It was not his absence from her life that made her hate him. He was proud, arrogant and at times very violent. Especially towards her mother.

It was always his way or the highway. She remembers his relationship with her late mum and it was the very thing she did not want for herself. Merab was much happier when her father was away in the US. Working or doing whatever it is he did there.

Nobody knew. Nobody asked. He sent money home. Always on time. Always in plenty. He sent clothes in huge bags.

“I interacted with second-hand clothes for the first time in my adult life,” she says during our interview inside the restaurant at Kisumu’s Victoria Comfort Inn Hotel.

“He paid for us to go to expensive private schools. All three of us…and his other son,” she adds.

But Merab wanted more than expensive clothes from abroad and good schools. She needed the love of a father. Especially after losing her mother. Even though she was raised in a big family with uncles, aunties, cousins and grandparents, something always seemed to be missing.

“There is a way a girl glows when she is receiving affection from a man. I had men around me but they wouldn’t be affectionate to me like my own father would have been – at least in my head. But I know I craved something,” she explains.

This craving is what