend explained that she was the one who knew how to uncuff me. I wasn't completely convinced—maybe 50/50—but I had no choice.

She unlocked the handcuff. Finally. Freedom. I got my shirt. My charger. My keys. And we left. This time, it was just me and my girlfriend. And I was kinda pleased with that.

When we reached my place, I still had one question: "What the hell was that?" She laughed. I didn't.

Eventually, she had to make it up to me. And yes… you know what I mean. It was fun, though, if you know what I mean.

But let's be very clear. No butt plug. Hell no.

I still don't know what possessed these shawties to carry a black briefcase containing enough equipment to turn my birthday into a psychological experiment.

Maybe one day I'll be brave enough to try a few new things. Maybe.

But that particular one? That's where I draw the line.

I had asked for a birthday surprise. I didn't ask to become a participant in a full-blown BDSM convention. And that is how I learned my lesson the hard way.

I had spent years looking for the perfect woman. The funny one. The intelligent one. The adventurous one. The sexually adventurous one. The one who could make life exciting.

And finally, I found someone who came pretty damn close.

Maybe too close.

Because sometimes, when you finally get exactly what you asked for, you realize you forgot to specify the terms and conditions.

So these days, whenever someone tells me, "Carlos, there's another Tsavo house party," I don't even ask who is going. I don't ask what room. I don't ask what time. I don't ask whether there will be drinks. I don't even ask whether my girlfriend is going.

I just say: "Another Tsavo house party? I'm not going."

I mean, not love. Not relationships. Not those candlelit dinners where someone looks into your eyes and chooses to lie straight to your face and say, “I’ve never felt like this before.”

No.

There was a time when I really wanted something much simpler. Something more like unplanned quickies and one-night stands. I know you are judging me right now. When most people were looking for relationships, some looking for money in those relationships, and some looking for someone to post on Instagram with a caption like “my person,” I was in a totally different headspace.

I was looking for five minutes of bad decision-making. Everyone loves bad decisions.

Not because I hated relationships. Dont get it twisted. I just got tired of the whole dating circus. The talking stages, the disappearing acts, the “what are we?” conversations, the three-day reply times. The emotional math was really taking a toll on me. And for the longest time, I had been suffocating from my own choices.

At some point, I decided I wasn't dating anymore. I was just going to have fun. Lemme tell you. As much as this sounds fun, trust me, it ain't all fun. And because I had always had a strange fascination with quickies sana sana, I developed a ka little routine.

Whenever there was a party, concert, event, or night out, I went prepared. You know what I mean. As in

Protection? Check.

Fresh breath? Check.

Good perfume? Absolutely.

Confidence? Sometimes, but check.

The mindset was simple and already set. If the opportunity presents itself, don't be the guy who wasn't prepared. Just move with the motion. No questions asked.

And this Nairobi nightlife gave me plenty of opportunities to test this “I just wanna have fun” philosophy. I've had those ridiculous little moments at events around Westlands. Like the brunch leagues or the wine and food pairing dinners or where you meet someone near the bar and somehow spend the next hour communicating almost entirely through eye contact.

I've had kisses at parties where neither of us knew each other's full names. I've had those “should we disappear for a minute?” moments at events in Kilimani.

And I've had several almost-encounters where everything looked promising until one person suddenly remembered they had a boyfriend, a girlfriend, an early morning meeting, or simply common sense.

Most of the time, nothing happened. Like, I mean, no quickies.

Then Nakuru happened. And Nakuru gave me my first real quickie. It was one of those nights where the chemistry didn't need an explanation. We were flirting, laughing, getting closer, and doing that dance where both people know exactly where things are going, but nobody wants to say it out loud.

Eventually, we found ourselves at the back of a Noah. Yes, a Noah. Thanks to all that space at the back. It was actually nice because I'm 5’9", but built different. Bodywise, that is. And this day I was lucky enough to get a shawty my size. A thick one, for that matter. So that whole Noah space did us a favor, or else we would have suffocated ourselves to death in there.

I still laugh about that.

Right now, you can put me anywhere in Kenya, and apparently, my first instinct is to turn a Toyota Noah into a romantic destination. That's the first thing that comes to my mind anytime I see a Noah.

That day, there was no luxury. No fancy room. No mood lighting. In short, it wasn’t romantic in the ways that we often imagine. It was just simple and raw. Just darkness, nervous laughter, stolen kisses, and two people who had decided that waiting until tomorrow wasn't necessary.

When it was over, I remember sitting there thinking: So this is what I've been preparing for?

Honestly? Worth it.

That experience somehow gave me confidence. Westlands later gave me another chapter after months of getting none.

It started like many Nairobi nights do. With music, drinks, flirting, and people pretending they had come out purely to dance though deep down, we all know what brought us there.

Eventually, the chemistry between me and this particular shawty became impossible to ignore. We disappeared toward the loo. A few kisses. A little affection. A private moment.

And just like that, quickie number two entered the history books. At this point, I thought I had cracked the code.

I wasn't dating. I wasn't catching feelings. I wasn't inviting anybody home. I wasn't promising anybody tomorrow. I was simply enjoying myself. It was simple and peaceful, I must say.

Zero to two quickies. Simple mathematics.

Then Rongai decided to introduce advanced mathematics at Soulcity club. The club name has stuck with me ever since.

It was one of those nights that started normally and ended with me questioning several decisions I had made after sunset.

The club was packed. Like, packed to the fullest. But what immediately caught my attention was the ratio. There seemed to be more women than men. That has never been normal. Those who are fond of clubbing know what I'm saying. We usually have more idle men in clubs than females, but nowadays things are taking a different turn.

This day, it was not just slightly more women than men. It was the kind of place where one guy could comfortably have three women around him, and nobody would think anything of it.

The atmosphere was wild. Club bangers playing on repeat. People sweating on the dance floor trying to forget their troubles. People fighting on the other side while bouncers were really trying hard to escort them out of the club. Just motion all over the place.

It had that strip-club kind of energy. People weren't there to discuss the economy or compare university degrees. They were there to forget themselves.

And I was no exception.

The drinks were flowing. The music was loud. The night was getting blurry around the edges. That peak time around 2:00 AM to 3:00 AM. And somewhere along the way, I got drunk enough and high enough that my normal decision-making department was closed for the evening.

Then, in a matter of moments, I saw her. She was sitting across the room at another table. Beautiful. At least, that's what my brain immediately decided. I just wasn't thinking straight, but I just hope she was.

We looked at each other. I looked away. She looked again. I looked again.

That was it.

The conversation had officially begun without either of us saying a word. You know that Nairobi eye-contact thing? The one where you're basically saying:

I can see you.

I can see you seeing me.

So what are we going to do about it?

Exactly that.

A few minutes passed. Then she stood up. I assumed she was going to the bar counter, but she wasn’t. She walked toward us, straight to my table.

Now, suddenly, I had forgotten about everyone else. The shawties I had been talking to earlier? I wish I could have been more polite and said, “Sorry, ladies,” as I have always seen in movies, but I didn't. My attention had been repossessed. She sat down, and we started talking. I don't really remember what the fuckery we were talking about; all I can remember is that the conversation was playful.

The flirting became obvious because that's who I am when I'm high. The drinks kept coming. And if I had sat there drinking that liquor alone, you know what would have happened. BLACKOUT.

Because both of us were already sexually charged from the atmosphere, the tension was becoming stronger. You can imagine.

There was something about the night. The music. The alcohol. The crowd. The confidence. The stupidity. Eiii. All of it mixed together.

And my brain immediately returned to its favorite subject. Quickie.

I wasn't thinking about taking her home. Not at all. I wasn't taking a stranger all the way to Ngong Road from Rongai. That wasn't going to happen. I never really took girls to my place anyway.

That was part of my rule. Home was home. Fun was fun. Don't mix departments.

So my brain started looking for another solution. Eventually, I excused myself and headed toward the car that we came in.

The mission was simple: check the glove box, take protection as I figure out the location for the awaited event, come back, and proceed with the evening.

I opened the car door. Opened the glove box. And there was my boy—already inside the car with another shawty.

Ahhhhh.

I stopped. He stopped. She stopped. Nobody spoke. Just that weird sexual silence. There are moments in life where words are completely unnecessary. This was that exact moment.

I simply closed the door and walked away. Mission event canceled. But I managed to slip out with the protection box and a pack of Oris.

Since the Nairobi dating market had officially become too competitive, expensive, boring, and exhausting without even mentioning the lies that often comes in hand. After thay I went back inside.

Somehow, the situation with the lady continued.

Eventually, through one of those subtle gestures that people make when both of them understand exactly what is being suggested, we decided the location needed to change.

We headed toward the loo. And that's where my entire night changed.

There were kisses. There was false affection—just in the moment, without thinking whether you love this person or not. The usual excitement. Everything was moving quickly.

In the middle of that caressing heat, something unusual happened. Something caught my attention, so I had to confirm properly. This time, not through the alcohol, not through the club lights, and not through the excitement. Like, properly.

And suddenly, my brain rebooted.

The thing is, the person standing in front of me wasn't actually a woman. Yeah. You heard me right.

Despite being beautiful, despite having natural breasts and long natural hair, despite everything about the situation that had convinced me otherwise... I had completely misread it.

The effect was immediate. It felt like someone had poured cold water over my head. One second I was completely in the moment; the next second, I was sober. Like 100 percent sober. Not “slightly less drunk.” Sober.

The music outside suddenly sounded clearer—I could hear the words of the artist one by one, I'm telling you. My thoughts were now sharper than before.

And I had that horrible feeling of remembering every decision that had brought me to that exact moment. I'm super straight—straight as a pencil—and this ordeal made me go nuts. Never in my life would I ever have thought of something like that, or rather, being in such a situation.

I didn't know whether to laugh, apologize, disappear, or ask for a refund on the entire evening. So I chose the fifth option. Escape.

I left that loo with the speed of a man who had suddenly remembered an important appointment with reality.

Outside the club, I stood there breathing in the night air. Rongai had never looked so beautiful, I tell you. I looked at everything: cars passing, people shouting, music coming from the club, random boda bodas moving around—normal Nairobi-like chaos. The sky—I had even forgotten what the stars looked like. This day, I saw the stars well.

For me, everything had changed. I was just standing there thinking: What on earth just happened?

The funniest part? My friends didn't know.

When we eventually headed home, they were laughing and asking me about her. “Bro, what happened with that 10/10?” The funny thing is, even they thought she was very pretty, meaning they would have fallen for the trap too.

I just smiled, nodded, and gave them absolutely nothing.

Because I know my friends. If I told them the truth, that story would never die. I would be victimized for the rest of my fucking life. It would become family property. They would use it at birthdays, at weddings (if there are any), at road trips... at funerals, God forbid.

One day I'd be introducing someone to them, and somebody would whisper, “Ask him about Rongai.” Where would I even start?

I just couldn't tell them. Absolutely not. Some stories need to be gatekept.

And that one? That one was going into a vault. Until today. Since only one of them reads my Substack articles, I hope he just sees it as a fictional story or ignores this.

The funny thing is, I went into that night thinking I had become an expert in quickies. I had done the Noah. I had done Westlands. I had developed a whole philosophy around spontaneous fun. I really thought I understood the assignment.

Rongai reminded me that sometimes the assignment is actually a surprise exam.

So yes.

I'm done with these quickies. Not because they're necessarily bad, not because I suddenly became a relationship guru, and definitely not because I've discovered the joys of candlelit dinners.

I'm simply tired and holding my breath. I have not yet moved on, or rather healed, from that ordeal.

I went looking for five minutes of fun and ended up getting an entire life lesson. I just wanted a quickie; I got a plot twist.

And somewhere between the club, the car, the loo, and that long walk outside, I realized something:

Sometimes the quickest way to lose your mind... is to forget to use it in the first place.

Nairobi, I have learned my lesson.

For now, at least.

People easily say "I love you" without actually contemplating the real weight of these words. And it's very concerning, by the way.

For me, I do believe in love. One of the reasons is that with everything that's going on with this generation, at least this is where I can be me. Without hiding in any way. And if you ask me what love looks like to me, I would be forced to say that to me, love looks like being stupid enough in a way that I don't regret being with someone. But that again comes hand in hand with so many factors.

One being, it's actually best if it's reciprocated. In a way that people are amazed by us in all ways possible. Something that appears delusional in a way, I guess. I say that because right now, if I sit down and try to reflect, I realize that the most stupid things I have done in my life have been when I'm in love. I don't mean stupid things in the sense of them being stupid or toxic, but stupid because when I tell you, you'll probably laugh at me and ask me how stupid I was.

With the growing patterns and rate at which everyone is everyone's ex around me, I have come to realize a couple of things. We are actually living almost similar love lives. My love story might be similar to almost everyone in my group or those that I have met. The stories align as fuck. From the talking stage to whatever phase you both choose to call it quits. And it makes me wonder. What's really going on around here? How is our story the same? Who's the author of these non-telenovela stories? Are we all part of a broken system, or is it that we all don't wanna love differently or rather act differently from what we previously had or had to endure? Why do we have to pass toxic traits to new people we meet? I'm just asking.

Take a look, for instance. Love often doesn’t always start with a dramatic eye-contact moment like in the movies. Hell nah. It's mostly a silent, mutual calculation. You spot someone across the room, club, or event, and your mind goes... "Baas... that's the one." In a weird way, you aren't always the first one to notice. You can at first think that you are the first spotter, but it actually goes both ways. The person you've seen has also seen you—provided it's actually your type and you ain't trying to aim higher or live beyond your means. Deep down, you always know your type. And you know that.

But the weirdest part is that even after spotting them, there is that Kenyan survival instinct that instantly kicks in. You both want it, but no one wants to be desperate enough to show it. And this is where we lose the plot, if you ask me.

After exchanging contacts, having constant communication, and actually being sure you both wanna try this thing called love, that's when things get weird. What follows is an elite competition in pretending you don't care. Both of you are head over heels, but acting excited is treated like a total rookie mistake.

So, you start playing mind games. You see their text in a fraction of a second, but you purposely wait four business hours to reply. Just to look like you're super busy and somehow important. You leave them on "read" for sport, reply with ice-cold "Cool"s and "Okay"s, and wait until midnight to view their story so you don't look desperate. No one wants to view a story or status "Just now." It’s pure strategy—masters of mind games that almost all of us are victims of.

And don't get me started on once you finally start hanging out and enter the official "Let's see where this goes" era. It's often a masterclass in half-hearted commitment. You keep one foot in, one foot out, and your hand firmly on the door handle, just in case you need to make a quick escape.

Nobody dares to say, "I like you, and I want to build something real." That’s way too dangerous. Instead, you both settle into a blurry cloud of "just vibes," dipping your toes in while wearing full riot gear. Why? Because the trauma of kuonyeshwa dust is real, and nobody wants to be the fool who cared too much. You chat non-stop, grab fast food, do couple stuff, and even throw around sweet nicknames like "Babe." But there's an invisible contract signed by both sides. if it all crashes tomorrow, you can easily shrug and say, "It wasn't that serious." When did things actually get this awful, honestly speaking?

And for the tiny, brave fraction that actually manages to give the relationship an official name, don't start celebrating just yet. Things are about to get even more embarrassing.

The very person you fought so hard to be with suddenly turns into a walking, talking reminder of why you were single in the first place. Once the labels are slapped on, the real script kicks in. Out of nowhere, the invisible manual of how relationships are supposed to be comes out, and the division of roles begins. The relationship transforms into non-stop lectures, calmly presented: "As a man, you’re supposed to..." or "A good woman would never..." What started as a peaceful, easygoing vibe quickly turns into an exhausting, chaotic script.

Instead of enjoying each other's company, you both turn into referee figures, constantly keeping score and hunting for mistakes. Those tiny, cute gestures that used to make your heart melt? Completely forgotten. It becomes a game of "What have you done for me lately?"

And pray to the heavens that you don't land someone who isn't over their ex—especially an ex who apparently walked on water. The perfect ex that apparently was the one who took the initiative to leave your partner, and not the other way around. If that’s your situation, I promise you, they will make sure you question every single choice you’ve ever made in life. You won't just be competing with a real person; you'll be fighting an idealized, saintly ghost. No matter how hard you try, how much effort you pour in, or how much you sacrifice, nothing will ever be enough. You’re literally fighting a losing battle against a memory that is forever stuck with them.

A word of advice. Sometimes I feel like, if it's possible, do a deep background check on your partner’s ex before signing any emotional contracts. Sometimes it will protect your peace. Do everything, but try not to end up on that victim list. You'll hate this whole relationship thing.

Then comes the ultimate plot twist. Once the title is official, don't be shocked when the energy completely dies. The endless texts slow down to a trickle. Just the once-in-a-while "Heys" and "Just checking on you" kind of texts. The spontaneous hangouts also vanish, and the effort drops off a cliff. The thrill of the hunt is over, the trophy has been won, and now it just sits on the shelf gathering dust. And this has more than once left me staring at my phone, genuinely wondering: What are people actually looking for these days? Is anyone truly after a long-lasting connection, or was the whole point just the high of the chase?

Yet, despite all the noise, the caution, and the trauma of past chapters, I haven't given up on love. And honestly, I don't think I ever will.

I met someone. The connection? Absolutely unearthly. It’s that rare, undeniable frequency where you don't even need to force a conversation—everything just flows effortlessly. I know exactly how I feel about her, and deep down, I genuinely want to take the leap.

Am I terrified? Beyond words. But this time, I want to be wise enough—woke enough not to fall back into that old, exhausting script. I don't want to play the nonchalant game, wait four hours to reply to a text, or pretend I don't care just to save face.

She is sweet, gentle, and above all, deeply intentional with her actions. I’d be lying if I said I haven't felt a rush like this before, but even with the scars from previous battles, I am fully willing to walk over broken glass again. I want something real, long-lasting, and beautiful. Call it naive, call it a bit delusional, but I still believe in that pure, unfiltered, almost cinema-like kind of love. Life is too short to turn something as soft and sacred as genuine affection into a war zone or leave a trail of bitter enemies behind.

And honestly, I wish the exact same for you. Don't let the fear of Dust make you cold-hearted.

Love freely, love unconditionally, but most importantly, choose someone who actively chooses you back. That is the only way we finally break this endless cycle of guard-up relationships and unnecessary heartbreaks.

So, say a prayer for me, people. I’m stepping onto the battlefield with my heart on my sleeve, genuinely hoping that this time, the story ends differently.

My mind was at peace to say the least. I wasn't constantly overthinking or questioning people's ntentions. I wasn't even trying to decode mixed signals or identify any possible red flags as it is the trend of the day today. I didn't spend hours wondering whether someone was manipulating me or hiding something behind a smile.

I simply lived. To the fullest to be precise.

I loved with my whole heart. I also trusted without keeping score.I believed that if your intentions were genuine, the people around you would naturally match that energy.

Looking back now, I realize that that innocence was both my greatest strength and my greatest weakness.

For a long time, I admired Stoicism. I believed staying calm, controlling my emotions and refusing to overreact was a sign of maturity. I thought ignoring suspicion made me a more of a grown up and a mature one.I assumed that constantly questioning people only created unnecessary anxiety or rather painted as insecure, so I deliberately chose peace instead. I stayed in my lane, focused on what was at hand and let everyone else live their lives.

What I didn't understand then was that peace without awareness can sometime become more of a vulnerability.

Life had a strange way of teaching me that.

If you've lived in Nairobi long enough, you've probably heard people say that this city eventually humbles everyone. The rich and the poor, the weak and the brave, the young and the old, the mature and the immature, the nonchalant and the nonchalant. We are all served from the same plate.

At first, I used to laugh whenever my boys say, "Hakuna mtu ako above program." I honestly believed I would be different. I believed I was too careful, too focused and too emotionally disciplined for life to catch me slipping. Little did I know.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

One thing nobody tells you is that life rarely waits until you're ready before testing you. Sometimes it doesn't even wait for you to recover from one battle before introducing another. Somehow, when you're already exhausted, that's when another storm appears. You barely have enough strength to keep your head above water, yet another wave crashes over you before you've even caught your breath.

For the longest time, I have wondered why life works that way. Maybe that's simply how shit happens.

Around that time, I had just started a new semester at the University of Nairobi. Things were finally beginning to make sense. After months of late night LinkedIn applications, I had secured an online writing job. The salary wasn't anything extraordinary, but it completely made a difference. For the first time in a while, rent wasn't a monthly nightmare. I could comfortably buy a thing or two as a comrade without calculating every shilling. I could afford small luxuries every once in a while. Better yet, I could finally send something back home to Mum and my younger siblings.

And that meant everything to me. For sure.

Combined with a few side hustles here and there I had built over time, life finally felt more and more stable. I wasn't rich rich don't get it twisted. It just felt like I was moving forward instead of merely surviving.

Then there was Anyango.

The funny thing is, Anyango and I never really had a beginning. If you know what I mean. We had known each other for quite some time. And somewhere along the way, our friendship quietly evolved into something much deeper. We'd joke by saying "nimekumark," but beneath those playful words was a connection neither of us could ever deny. The feelings had always existed. The only thing missing had been the timing.

Both of us had our own lives to figure out. So without ever formally agreeing to it, we simply stayed apart. That was the best call at the time.

As time passed, circumstances changed.

Once my writing gig became steady and I'd managed to furnish my place to my liking, something shifted inside me. I finally felt emotionally and financially ready to share my life with someone at least. I had been single for quite a while, and whenever I imagined what that future looked like, Anyango was always the first person who came to mind.

Asking her out didn't feel like taking a chance. It felt like completing something that had been waiting to happen all along. Its like she was also waiting for me to make the move.

After a few conversations, we finally decided to stop dancing around our feelings and give the relationship a real chance.

Looking back now, those months genuinely felt magical. There wasn't any unnecessary drama at all. To some extent I became an expert in solving and giving advice to my boys whenever any of them had relationship issues. Think of it like a Kenyan Dr. Phill or Steve Harvey type shii.

There were no endless arguments. No emotional games. Everything seemed effortless. We created memories everywhere. Her snapchat holds all the evidence for this. Maybe she knew a day would come to revisit it. From fancy dinners whenever my budget allowed. Weekend photoshoots around Westlands. Long walks through Karura Forest. Sunsets at Ngong Hills for those who had gotten the chance to experience it. The SGR trips to Suswa. Visits to the National Museum and the Museum of Illusions. Movie nights that stretched long past midnight as that is actually my speciality. Horse riding competitions watching at Ngong Racecourse on lazy Sundays. Just because we could. Small gifts. No random flowers though since from the start she said she is not into PDA. And I respected and fall for it though I guess the flowers part should have been the first red flag to look at. Like I mean, which normal lady hates flowers. Am still to see the second one after Anyango.

Don't get me started with the late-night phone calls. Morning texts. Inside jokes only the two of us understood. For a while, life genuinely felt perfect.

Then came one Friday. A Friday I don't think I'll ever forget. The day I realised that men might be the most jealous and territorial creatures to ever exist.

My boys and I had just finished several heated FIFA matches at a gaming lounge in Nairobi CBD. Like every competitive group of friends, we walked out still arguing about goals that shouldn't have counted and penalties that definitely should have been given.

As we approached the exit, something stopped me.

A familiar perfume drifted through the crowd. It wasn't just any perfume. It was Anyango's. She always wore the same fragrance, and somehow my mind recognized it before my eyes found her. From the crowd just along the pathway.

I slowed down. And for reasons I can't explain my heart was literally beating faster for reasons I couldn't explain.

Then I saw her. This time she wasn't alone. Walking beside her was a tall, light-skinned dude I have never seen before or heard of. The two looked comfortable if you asked us. Comfortable in a way that instantly made something inside me uneasy. I didn't know I had it in me for sure.

In the midst of it all, I didn't call her out. I froze. And before I could process what I was seeing, my friend Dave shouted loudly, "Carlos, si ndio ule Anyango?"

She must have heard her name coz she turned around. The moment our eyes met, I noticed something I still remember to this day. Panic. Not surprise. Not excitement. Panic my friend. It lasted less than a second, but it was enough. She kinda smiled awkwardly before saying, "Eish Carlos…siusalimie homeboy wangu.” what do you mean homeboy? This was the question that crossed my mind over and over again.

That request hit harder than I expected. Not because she introduced another man. But simply because she called me Carlos. I mean by my name. OH LORD.

Not Babe. Hell naah. Not love. Wait, that am kidding. Calling me love seems a little old. But still she could that day. I wouldn't mind.

Not any of the names she'd always used whenever we were together. Carlos.

It sounded distant. Cold. Very formal for real. Like she was suddenly trying to create space between us. Honestly I didn't greet him. And deep down she knew why. I just couldn't. All along I was questioning whether she had told him that she had a man. And that it was Carlos. This Carlos here.I simply nodded, turned around and walked away. If I could hold his hand maybe I could have pressed it hard enough that he knew she wasn't none other than my girl. And that I was hers. And we belonged together. And that he should just fuck off.

The Nganya ride home was one of the quietest journeys I've ever taken. Later that evening she called asking whether I was okay. I told her I was fine. But deep down, I was waiting for something. An explanation at least. Like why they were too comfortable together. You know. A story maybe if there was one. Just anything to calm my nerves.

Nothing came. Days passed. And I had to convince myself that I was simply overthinking.

Not Until another conversation changed everything. My friend, there are always layers to this shit. A few days later, there was a Safaricom event happening at the University of Nairobi Graduation Square to be precise. Something about Blaze or something.

Normally I avoided campus functions.

As a commuter student, I usually attended lectures then went straight home. I never found anything around campus interesting rather than those students to students conversations and hangouts after classes. Or just down there at the exit of The University Towers.

That day, however, I had nothing planned, so I decided to visit a few friends staying in the hostels. While hanging around Hall 9, my friend Bill casually looked at me and asked, "Kwani mliachana na Anyango?" I laughed.

"Mbona?" What he said next completely changed my reality.

Bill explained that Anyango regularly visited one of the neighboring hostel rooms. Not occasionally. Regularly. Sometimes she even spent the night there. Since his room shared the same corridor, he'd seen her leaving early in the mornings more than once.

Then he described the guy. Every single detail matched the man I'd seen in CBD. The homeboy guy. I didn't know what to think. Part of me wanted to believe Bill had mistaken someone else for Anyango. Another part already knew he hadn't. I simply looked at him and quietly said, "Next time you see her there...call me."

The very next day my phone rang. It was Bill. And I knew something was wrong. It isn't normal for boys to call call each other every now and then.

Earlier that afternoon, Anyango and I had attended a common unit together. And after lectures, I suggested we spend the afternoon at Michuki Park eating snacks and catching up. She smiled apologetically and said that she couldn't. Apparently her aunt had been admitted to Nairobi Hospital. After visiting her there, she planned to travel home to Kiambu because we didn't have classes the following day. She would spend the time home and cone back after that day.

It sounded believable. To say the least. I wished her well and headed home. It is still this day that around 5:30 that evening, Bill called. "Ako hapa." I knew exactly what he meant. My chest kinda tightened. I immediately called Anyango. She ignored the first call. Ignored the second. And I started being restless. Finally answered the third.

Her voice was unusually soft. "Bado niko hospital." I was kind relieved but hoping she isn't lying. Without saying another word, I boarded another matatu back to campus. Since I was already having that gut feeling that something was amiss. I prayed all the way there that Bill had somehow made a mistake. I spent the entire night inside Bill's room. I didn't sleep much unlike Bill. Its like he was sure what he had seen. I couldn't literally sleep mahn. Every passing hour felt heavier than the last.

Seven o'clock arrived.I was already standing by the window staring directly at the neighboring door. Then eventually it opened. The tall dude walked out first.

Seconds later...

Anyango followed. With her handbag that she carries when she comes to sleep over at my place. Everything became painfully clear. We hurried downstairs and followed them. While walking, I called her phone. Just awkwardly. I really don’t know what I was thinking. She ignored one call before finally answering with an exaggerated sleepy voice. As though she'd just woken up.

I caught up to them and gently held her arm. She turned around in complete shock. I tell you.The guy looked at both of us. He must have remembered me. And clearly its like he knew alot about me and he wasn't willing to take the risk. His face said everything.

Without causing a scene, he simply looked at Anyango and quietly said, "I'll see you around." Then he walked away. I looked at her. And said. "Coffee?" That was all I could say. We walked nearly nine hundred metres to Klabu.Neither of us spoke. You know the sound of that. The silence carried every unanswered question between us.

When we reached at Klabu, we ordered breakfast. Neither of us touched the food. I tried taking one bite, but it felt impossible to swallow. I looked at her. "Your food will get cold. Eat.” She stared back. Her eyes filled with tears. I could tell. Neither of us needed explanations anymore. The truth had already spoken for itself. After a few minutes, I quietly took out my phone, paid the bill, stood up and walked away.

That was the last conversation we ever had.

She called ever since. Again. And again. She sent message after message. Piles after piles. More than seventy texts. I never replied to a single one. Calls and calls. All incoming.

Today, years later, I carry no hatred. Only lessons. Heartbreak changed the way I see relationships, trust and people.

You eventually realize that human beings are incredibly complex. Some people will genuinely love you. Others love the comfort you provide. Some simply don't know what they want until it's too late. No matter how deeply you know someone, there will always be parts of them that remain hidden.

That's life.

If there's one thing I learned, it's this. Never lose yourself trying to hold on to someone else. Pay attention to actions more than words. Protect your peace, but don't allow pain to make you cynical. Not everyone you meet will hurt you, just as not everyone deserves unlimited access to your heart. And when life finally introduces you to someone who is honest, loyal and genuine, love them fully. Don't make them pay for wounds they never caused.

Because despite everything that happened, I still believe love is worth it. There is more to it i just didn't get the chance to unpack it all and bore you with the details. I just know now what it costs to give it to the wrong person.

After all, in this city and perhaps in life itself one truth remains undefeated. Which is;

No one is above the program.

More times than I can count, I've sat across from a shawty, listened carefully to every single word she said, nodded like everything made perfect sense, only to realize hours later that I completely misunderstood the message. I heard the words, but I missed the intended meaning.

That's when I discovered something important about navigating relationships especially in Nairobi. It isn't just about listening to what someone says. It's about paying attention to everything they don't say. The real conversation usually happens beneath the words, hidden in tone, body language, timing, and those tiny emotional hints that somehow expect you to read minds.

At first, I thought my girlfriend was unique. She rarely communicated in straight lines. Everything seemed wrapped in vibes, hints, and emotional intelligence tests. Later I realized my friends were going through the exact same thing. We were all speaking the same language, but somehow using completely different dictionaries.

The lesson hit me the hard way. if you take everything a woman says literally, you'll spend half your life confused and the other half wondering why you're sleeping on the couch alone with no company.

Take the famous line, "We should talk..." The younger me thought it meant we'd catch up over tea or have a casual conversation. These days, the moment I hear those four words, I immediately begin reviewing every text I've sent, every suspicious Instagram like, every late-night joke, and every questionable decision I've made since January. Experience has taught me that "we should talk" is less of an invitation and more of an official court summons.

Then comes, "I just find it funny how..." Trust me, there is absolutely nothing funny about that sentence. Humor has packed its bags and left the building. What follows is usually a well-researched presentation complete with timestamps, screenshots, and sometimes eyewitness testimony. Am kidding about the eyewitness part. But not entirely. And if she calmly looks into your eyes and asks, "Is there anything you need to tell me?" just know she already knows. She's simply giving you one final opportunity to tell the truth before you make things worse.

Of course, relationships have their psychological traps too. One of the biggest is, "Do what you want." This is my biggest trap. Just because there us a gram of nonchalancy with me that it even took me time to realise and fucked me up big time.

The first time I heard it, I actually did what I wanted. Rookie mistake. I later learned that "Do what you want" often translates to "Please don't do that if you actually care how I feel." The same goes for, "As long as it makes you happy." Sometimes it's genuine, but many times it's simply disappointment wearing a polite smile.

I've also realized that many women don't always ask directly for what they need because they don't want to feel demanding. So when she softly says, "No, you don't have to," after you've offered to help, she may actually appreciate it if you insist. Not because she's playing games, but because effort often means more than being asked.

The birthday version is even more dangerous.

When she says, "You don't have to get me anything," don't interpret it as financial freedom. It isn't about buying expensive gifts anyway. It's about showing that you remembered and cared enough to make an effort. Even something as simple as her favorite chocolate bar can say more than arriving empty-handed with a perfectly logical explanation.

Then there are the everyday moments that reveal everything. She looks at your outfit and asks, "Are you wearing that?" That often isn't fashion curiosity. It's mercy. She's giving you one final chance to save yourself from walking outside looking like you've dressed in complete darkness. I say this as someone who once believed that an original Manchester united jersey qualified for nearly every occasion. Jokes on me.

And whenever she asks, "Are you hungry?" don't rush to explain how full you are. Chances are she's the hungry one but doesn't want to eat alone. Sometimes the smartest answer isn't a detailed explanation. it's simply, "Sure, let's order something"

The phrase that has probably fooled every man at least once is, "I'm fine." No, she's probably not fine. Usually, she's choosing silence because she's still processing her emotions. That doesn't mean you should interrogate her every five minutes. Sometimes she simply needs patience, reassurance, and a little space before she's ready to explain what's actually bothering her.

I came to realise that. Not every hidden message is about conflict, though. Sometimes they're about kindness.

Doing thoughtful things before being asked, noticing the small details, remembering what matters to her. Those things often strengthen relationships far more than grand romantic speeches ever will. Of course, there are also moments when the message is painfully clear, even if the words try to soften the blow.

If she tells you, "You're like a brother to me," or says, "I'm just not looking for a relationship right now," she's usually trying to protect your feelings. The timing isn't really the problem. The chemistry is.

And then there's the famous, "Sorry, I've been busy." Life gets busy. We all know that. But if hours become days, replies become shorter, and you're constantly the one keeping the conversation alive, the message isn't hidden anymore. People usually make time for what genuinely matters to them.

I've learned that relationships aren't about becoming a mind reader. They're about paying attention. Listening beyond the words. Understanding emotions, context, and intention instead of only the sentences themselves.

Maybe that's the real secret.

Sometimes what women say isn't the entire conversation. The rest is written between the lines.

​And usually it never happens overnight. It creeps into the smallest, most ordinary moments.For instance a time they helped you when you were down, a favor they did or a sacrifice they made. And over time, the energy in the room shifts.

And now the warmth of their hug starts to feel tight, like a trap. When you look into their eyes, you don't see a safe place anymore. You see more of a bill you have to pay. You suddenly realize that every kiss was just a down payment, every late-night talk was an investment, and now, they’ve come to collect what you owe.

When Xenia Manasseh sang Wild Ride. I could resonate which every piece of her art. In the most deep and soft way possible. It isn’t just a song about a breakup. It's a post-mortem of a relationship that became a transaction over time. It is the exhausting truth of what happens when closeness stops being a safe place and turns into an overdue bill. One you are completely broke trying to pay off. If you ask me.

If you have ever loved someone who made you feel like you owed them for the privilege of being loved, this is the story of that unspoken friction.

Think about how it feels when someone breaks through your walls, convinces you to trust them, and then completely checks out.

They did the hard work of winning you over at the start, and in their head, simply choosing to be with you was a massive sacrifice. They think that just because they showed up in the beginning, they bought the permanent right to your loyalty, your tears, and your endless gratitude. Suffocating you in every possible way leaving you just gasping for air.

If you ask me, I think love isn't a one-time payment. You can't keep a relationship alive just on the memory of how good things used to be in the first month.

That's why I don't get this people that keep saying “Nani and nani Changed over time”

Its just diabolical and shallow if you ask me. People remain the same. Its just we expect too much from people and often forget that relationships are two way traffic thing.

True love is the purest form of energy there is. It is about giving, not waiting for a return on investment. A heart that gives genuinely never looks for compensation. The moment your partner starts listing their receipts saying "I did this, and I did that" the spell is broken. You are in the wrong space. Either the love has completely faded, or it is simply your absolute cue to leave. A relationship is not a playground for settling scores.

​But let’s be real about the flip side: you cannot expect much if you chose to give less.

​It is a natural rhythm. You give flowers, you get flowers. You bring a gift, and the other person will surely do the same. Not out of obligation, and not as a payout but simply out of love. It is as simple as that, regardless of gender.

​You cannot expect someone to play the role of a wife or a husband if you are still moving like a temporary girlfriend or boyfriend. We grow and rise together. A relationship cannot survive when one person is twenty steps ahead, building a future, while the other is still stuck in the Cerelac stage. It just doesn’t work that way.

In short, for me before I commit, I usually wish people would understand that, I'm OKAY with being just FRIENDS. I'm also OKAY with just TALKING. I'm fine with DATING. Just above all, lemme know how we are moving so I'm not overplaying my POSITION. Because what am not okay with is Fealing Dumb or stupid.

There are people you will date who want all the benefits of having you in their life, but they refuse to do any of the daily, heavy lifting to keep the relationship healthy. That's business my friend.

You end up trapped in a cycle of constant guilt. Always trying to fix what's broken and doing all the work to make up for their lack of effort.

In the end, you find yourself practically thanking them for a love that is actively draining you, simply because they bothered to show up in the first place.

The hardest part of this emotional debt if you ask me is how exhausting it is to pretend.

​You stay because of the history. You stay because you’re holding onto the ghost of who they used to be. You stay because they have successfully gaslit you into believing that if you walk away, you’re the selfish villain who abandoned them after everything they did for you.

​So, you learn to live with a stranger. You sit right next to them, but the emotional distance between you is miles wide. You pretend the loneliness doesn't ache. You pretend their subtle insults and cold shoulder don't cut you to the bone.

​But you cannot survive in a relationship buhilt entirely on IOUs.

But at the end of the day, you hit a breaking point where you simply stop trying to fix it. You realize the only way to settle a debt designed to control you is to just stop paying it.

Your time, your energy, and your heart are far too expensive for their cheap score-keeping.

And sometimes my friend, Walking away isn’t malicious.it is survival. Get up from the table and let them tell whatever twisted story they want. You are finally done paying for a love that was always supposed to be free. So choose your poison wisely. I love y’all.

​Let me paint the picture for you kwanza. You see how your uncle wa ma-form, your loud dad, or your ambitious political boyfriend behaves around people with a bigger name? That is exactly what I am talking about. How they constantly brag about "najuana na OCS" or "huyu hajui najuana na MCA" or "unaona ule MP, nilisoma na yeye." That kind of stuff is what I am talking about. Just that desperate need to be associated with someone doing better than them, just because they don’t wanna look or appear as lesser men. I am telling you, in those social gatherings your fathers and uncles go, you will be surprised by the kind of bragging that goes on there. You might even find that your own dad is related to Obama, it’s just that you don't know. Ask his peers! Kwanza, the "Huyu ni jirani yangu ushago" part? Mahn. It is depressing.

​And in social gatherings. Let's say church meetings, harambees. Mahn, it is catastrophic. That is exactly why I don't go to such gatherings. People literally fight for space just to sit close to the big names. By the way, it ain't even bad to network, but it is just pathetic if you ask me. Like, there is absolutely nothing good that comes from it. Imagine a regular Sunday. The congregation is told one afternoon that so-and-so, some big politician or rich guy will be visiting us next week. Instantly, you can see these grown men in the congregation smiling like madmen, happier than they've ever been. It’s embarrassing. And don’t even get me started on that day when the service ends and it reaches the time to interact and call it a day.

Oh Lord. Grown men lose all coordination. Everything changes in seconds. Behaviour changes fast. Men who do not even know this big man start standing straighter. They move closer to him like magnets. One guy suddenly offers to carry the big man's bag. "Boss, let me help you with that." He laughs too hard at simple jokes. He volunteers for things he cannot even do. Men worshiping other men. Their voices becomes softer, more respectful. This is not normal respect. It is performance. Grown men acting like boys seeking approval from a stranger with deeper pockets. Mentally, the shift is interesting. These men start telling themselves stories to justify the change. "This is networking," they think. "I need connections." But deep down, it is fear of missing out. They convince themselves that bending a little is smart. The same man who criticises dynasties on Twitter becomes the biggest defender when the big man is in the room. He echoes every word that comes from the mouth of the stranger. Later, when the big man leaves, the mental story changes again. "Huyo akona kiburi sana"

The double thinking that shows weak character. A strong man holds the same principles whether the powerful one is watching or not. Emotionally, it is even more raw. You see excitement mixed with hidden jealousy. Some men feel their hearts beat faster when the big man speaks. They feel important just by standing near him. Others feel small and angry inside. "Why him and not me?" But they cover it with big smiles and compliments.

​That is why, especially in the political spaces in Kenya, things aren't completely different. There is that deep mindset conditioning that is highly contagious. It starts right from the top of the food chain with the president, moves down to his ass-licking proxies, and filters all the way down to the normal citizen. Come to think of it: the government is in total shambles. Things aren't working out. Look at the education system, look at the health sector. The government is drowning in trillions of debt. But what do the citizens do? You find that in the midst of all this chaos, only a tiny handful of people can stand up boldly and say, "This is not working." Most people are completely brainwashed. They are busy worshipping the oppressor, and the oppressor knows exactly when they will sing to his tune. That is why you even find the opposition laying in bed with the devil. It has become a nation of "every man for himself, and God for us all." When the few woke citizens criticize bad governance, the higher power doesn't even bother to defend itself. Why should they? They know they have a whole army of puppets and sycophants who will eagerly jump to defend them for free. And sometimes you can see their faces showing fake happiness, but their eyes shows resentment. That emotional confusion is pathetic for a man. It drains his dignity. This is not one case. It happens again and again.

​In cooperate spaces, when the boss who is always wrong or a connected tycoon enters, the room dynamics change. Smaller men start agreeing with bad ideas just to be noticed. Behaviourally, they interrupt others to praise the rich one. "We support your vision 100%." Mentally, they calculate chances of getting a piece: "Maybe he will remember me for a supply contract." Emotionally, insecurity rises. They feel less than the man with money, so they overcompensate by being extra helpful. Funny part? Some even change how they dress the next day, wearing similar suits to copy the style. It is like watching adults play pretend.

​Even in places you least expect, like churches during harambees. A pastor invites a rich politician. Men who preach integrity every Sunday suddenly become the loudest givers and clappers. "This man is blessed!" they shout. Behaviourally, they queue to shake his hand and take photos. Mentally, they think God works through powerful people. Emotionally, there is envy hidden behind prayers. "Why not me, Lord?" But they smile and say amen. This hypocrisy is deep in Kenyan society. It happens in family WhatsApp groups too. When one brother gets a government job and starts sending money, other men change tone. They call him "Mkuu” or “Tajiriii" jokingly, but ask for favours seriously. The ones who used to advise him now listen quietly.

​What makes it sad is how normal it feels. Many men do not realise they are doing it. But raw truth? It is fear. Fear of poverty. Fear of being left behind. This mental trap stops real growth. Instead of building their own strength, they wait for crumbs from big tables. Emotionally, creating fake relationships.

Friendships based on money die when the money moves. But right now, the system rewards the weak behaviour. Rallies are full of hired praise singers who switch sides easily. Tender processes favour those who know how to please. This keeps corruption alive because no one wants to challenge the man with power. It holds the country back. Young boys watching this learn bad lessons: "To succeed, bend your back."

​I really do not like it because it. I think a man should stand tall on his own. Money and power should not control his emotions, twist his thinking, or change his actions. We need to call it out more in politics, business, churches, and homes. Laugh at the funny parts, yes but grown men should not be fighting for selfies. I write this with deep sadness.

​Almost all our love stories in this city follow an identical, beautifully flowing and highly predictable script. You know how it goes. The "meeting a person" phase, the obsession phase where you can't sleep, the romantic phase with dates at Alchemist or Java or a normal restaurant, the "starting to act weird" phase, the ghosting, the breakup, the “men are dogs” or “fear women” phase, the inevitable return to our exes for "closure," the secondary heartbreak, and the false moving-on phase. Finally, you meet another person who seems completely different, but turns out to be a replica of your ex in Phase One. You use them to get over the last person, and the wheel keeps spinning. It’s another vicious cycle that isn't interesting at all.

​The older I get, the more I realize some people don’t actually break our hearts. They simply return them to us in a much worse condition than they found them.

When I talk about a Kenyan relationship, this is exactly what I mean. The kind where a girl will borrow your hoodie, your iPhone charger, your Netflix password, your mental health, and your emotional stability, and somehow still ask, "So, what are we?" while literally wearing your socks.

It’s the kind of relationship where a man will tell you he’s "not ready for a commitment" at 9:00 a.m., but by 3:00 p.m. he’s posting another girl on his WhatsApp status with a single "❤️" emoji. Love these days is less of a feeling and more of a contact sport. And yet, we keep showing up to the stadium because deep down, underneath all the screenshots, the ghosting, and the "I need time to heal" speeches delivered by people who are actively causing the trauma, we are all looking for the same thing. Company. No one wants to be alone.

​At least, that is what I thought when I met my ex. Jokes on me.

​I met this Luo shawty during one of those classic Nairobi phases where everyone is simultaneously broke and romantic. In campus, of course. The economy was in shambles, our hearts were too, and we couldn't judge each other's financial situation because we were both surviving on Kibandaski food and prayers. Like we were still comrades. We both had dreams. Huge, cinematic dreams. Deep down, I knew it was a wrong call and that we shouldn’t have forced it. But let me tell you, the odds felt different. She came prepared and she was willing to risk it all.

​Of course, the first major red flag was that we were in the same class. That is easily the most reckless thing I have ever done. I had seen how those types of campus relationships ended up. Sitting across from your ex during a three-hour CAT exam is a psychological thriller. Nonetheless, I walked right into the trap. You see, I had my own visions of how my campus love story was supposed to go. Long before I joined university, I heard rumors that there were sweet, older, mature women on campus who preferred young love. That was my objective all along. Not because of money, but because I craved someone mature. A sex god who wouldn't give me vanilla intimacy, someone who was busy with her own life so I wouldn't have to commit too heavily. So when I met this shawty, I knew I was drifting completely away from my original plan.

​I had never been a victim of heartbreaks before this. I’ve always been "woke" enough to spot a red flag, pack my bags, and move on. But nobody tells you that there are red flags you will never see coming. Nobody tells you that some people enter relationships with strict, hidden objectives. Not everyone is there for love. Some are there to heal their past traumas using you as medicine. Some are there to dim your light. One day you are glowing, and three months later you look like an 80-year-old granny. Some are just lonely, some are new to the game and just want to explore, and some are just sharpening their hunting skills on you. It is highly important to understand exactly who you are sharing a bed with. Ever since that relationship, I have made it my business to ask myself one cold question whenever I meet someone new.

“What does she actually want from me?” Just to make sure I haven’t opened my doors to another unhealed individual.

​

My ex had her issues, but the problem was she never acknowledged them. I have my own baggage too, but I make it a point not to make my trauma my partner's problem. I deal with my demons alone; I don't drown my partner in them or make them look pathetic for wanting peace. But here is the thing nobody tells you about manipulation.

It doesn’t always arrive looking evil. Sometimes it arrives looking wounded. It arrives with soft eyes and a trembling voice. Sometimes it calls you "babe." Sometimes it tells you horrific stories about childhood trauma until you start feeling guilty for simply asking for basic human decency. I had to learn this the hardest way.

​I never demanded anything crazy. I just wanted love. Instead, she mastered the art of strategic suffering. Every single time I tried to pack my bags and leave, a brand-new tragedy mysteriously materialized. A depressive episode, a financial crisis, a spiritual attack. At some point, even God was probably looking down from heaven like, "Hata mimi sijui huyu anapitia nini exactly." And because I loved her, I stayed. Because love can be incredibly stupid. Not weak. Not blind. Just aggressively stupid. It's the kind of stupid that sees red flags and starts decorating them like Christmas lights, the kind of stupid that hears "I’m not good for you" and responds, "Why would you say that? I can fix you," and the kind of stupid that mistakes potential for reality.

​Looking back after spending a lot of time and energy on my healing, I can confidently say that this shawty wasn't dating me. She was dating the guy I could become. She had an imaginary vision of my future self that amused her. And that is the most dangerous relationship of all, because potential never wakes up. Potential never changes. Potential never sends flowers or pays rent. I was just a comrade trying to survive HELB delays, completely unaware of what her grand vision for me was. Potential is basically an imaginary boyfriend with excellent PR, while reality is sitting right there on the couch, wearing a dusty Manchester United jersey, asking for 100 bob airtime. But she held on because she thought suffering was proof of love. Movies taught us that, Afrosinema taught us that, and every heartbreak song ends with someone running through an airport in the rain to stop a flight.

​Nobody tells you that most real endings happen quietly. There is no background soundtrack, and there is no dramatic, tearful speech. Just a random Tuesday afternoon where your spirit finally gets tired. And that’s exactly what happened. Out of nowhere, she asked for "space"—right when my entire mind, heart, and energy were fully invested in the relationship. And honestly, that is the sentence that destroys people. Not that you were used, not that you were lied to, but the heavy realization that you genuinely loved someone who only loved what you provided: an emotional band-aid for their unhealed wounds.

​The pain that followed was biblical. It was the type of pain where even those emotional Njerae love songs start sounding sarcastic, where every WhatsApp status you see feels like a targeted attack, and where you just laugh out loud because crying requires too much physical energy. But here is the annoying, beautiful thing about heartbreak: it eventually tells the truth.

​And the truth is this: a happy ending was never supposed to come from them, or from whichever emotional criminal currently occupies your thoughts. A happy ending cannot be built on top of someone else's unfinished, chaotic story. That’s why so many of us are suffering. We are trying to become rescue missions. We are trying to save people who actually enjoy drowning. We are trying to heal people who love being broken because broken people receive unlimited sympathy and zero accountability. We are trying to love people into becoming someone else, and that’s not romance. That’s unpaid labor.

​The truth is, most manipulators aren't evil masterminds. They are survivors who learned early on that vulnerability attracts resources. They discovered that pain can be used as currency, and they weaponized their wounds because it worked. It’s sad, it’s tragic, but it is also not your responsibility. You can understand someone’s suffering without volunteering to become their life insurance policy.

​I eventually learned that months later, after enough tears, enough healing, and enough deleting and re-downloading WhatsApp. After enough stalking her Instagram while pretending I wasn't, and pretending to the boys that I was over it while clearly dying inside, I learned that closure is highly overrated. Peace is better.

​And maybe that is the real happy ending nobody talks about. It’s not about finding someone new, getting married, proving your ex wrong, or becoming "the one that got away." It is simply reaching a point where another person's confusion stops becoming your emergency. Maybe that’s it. Maybe the happy ending is becoming completely unavailable for manipulation. Maybe it's learning that being needed and being loved are two completely different things, and realizing that some people enter your life as expensive lessons disguised as soulmates. Or maybe... just maybe... we are all out here looking for happy endings because nobody warned us that adulthood mostly consists of plot twists.

​Still. Tomorrow morning, somebody in this city will text, "Good morning beautiful." Someone will reply within two seconds. Someone will ignore glaring red flags. Someone will believe impossible promises. Someone will send M-Pesa for rent. Someone will call it love. And the cycle will continue. Because despite everything... kwani aren’t we all just looking for a happy ending?

I remember staring at you for the rest of the class, non-stop. I even told Mannu, "You see that shawty... nitambag..." and I followed through to make it happen.I don't think he believed me. I didn’t have the energy to chase anyone at that moment, but you made me do it. We met again weirdly unexpectedly and in awkward circumstances. Chasing marks, and that’s when I got your number. From there, things just moved smoothly. I remember telling myself, "Damn... nimeangukia." Then, shit happened, and here we are. They say in relationships is the only place where shit rises to the top. I guess our love journey wasn't exceptional.

​I look at you right now and all I can say is you look hella "dusty," babe. And I don't mean it as an insult. Your glow is gone. That charm, that Grammy-worthy smile has faded away. It’s like you miss what we used to be. It’s like you’re just sitting there wondering how it would have been if you held on a little longer. And it’s not a bad thing to wonder; I also wonder sometimes. But I guess my glow is still on, because I’m still kicking it. I’m spending a lot on myself these days. From skin care to good food to plenty of action. Sex and the gym, to be precise. No attachments at all. I don’t have to do the most; I’m just being more honest nowadays. I go to the club, and after I’m done taking shots, I go home with whoever I want. I tell them, "It’s just for fun," and they understand. It has been easier roaming around with no commitments. Not that I can’t commit, but just because I’m still tied to you.

​And yes, I blocked you. I can see your silenced calls through my Truecaller. I would love to see the expression on your face when you try to call. Your WhatsApp messages can't go through because I blocked you there too. And the new number that you used the other day to call, Imma block it too. I know you want to buy SMS bundles to text me, but I know your ego won't let you look pathetic. You want to call me in the middle of the night, ask how I'm doing, and listen to me crack that one 10-out-of-10 joke that you used to love—and still love—but it’s not possible. You miss the hangouts, but I'm busy. Dave showed me your status the other day, and your Instagram story too. I can see the people you are hanging out with.

At this point, I might be forced to heal. Because if that is my replacement, then I pity them; they really don't know your type. You'll be over them in minutes because you know I am, and always will be, your type. No one else. You love my eyes. And you wished your children someday to have them. You told me so. You love my hairline and I wonder what you are doing with Martin. We definitely look different yawaaa. You love my arms, just how am built. There is no way you are entertaining that skinny nigga. Was it all a lie or suddenly to hate these six packs? Do these people even know your middle name? Do they know your favorite spot in the CBD? Do they know you love girls with a big ass? They surely don't know.

I'm not stalking you, I swear to God. But I see you, and frankly, you are not doing good.

​A part of me—that petty, toxic part—wants to text you and tell you how sorry I feel for you. But my stoic side already won. I can't unblock you. Reason being, you brought this on yourself. You traded a Michelin-star lover for a late-night drive-through type of relationship. You wanted freedom, right? Well, the Nairobi streets are out here showing you no mercy. The streets have adopted you, and they aren't even paying you child support. I see you on Mondays and you look completely exhausted. It must be the hangover from the hangouts you actually hate, or the migraines taking turns. We were good together, just like a movie. Our hangouts went from "I want to see you for a few minutes" to hours of long conversations and laughter. Tell me you don't miss it. Do you remember that rainy Tuesday when the city gridlocked? We abandoned that Nganya during absolute chaos hour just to walk down Tom Mboya Street without an umbrella. We were soaked, smelling like exhaust fumes and cheap perfume, laughing so hard our stomachs hurt. Laughing at everything and everyone. Aki mapenzi wewe.

​I loved you with a force that terrified me. I gave you the kind of love that doesn’t have a safety net. I knew your triggers and your hidden fears. I knew the exact pitch of your voice when you were genuinely happy versus when you were just putting on a performance for the city. That’s why I can tell you are faking it now. It’s not that I’m stalking you. And then you took all that data, all that intimacy, and you used it as a weapon. I didn't leave because of who I was with you. Its because of the fear of what I would become without you.

Now I'm here bleeding, and other shawties are paying for your sins. I'm so angry at you for making me question my sanity. For making me this cold and heartless. I know you weren't used to genuine connection. You were deep into toxic people that made you believe you deserved less love and more hurt. But I saw you through different lens. And you know it. But I still love you—from a distance, though. No revenge.

Sometimes you just hope it finally hits them how genuine you were. Because for real, I wasn't doing too much. I wasn't playing games. I wasn't acting weird or being inconsistent. I was just solid.

​I was texting you back, showing up even when I couldn't, and pausing my world just for yours to evolve. And you treated it like it was regular, like you were going to find it everywhere. And that’s crazy. People don’t realize something real when it's right in front of them; they only realize it when they have to deal with the exact opposite. So now, maybe you are talking to people who take forever to reply. People who don’t actually care. People who move and act funny because they know you like the sound of it. But you see, by the time you start comparing them to me, I will already be gone. And you'll be like, “Dang...” because it’s hard to prove you are genuine to someone who has already experienced the real thing. I wish they loved you real. I would have been easier with use. I wouldn't have to stopple this low. I don’t need revenge because life is going to do what it does. Karma. When it finally clicks for you, remember I was already like that from the start. You just didn’t appreciate it.

​In Nairobi, you don’t even have to commit a crime to get blacklisted. You don’t have to cheat, you don’t have to insult their mother and most definitely you don’t have to leak the most personal chats. Sometimes, just waking up, breathing the dusty Nairobi air, and existing is a threat to "national security."

​And let’s keep it a buck about what "national security" means on these streets. it’s the fragile peace of a relationship built entirely on vibes, lies and a shared love for constant, unnecessary hangouts in CBD, Westy, or Kilimani that no one talks about.

​But please, whatever you do, do not confuse those endless plot-hunting plans with a genuine connection. People out here are playing games. Like, real, Olympic-level games. Nobody actually cares about how you are feeling in whatsoever way. Everyone is out for themselves, surviving on pure adrenaline and selfishness.

​So don't act surprised when you finally open your eyes and realize you are not the only person they are seeing, or rather in constant communication with, or rather hanging out with until late into the night. In fact, brace yourself, because you might even come to realize that in their entire "option roster," you are actually the one who has been allocated the absolute least amount of time.

​But hakuna kulia. There is no crying in Nairobi. It’s just the raw, unadulterated truth of the city.

​People have strict schedules and color-coded calendars running from Monday to Sunday. They will sleep on Sunday night, call it a night, and sweetly bid you good night. You will stare at your phone, smile like a fool, and genuinely think you run the show. Then you’ll format a text asking if you can hang out sometime soon, and they will gladly, softly tell you to your face: "We shall see."

​Ole wako if you get that response. Rejection in this city doesn't come any softer, more soothing, or more dangerous than that, yet you will just lay there and reply, "Okay love."

​If only you knew. Because in your wildest dreams, you’ll never realize that tomorrow, Monday, they are already seeing Morgan. And on Tuesday, Simuyu has been officially scheduled to take the lead the whole afternoon. On Wednesday, there is a Martin somewhere eagerly waiting in the shadows because he was already told they’ll see each other jioni since mchana is tricky. On Thursday, Ndung'u also wants a piece of the cake and has carved out his slot. On Friday? You already know that’s a girls' night out with akina Shaz and Naomi or at least, that's what the WhatsApp status will say.

​Saturday and Sunday is where things get genuinely interesting. Since Saturday is such a crucial day that draws too much attention, trust me, they will give you a huge chunk of it just to keep you quiet before you start questioning anything. On Sato, you will meet as early as 1 o'clock and hang out until 9:00 PM. No pressure, bro. You are getting the premium daytime package.

​The vibes are flowing, the drinks are hitting, and you’ll naturally want to take her home with you. Alafu, right on cue, this is where you’ll be hit with that classic, undefeated Nairobi line: "Babe, kesho nafua." Or worse, "My cousin is coming over unexpectedly."

​I hope you are still breathing up to this point.

​Because you have spent an entire eight hours together on Saturday, your brain will justify it. You’ll comply, smile, and say, "Cool, I'll call you ukimaliza kufua." And because you still don't know how things truly go on these streets, you’ll foolishly add, "See you on Monday."

​On Sunday, she might actually be saying the truth about doing laundry, or she might just be messing with your head because she has simply had enough of you the entire Saturday, and enough of the akina Simuyu the entire week. Sunday is for recovery before the calendar resets.

​And that is exactly why you get blocked, unblocked, and hidden. You are a puzzle piece in a massive, chaotic game of relationship Tetris. You are blocked so that when Morgan takes her out on Monday, or when Simuyu drives her to Westlands on Tuesday, your frantic "Hey beautiful, hope your day is going well" text doesn't pop up on the dashboard of a Mazda Demio and disrupt the "national security."

​You are being managed. Your time is being rationed. And the moment you start demanding more than your allocated Saturday afternoon slot, the system logs you out. You are blocked for the peace and stability of a multi-layered empire built on vibes and lies.

​Welcome to Nairobi. Fix your character, watch the single ticks, and remember: it's never you running the show. it’s just your slot.

I have loved, experimented, been genuine, and moved with the flow. And after everything, all I can say is Nairobi is a completely different battlefield. Only the woke survive. At this point, it’s better they call you nonchalant, emotionally detached, or a narcissist. Provided you protect your peace, you are winning.

​People out here are playing heavy ego games, selecting and dropping options as if they are at a kibandaski kwa mathe picking the best avocado or nyanya. They squeeze you to test if you're ripe, and if you don't fit the exact vibe for that hour, they drop you back into the pile.

​It doesn't even matter whether you are genuine or not. In this city, even those people you and your friends joked about. The ones where you said, "Ebu tukapee ka chance tuone juu kameinsist sana" Will definitely show you dust the first chance they get. Let that sink in. The pity date will end up giving you the wildest character development of your life.

​I’ll be real, I have my own interesting story to share about this. I’ll give you the tea next time, just don't judge me. Nilikuwa nimebackslide kiasi, but I am completely past it right now.

​I know people go through some heavy, chaotic stuff in their personal lives, to the point where they lose the ability to balance all these different plates they are spinning. But that will never justify them being cold towards you. It doesn’t justify them resenting you, only to apologize later and come back pretending they have magically healed and will do better. Naaah. It doesn’t always have to follow that toxic script. Not at all.

​You need to look at yourself in the mirror and declare that you will never accept any breadcrumbs of love from anyone. It’s either they give you 100 percent, or they walk away to exactly where they had chosen to stay.

​Because trust me, they always try to come back. It is a calculated pattern. Ole wako if you take them back. Be warned: they don’t come back because they have healed or realized your worth. No. They come back because things didn’t work out with akina Morgan, and they know you still have a soft spot for them. They think they still hold all the keys to your heart.

​They are coming back to use you as an emotional healing pad while they nurse their wounds from the streets.

​When this happens, it is highly advisable to either block them or friendzone them immediately. For me, friendzoning has always been the ultimate weapon against these types. Since I find it hard to create enemies, I will just sit there, listen, nod, and laugh at their jokes. But at the back of my mind, I will never forget the part where I wasn't the main guy, and I will never be the main guy in that situation.

​And honestly? That is perfectly okay with me. I will willingly stare and hang out with you on a casual Tuesday, but at the very same time, I have a proper date scheduled at Westgate Mall Century Cinemas with my new catch, watching Reminders of Him that just premiered the other day.

​It is a tough pill to swallow, I know. But if you have the strength to BLOCK them, kindly do not hesitate. Do it quickly. They will only bring you more harm than good. Nothing green ever grows from that soil. Just saying.

In all the years I have been graced to stay on this green earth, I have reached a point where I have dearly chosen to embrace and accept the quiet truths of our existence. There are things that used to fill my heart with a restless kind of hope, and milestones I was certain would come to pass by now, yet time has taught me a different rhythm. Being Kenyan is a truly amazing experience, largely because our language and our specific choice of words carry a weight that portrays so much more than what is actually said. If you look at our conversations on a surface level, my friend, let me warn you. “Utapotea”. You will indeed get lost in the translation.

It is always so much deeper than what hits your ears. It is more of a cultural dance of subtext, hidden meanings and the polite art of the “Maybe” that actually means “Never”.

Here in Kenya, people don't just speak. They code. We often use words to soften the blow of reality, creating a social buffer that keeps everyone’s dignity intact while simultaneously crushing their expectations. The worst thing is when you get to learn it the hard way. “Utalia”

“Nitaona…”

“Tutaongea..”

“Niko hapa tu, nishafika …”

“Nitakushtua …”

“Nishatoka hata …”

We all have that one person in our lives. The Nitaona specialist. In fact, if you look closely at your inner circle, or even in the mirror, you’ll find someone who has turned these subtle responses into a high art form. And let’s be clear, it isn’t a character flaw.

It isn’t "bad" or malicious. It is simply the soul of being Kenyan.

But here is the dark side of our linguistic gymnastics. The part we rarely admit while we’re laughing about it. “Nitaona” is a ghost that leaves people stranded. It is a hollow promise that keeps someone standing in the rain of their own expectations, waiting for a "fix" or a helping hand that is never coming.

For those of us navigating the fragile waters of love, it is the ultimate, silent rejection. A polite way of being pushed to the periphery of someone’s life. You reach out because you want to connect. Grab a bite and share a laugh. To see the curve of their smile in person and lose yourself in the familiar scent of their skin. You crave that intimacy, but instead, you are met with the cold, impenetrable wall of “Tutaona..” before you live up to your fantasy.

It is a cruel way to be locked outside. It’s an invitation that never arrives and a vibe-killer that turns a warm hope into a shivering uncertainty. We often use it to avoid a moment of awkwardness, but in doing so, we leave the people who care about us most wandering in a desert of "maybe," searching for a destination that doesn't even exist on the map.

Then now we have the masters of the "Tutaongea" exit strategy. The culprits who suddenly find themselves in a desperate hurry to nowhere. It’s a classic Kenyan performance. The moment the conversation demands a bit too much depth or time, they pull the "Ninangojewa mahali" or "Nakimbia mahali" card as if the world might end if they aren’t at that mysterious destination in the next thirty seconds.

It is a polite mask for exhaustion, a subtle signal that they’ve hit their limit with your stories and are looking for the nearest fire escape. Make no mistake my friend. When you hear that, it’s often the funeral of that interaction. The last time your words will find a home in their ears. It’s a sad reality, man, but it’s a wake-up call to read the room. Instead of being the victim of a fading dial tone, you learn to sharpen your edge and shorten your story. You save your breath and your time, realizing that in the high-stakes game of Kenyan social cues. If you don't cut it short yourself, they’ll use a "Tutaongea" to cut you off entirely.

Then we have my Boyz. The high priests of the "Niko hapa karibu" and "Nishatoka hata" gospel. Every time those words hit my screen, my spirit just sinks to my knees.

It is the ultimate Kenyan anthem of time-bending fiction. When someone tells you they are “Niko almost kufika”,you can bet your last coin that their journey has only just begun. And as for “nishatoka hata” That is the international code for someone who is currently stepping into the shower or just starting to look for their socks.

We will plan to meet at 12:00 PM, and like clockwork, the one person who actually showed up at noon before everyone starts the frantic phone calls. That’s when these phrases are deployed like tactical missiles.

Everyone knows the script and everyone knows exactly when to lie. It’s a tough reality to swallow, but these days, I’m past the frustration. I’ve learned to read the room and decode the frequency. I no longer check my watch. I check the subtext. In this city, you have to realize that time isn't a fixed point on a clock. it’s a flexible suggestion wrapped in a polite, white lie to keep the peace while you’re still at home boiling tea.

But as the years pass, I have finally reached a place of “ No hard feelings”.

I have come to realize that life in Kenya is a heavy load to carry, and for many, time and priorities are a luxury we are all struggling to balance. We are a nation in the middle of a storm. From the heat of political stands like “Kasongo must go” or if you must say “wantam”. The “Tuko kadi” initiative or registering as voters. To the heartbreaking urgency of protecting our women and children from this "primitive" culture of senseless murders that stains our soil. There is simply so much to do. So much to survive.

LETS PROTECT OUR WOMEN AND CHILDREN WHO ARE THE PILLAR OF OUR SOCIETY.

All in all, if you find yourself becoming a culprit of these phrases. Perhaps it’s time to improvise. Just to ensure you don’t leave a wound on someone’s heart. Instead of the hollow “Tutaona," try a more honest response, "I'm not sure, but let me see if I can make time for it.”

For the dismissal of "Tutaongea," soften the blow by saying, "Give me a couple of hours,I’ll text you the details." If you are still miles away, don't say you are around the corner. Just say, “Kuna traffic kiasi, but I’ll be there in a few." And for that moment you are still at home, replace “Nishatoka" with a bit of dignity. "Nilikuwa nimeshikana kiasi, but navaa viatu nitoke." It’s formal, it’s human, and it’s a way to honor the people we love without locking them outside in the cold. In a world this tough, a little bit of truth is the least we can give each other.

So, the next time someone tells you "Nitaona," don't get mad. Don't set a reminder on your phone. Just nod, smile, and appreciate the craftsmanship of the Kenyan spirit. You aren't being lied to; you are being handled with care.

I took time writing this piece. At least LIKE 👍 yawaaa….and subscribe

Have you ever found yourself clinging to a version of your life that you’ve actually already outgrown?

Not long ago ​I had to face a version of myself that I almost lost because I was too afraid to let go of a person who was, in my mind, my “everything”. Something that I have come to realise is that we can't outgrow people that we actually loved. I know you wanna say it's a lie. But deep down you know what am talking about. You will say “am over it” but the moment you two meet again, that's when you realise love is not a feeling or emotion that can be tamed, locekd or hidden away. It is just as simple as that.

Uni is supposed to be fun. Thats what most of us thought. It is, i can't dispute that fact. But I just wish I can say the same. Not that am sad or broken but just because there are things that nobody prepares you for. Key thing being that there are connections that you will one day have to walk away from and trust me you will never be the same again. I wish someone would fill me in on this before I made any connection. Right now, am speaking from a subtle place of a connection that was and is still is inclined in me. And it might not be fading anytime soon.

I will tell you this. You will meet a person whom for months you two will be inseparable. You will feed each other all the possible fantasies that your minds can come up with. Nothing and no one else will make sense in your eyes except you two. The world will only revolve around the two of you. It isn't bad at all. All I can say is, just pray that day never comes. If it already did, you are here for a long familiar ride dude. And at least you know very well what am talking about.

You will meet a person whom you two have that rare kind of shorthand vibe. That kind of vibe where the inside jokes you two make no one else understands. A person whom your shared history will feel like a safety net at first. But eventually, that net starts to feel more like a cage for one of you. That one person gets suffocated in it and eventually taps put and asks for space. Trust me you will. And you will give them the space. Because you care about them. They won't care how you feel when you give them that space. How you are doing emotionally. Physically. They just won't care. And that's the saddest truth.

From my end, I can’t quite point out the moment our dynamic shifted. All I know is that, suddenly, just being myself felt like an insult to them. I had “changed” according to them. In a bad way though. They couldn't see that I was now happier. Just adding weight and smiling throughout. They only saw what I wasn't doing. What I hadn't improved. Like from a three star date to a five star one.

No one told me what I did wrong. You see, when both of you are new to this, you remember what you promise each other. Communication. Always. Let me be honest with you. Communication only works when the two of you are vibrant and obsessed with each other at first. You will be both in for a fight on who will send the first text. Not because you are quiet but because everyone wants to know how the other is doing. You will want to know how their night is or was and they will beat you to it. All you see will be “Adhiambo typi…….” That green blinking light on your WhatsApp. It actually the best part of any relationship. When you are both extremely obsessed with each other. At that point, there is no room for ego games. Not a chance.

For most people you might know when or where you went wrong. I will give you a glimpse of my finding for instance where I think I went wrong. I think I went MIA when I was needed the most. Am a sucker for events. Be it weddings, birthdays or even funerals.I make sure I make that known to anyone am seeing. I guess this time round maybe I forgot. Or she just said that to take advantage of my poor memory. I was supposed to reciprocate something that was done for me but I didn't. Not that I didn't want to but I feel on my side I wasn't given the chance to show them what I got. I wanted so badly to reach out but there was a narrow room for that. In short, I couldn't socially connect with them as I am used to. A text wasn't enough coz apparently I was blocked on social media and stuff. Reason being, my social presence doesn't do them any good. Am a sucker for phone calls and I guess that messed me up big time.

That might be it. When I tried to say that, you know what, I was told a phone call would have been better. They weren't completely wrong. Right now am writing while deep down am burdened by a debt that I owe. Not that I can't repay or I dont want to but just because I lack the words to tell them how I had planned it to be. But still I know they won't believe me. That is but my view of the story. There might be other sides of the story I just don’t know. Maybe another suitor was doing better than me at the moment. Or my presense wasn't allowed that day. Any of that might be true but thats not the point. And that might not suprise me at all. It happened once, it might have happened again.

You will meet a person whom you are good visa vee. One on one, you are the best people to be around each other. You just bring out the best in each other without a try. Naturally. No doubt. Everyone will tell you that you two look good together. That you two compliment each other and that you are the perfect pieces to complete the puzzle. They won't be wrong. You can believe them if you must. But what I must tell you is that in the online spaces. Hell naah. It's a different narrative. Every time you share a moment, especially in online spaces, It will be met with a sarcastic jab.

And every time you tried to set a boundary to protect your peace, you will be labeled as “difficult” or less of a man or woman because you don't argue or something. People are fond of people that argue most of the time when things gets a little pressing.I don't why people despise people when they are too cam in tense situations. I still don't understand. As early as now, learn to do that so that you may not be like me. A little argument I mean. I found myself shrinking just to keep some people comfortable. Especially those that dwell in chaos.

​It was a confusing cycle. I would leave our physical hangouts feeling alive because those were the best parts of us. But the moment we moved to digital spaces, everything becomes heavy, draining, and strangely lonely. I was with someone but alone at the same time. That is extremely dangerous because you might sought to find peace elsewhere. Things that I learnt the hard way.I was eating well and sleeping enough, but I was still exhausted. And I finally realized why. I was carrying the weight of a connection that was already dying.

The hardest thing I ever did wasn't starting a fight, it was simply choosing to stop reaching out. Not because I wanted. No. But because that was the standard that was set. No online interactions. Physical interactions and meet ups will be filled with busy schedules. What a cruel way to lock someone outside. When you first meet, they will drop any activity just to spend the time with you. “Am Busy” wont be a word you will be using in the first weeks. But after months, just get used to that phrase.

You will become the enemy of the only person that your heart feels closest to you. You will no longer be welcomed in certain spaces. Not because you are inadequate but because you are “acting like the other people” and that your presence no longer brings peace. And its okay. You will have to live with that no matter how painful it is. You will be another stranger.

For me there was no big blowout. It was just a quiet decision to stop pouring energy into a cup that was already cracked. Honestly, it isnt an easy journey. At first, it felt like grief. But I learned that your wellness is not a solo project. The people you keep closest are the soil for your growth. If that soil is sour, you will wilt. So try anything possible to detach before its too late for you like it was for me.

Growth is often loud and uncomfortable. But you'll realize that you would rather be alone and at peace than surrounded by people who require you to be a smaller version of yourself. Today, I am more "well" than I’ve ever been. Not because my circle is bigger, but because I no longer sacrifice my inner peace just to keep others full. The love is still there and I still love them to the core thats fact. And they know that.

So before you say “I LOVE YOU” in Nairobi, make sure you have the emotional bandwidth to endure this period when the connection stands to fade. If you can't stomach this, Just stay away from relationships at all costs. It isn't a competition and you will be just okay alone. Everything you can get from a relationship its our there without any emotional entanglement.

Treat me gentle. Even when I act strong. I have been holding it together, for way too long. You dont know my fight. I have been carrying this weight, everyday every night. Men need love too. Not just strength all the time. Don't confuse “Independence” with “Am always fine.” sometimes we need peace. We just need to rest. We all got battles. We dont always show. A little kindness, goes further than you know.

Treat me gentle. Sometinesou dont see it all. Coz am still standing tall. Even when I fall. Be easy on me. Be easy on you. We are all just trying to make it through. No need to harden. Every little thing. A little love can heal everything. Treat me gently. Thats all am asking. A little softness, dont mean am lacking. We all got scars but we still shining. Just the way we are.

Enough with all the venting now. Why do you have sex? Have you ever reached a point that you had to ask yourself this question? Why do we even do it? Is it to feel powerful, or just to feel like you fit in? Is it just a way to kill time or a debt you feel you have to pay with the current pressure and trends? Whatever the reason is for you, my "why" is completely different.

To be honest, the whole idea doesn't really move me. I’m not bored, I’m just... indifferent. It’s "whatever" to me. But don’t get it twisted. Just because I’m not obsessed doesn't mean I’ll be lazy. Aiyaaa. I won't give you a weak effort. If I’m in it, I’m giving you my best.

​I don't have the ego about it, but the feedback tells the story. No complaints so far. At least. I’ll show up, I’ll perform, and I’ll excel even if my heart isn't chasing the thrill.

Deciding to lay with you isn't a split-second choice. Man, I’ve put in the work. I’ve run the numbers. I definitely did a background check on how you move and how you roll. But mostly, I looked at your exes just to see the bar they set. I’m not trying to be the "nice guy" who saves you. I know quite well that “nice guys” finish last. I have see the patterns and I definitely know. I dont wanna be a volunteer victim. I don't want to hear you asking, "Where have you been all my life?" Because I know where that comes from. It comes from a place of trauma.From you comparing me to the ghosts of people who failed you before.

If your history is full of pathetic men, I’m probably out. Unless you were just a name on a list I needed to check off. That now I can make an exception. I have no business competing in a league that's beneath me. Not that am better. No. It's just i just know that in more than one way I cannot handle you in whatsoever way.

All the time I get to look at my track record, every woman I’ve left or that left me ended up with someone who was a step down in every way. Way different that me. Like the complete opposite. I dotn know if they just do it intentional as a was to that Is that is disrespectful to me? I honestly wonder. But before I step in, I need to know the level because if the standard is low, I’m not navigating that path.

Your better halfs probably dont tell you this. But imma give it to you for free.

Living as the "strong man" in Nairobi is a 24-hour shift with no extra pay. Sometimes, the bedroom is the only place to hide from the truth. That your wallet and your sanity are both in critical condition. You’re there delivering a world-class performance, muscles tense and sweat pouring, playing the part of a king because that’s what everyone expects. But behind your eyes, you’re actually running the numbers. Checking if your investment interest can cover the your bills or wondering why somethingdidn'tgo as planned. It’s a crazy contradiction. Making sure she’s satisfied while you’re completely empty, questioning if your plan for freedom is actually just a fast track to a breakdown.It’s a wild paradox. Making sure she hits her peak while you’re at your absolute lowest.

The real tea is that for many guys here, sex isn't even about the fun. it’s just another "unit" to pass or a deadline to meet so people don't start asking if you're okay. You show up, do your homework on her past guys to make sure you’re the best she’s ever had, and deliver a perfect session just to keep your reputation alive. But the moment the lights go out and she’s fast asleep, you’re back to staring at the ceiling, feeling that heavy weight on your shoulders again. You’re the hero in the bedroom, but you feel like a ghost in your own mind, wondering why you’re giving your best energy to someone who has no clue about the dark places your head has been lately.

It’s that "Bending her over while my mind is breaking" vibe. it’s raw, it’s real, and it’s a dangerous game to play. You become such a pro at acting that even intimacy has become a math problem. You scan her past lovers just to make sure they don't compare, because if you’re down to your last 2% of energy, you need to feel like the GOAT just to make it worth it. You give her the performance of a lifetime because the ego in you is terrified of coming in second, even when your soul is begging for a break that sleep won't solve. It’s a heavy burden. Looking like a star to the world while your inner world is quietly falling apart.

Am a huge fan of YOU the American series. Not because of most of the attributes that the characters bring, but because of how REAL the characters are curated. It's the perfect depiction of us. You and me. Except the killing part of course. That's just another Jeffrey Dahmer chronicles camouflaged in love or something.

At this point I feel like people are always happier when they don't lie to themselves. Most of the heartbreaks we face are simply our own fault. We see things just the way they are but we often choose to believe what we wanna believe. We know it can't work but we force it. We know it isn't the way to go but we follow the same path blindly. We know they aren't meant for us or we aren't meant for them but still, we still choose to stay. But why? Why do we always clinge to the things that don't serve us. Things that only drain us? I also don't know.

I have come to realize that authenticity in this weird-ass generation scares the shit out of people. We want real people. Like people who are intentional with us. With how we feel and who actually cares. We despice nonchalancy which I second but fisty fifty. But in the real sense, most of us are scared. It's I don't know if I should say most of us weren't loved the right way or something. Or it's the constant habit of jumping from one relationship to the other that we forget how to be fully invested and committed in one relationship that got us this fucked up. We are just more of an heartbroken generation that find pleasure in hurting others and being bare minimum. Both the gents and the ladies.

It's really hard to find people who are purely intentional with each other. It either one person is interested nad the other just tugging along or both of them are just fooling each other. You definitely know what I mean. The good people often get the bad ones. It's just like the physics law of attraction happening in real time. Positive always attracted to the negative. Unlike poles. The “red flags” people are too keen that they actually know each other in a manner that they often avoid each other. It's like looking at themselves in the mirror. And all they see it's a reflection of themselves. The good sould now are the funniest. They are always attracted to these people that seem cool and stuff. Just the wrong ones. I don't know if its naivety or just the order of things.

I really wanna learn how to be honest with myself and others. Others mostly. I want to be able to say “No” or “It can't be” when I should without fear of being judged. Just to save us this godamnn mess. I just wanna be “pure” and noble. I dont wanna justify any of my bullshits.

I wanna love the shit out of someone. But in a way that sounds and feels like forever. Not in small bits that leaves me in wounds. No. The kind of love that feels unreal. That kind of Joe Goldberg obsession kind of love. I know. Before you say anything. Lemme say this. I'm not planing to kill someone and justify it out of love. I want to be obsessed with someone so bad that my world only revolves around them. How i move and roll, just inspired and orchesrated by them. Just unconditional type of love. You know what I mean.

The aftermath of these casual relationship is dire. They hurt more than anything we ever experienced. It's because these connections are short but deeply emotional engraved and invested. It's like a time bomb when things don't work out. You know why. I find that there are no patterns to justify why at the end of the day it didn’t work out. The energy, openness, obsession that is entailed in these relationships is too much. It makes “Forever” sound possible. And when these “Forever” becomes a short contract, Oh God. Things get messy as fuck.

All the love now becomes anger. And what you once found attractive in each other now becomes sinful. You just fucking hate each other's guts. Like the way the love grows to hate before some of us gets the courage to say “Okaay”, the drama might have escalated to even gotten to the friends circle. It now becomes weird to even talk to their pals or something. This is why am afraid of this cuffing thing. What if it doesn't work out? Just saying. It's makes everything that comes after that even harder and dark.

At some point I feel like our parents were better. Arranged marriage would have saved me alot of trouble. Though I find it patriarchal and maybe thats a story for another day.

In the future though, I would love to have someone that has “ME” written all over them. Obsessed till the end of time. If not, then am good just alone. I hate the fact that I have left too many small parts of me with many people. If I continue this way, I will have nothing left to give. Not only to give but also to hold on to. I don't wanna be another empty shell of a person that has nothing positive to give this world. That is hella sad.

I don't wanna create new relationships just to break them eventually. No. These labels are so hurtful in the end. We love to break up and mostly end up enemies. And everyone is normalising it. Just think of it. The number of people that don't talk to their exes. It huge. Every single person having like six exes and ends up never talking. Thats enemity right, left and center. Just negative energy everywhere. That isn't cool at all. We shun people who are authentic and show a slight sign of being normal and in love. It's like a sin. Everyone is like, “If you show desperation, you are DONE.” And normalising saying that is the sadest part that I cannot live with. It's disgusting.

In love there will always be desperation. It's impossible to say that you love someone if you are not desperately in need of them. Craving their presense. Affection. Smell. All at once. Just think of it. It doesn't mean that you are less of a person when you show that you love someone. It's just cute and healthy and actually the purest kind of energy to possess. Just love love and love.

At this point its either you commit or just reduce the lust. It does no one good to lie to each other and end up enemies. Being there like “there there” is a radical concession. Straight from the heart. Just Do Better. Yeah YOU.

Connections have always come easy to me. There is a part of me thats always knows how to click with others.Call it intuition or a silver tongue, but making connections,money, social or romantic relationships has never been a struggle.It’s a gift I can’t shake off, and frankly, it’s the engine behind my ambition.It’s just who I am, and it's the tool I'm using to build a better life than the one I inherited.

I am a living map of two very different people.From my mother, I inherited the traits I treasure most. Her bravery, her sharp mind and her quiet strength.She is the blueprint for everything I admire.But then there’s the other side. The pieces of my father that I can’t seem to shake.There’s one trait in particular that feels less like a gift and more like a curse.It’s the one part of my DNA I wish I could rewrite, the single thread of 'him' in a cloth I’m trying to weave entirely from 'her’.

It is the trait of multiple women. Not cheating. Don't get it twisted. I am a loyal motherfucker. It's a trait we both share. And it pains me to say this.I see right through my father’s life. He carries the weight of two families. And while he pretends to be strong, I can see the cracks.I can spot his fake smiles from miles away. They are the smiles of a man who is bone-tired and emotionally drained. He thinks he’s hiding the cost of his choices, but he’s doing a poor job of it.

My biggest fear isn't just having his blood. it’s inheriting that same exhaustion, it's that same need for “more” that leaves you with “less” of yourself.

​Now back to me. At this point I can say that I don't love who I’m becoming . I'll be 24 in a couple of weeks. Am also an athlete and full of big dreams. I’m not 'broke broke'. I can take care of myself but I’m hungry for a life that is beyond imaginable. Some people see me as charming while others can say am kinda laid back. This is because I don't like arguing. I tend to run away from situations of that sort. I shun bad energy and choose to be a happy, free soul. This is how I connect with the world.

My romantic history is long and complicated. With over ten exes, most are still on great terms with me because I refuse to leave a trail of bad energy. People might judge the number of exes I have, but they don't see the peace I leave behind. I don't give people a reason to hate me. I find a way to end things in peace. It’s funny because I used to be so shy and choosy. I make sure everyone leaves satisfied. Not like satisfied satisfied but just okay. I’ve reached a point where sex is no longer the prize I’m chasing. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. I’m hunting for qualities that go deeper than the surface. Thats how serious it is. It’s a far cry from the shy dude I used to be, the one who was too afraid to talk to a 'shawty. And from one moment of “kujiaminia”, I bagged a woman way out of my leagueband that spark started a fire. The floodgates opened.

But now, I’m looking for the one who can actually keep up with the man I’ve become. Sex is easy to find. Especially with this generation of colliidind interest from Millennials and Gen Z's. Just be neutral and mature and you'll never be lonely. Just master the art of telling people what they wanna hear without being too obvious. But now real character is rare. I’m at a point where I’m looking for something much more serious than a physical thrill.

My past is no longer behind me though. It’s haunting my present. I’ve built a life where I’m never truly alone. It's either am dating or someone is in waiting but never single and that’s becoming my curse.When a shawty I care about gives me that kind of negative energy or says 'let’s break up.I don’t fight for her. I just say 'okay.” I dont know when to stay. Am too fast with moving on. And within less that 24 hours of her departure, someone new is lying next to me. A soul that was already waiting in the wings.By the time the first girl comes back to apologize, I’ve already crossed lines with two or three others. That's how I tend to heal. I’m caught in a high-speed cycle where I replace instead of repair. Every time there’s a crack in my current relationship, I fall back into the arms of the crowd.

My body count is spiraling. You will be shocked when I tell you where am at currently. Not because I’m searching for pleasure. Noooo. But because I don’t know how to sit in the silence of an argument. I never argue or try to solve. I run away like a coward. I’m starting to realize that having every door open means I never truly stay in any room.

And now, I see the 'fake smiles' of my father starting to form on my own face. I thought I was different, but here I am. Juggling souls like they are replaceable parts. I’ve outgrown the chase, yet I can’t stop the momentum. It's like my mind says “Why wait for a reconciliation when a new connection is only a text away?” It’s a rollercoaster that never stops and it’s draining me just like it drained him. And I have to ask myself.Am I just impatient or am I addicted to the escape? Or am I just repeating the same 'atrocities' I promised I would move beyond?

​I want to tell you how much of me will break when you finally walk away. But I’ve shattered your heart so many times that it feels selfish to even talk about my own pain.

​So, maybe you should just leave without saying a word.

​Don’t tell me it’s over. Let me live with the ghost of us, pretending we are still together even when we aren't. Maybe that lie is the only thing that will get me through the next few days. Maybe, if I can just hold onto that idea, I won't have to face how lonely "lonely" really feels.

Now I have lost you, and I don't even know what "home" is supposed to feel like anymore. The smile has vanished. The energy is dead. When I hear someone else laugh, it doesn't bring me joy. It makes me angry. I’m angry at them because they aren't you, and I’m angry at myself because I had one simple task. To keep you by my side.

​And I failed. I failed terribly.

​But what more could I have done? We had all the affection in the world, yet life kept throwing curveballs we couldn't catch. We were emotionally full, but financially, we were trapped at the bottom of a well. How was I supposed to salvage that?

​You told me it would get better. You said we should keep fighting, keep trying, keep pushing. But you never told me what happens when we finally reach our breaking point. You didn't mention what to do when a "better" option appears. When someone else can give you everything we dreamed of, and do it so much easier than I ever could.

​You left that part out. Why did you leave that part out?

But I think I finally get it now. It’s because you loved me and you always will. Right? You stayed silent because you didn’t want me to get hurt while everything was falling apart. You wanted to shield me from the reality of it all.

​Or maybe… I get it now because it just didn’t matter anymore.

​And so, here I am. Standing in the middle of this silence like an empty shell. I am furious, I am confused, and yet I am still so filled with love. It’s that heavy, painful kind of love. The kind that makes my heart skip a beat just at the sound of your name. It’s the kind of love that feels like a fever, and you are the only one who can calm it.

​Now, I’m caught in the "maybe." Should I text? Should I call? Should I come looking for you, or should I just sit here and wait for the world to stop spinning?

​All I know is that we belong together. I can’t wrap my head around spending another night alone, and I certainly don't see a version of the future where I move on from this.

I see the pattern now. I’ve started using my other spam account because my other accounts just aren't reaching you anymore. I refuse to believe I’m blocked. That wouldn't make sense, would it?

​I’ve been calling. Today, yesterday, and the day before that. Every time, it’s just a busy signal. I’m telling myself you’re just caught up, that I’m simply catching you at the wrong time. I’ll try again at 8:00 AM before you head out for classes. Maybe afternoons are just too hectic, so I’ll try at 8:00 PM while you're having dinner, or right before you sleep. If I don't get through tonight, don't worry. I’ll try again tomorrow. I know you’ll come around eventually.

​My friend says I should just leave you alone. I don’t understand why he’d even think that. I told him you’re just busy and we’ll talk soon, but he still doesn't believe me. Can you imagine?

​And then, I ran into your roommate last week. The tall one with the locks. She had the nerve to say you sent her, claiming you said you needed "space."

​I told you from the very beginning. she has never liked me. I could feel it the moment I met her. Something was always off. Why would she lie like that? It’s clear there are people who just don’t want to see us together. She doesn't understand what four years of a relationship really means. You should really tell her.

It has been six weeks now. Six weeks since you left me on blue ticks.

​Maybe you lost your phone. That has to be it. So, I will wait. I’ll wait for you to get a new one, because I know how much you must be missing me. I’m certain that the very first thing you’ll do when you’re back online is call me. I can already feel it.

​Today, I sent you another message. It’s the 289th one on WhatsApp. I know it sounds like a lot. The texts, the stickers, the GIFs, the voice notes. But it’s not really. It’s just my way of reaching out into the silence. I haven't written a formal letter yet, mostly because I still don’t have your postal address, but these messages are enough for now. They are my daily reminders to you. I am still here. I am still waiting. Sibanduki.

​I’m not going anywhere. When you finally call, when you finally text, I will be exactly where you left me. I WILL BE HERE.

It’s a twisted kind of medicine. A poison I keep drinking because, in some messed-up way, the silence feels sweeter than the vulnerability of being loved. I’m addicted to the chaos. I’m addicted to the pain. I’m out here searching for a sunbeam in the middle of a storm I created myself.

​Maybe I’m just scared of getting close. Maybe I push people back to "save" myself, putting the ones I love the most on a broken shelf with a deadline they didn't ask for. If I’m the villain in your story, at least I’m someone you’ll remember, right?

​But that "glory" is hollow. Every time I break your heart, I realize I’m breaking mine, too. I’m turning every spark we had into an ember, and then I’m left wondering why I’m so cold. ​I’m tired of being the reason you have to shrink. I’m tired of being the one who makes it hard for you to breathe.

​I want to know when enough is finally enough. I want to stop being the storm and start being the calm. I’m sorry for the hurt, but more than that, I’m sorry that I let my fear convince me that hurting you was the only way to keep myself whole.

​It takes a lot of courage to look in the mirror and admit that the person standing in the way of your happiness is actually you. That cycle of wanting love but pushing it away. Whether out of pride, old habits, or the fear of actually being seen. Its actually a struggle many people feel but few are brave enough to voice.

We all say we want the "real thing." We talk about finding that one person who understands our silence, meets us halfway, and stays when things get loud. But if I’m being honest, I’ve spent a long time being the architect of my own heartbreak.

I have this habit of sabotaging the very love I claim to want. I just do the opposite of what I claim I do.

Sometimes it’s my pride. Sometimes it’s a random old habit that I can’t seem to shake. Other times, it’s just pure fear. The kind of fear that tells you it’s safer to burn the bridge yourself than to wait for someone else to walk away. Because of this, I’ve lost people who were genuine. I’ve watched good things slip through my fingers because I didn’t know how to just be there.

Lately I have been telling myself, “Carlos, you just have to do better.

I’ve realized that when someone enters your life ready to build something real, not just something temporary for the weekend, but a foundation, you can't overlook that. Its actually wrong to do that.You can’t let your ego or your past mistakes run the show. You have to show up. You have to be the best man you can be.

The truth is, finding someone who loves you the way your heart actually desires is one of the rarest things in this world. It’s a miracle in a crowded room. And if I’m lucky enough to find that again, I’ve made a promise to myself that I will protect it. I will cherish it to the core.

I used to think love had to be loud. I thought it was about the fireworks, the grand gestures, or even the intense chaos of pushing and pulling. But the older I get and the more I look at my own patterns, the more I realize I was wrong. They is actually more to it. Though I don't know much am just 23.

I have always dreamt of someone who could reach the quiet places of my mind.

I’ve spent so much time in relationships where I felt misunderstood or completely unseen. I’ve watched people shrink themselves just to accommodate me, trying to keep a peace that was never really there. We all want that one person who understands how we move through the world and how we process love.

​We look for the one who actually listens, instead of just hearing the noise. The one who notices the tiny shifts in our mood before we even say a word. We crave someone who takes accountability when they hurt us, choosing growth over defensiveness because they value the connection enough to protect it.

I know now that love like that doesn’t arrive with fireworks or chaos. It arrives with a deep, steady calm. It’s that quiet feeling where you can finally just breathe without performing or trying to prove you are worthy of being liked.

But here is the truth that keeps me up at night. I don’t offer that.

​I dream of the calm, but I only offer the storm. Instead of peace, I bring chaos. Instead of being the place where someone can breathe, I’ve become the reason they have to hold their breath.

It is a lonely feeling to realize you are the villain in your own fairy tale. To know that while you are searching for a "safe haven," you haven't yet learned how to be one for somebody else.

I’m learning that you can’t keep a rare connection if your hands are always clenched in a fist. You can't ask for clarity while you’re busy creating smoke.

​I want to be better. I want to be the person who notices the small shifts, instead of the person who causes them. I want to be the calm. Because the world is loud enough. I don’t want to be the reason the person I love has to shrink anymore.

But why? Why do I feel better when I hurt you?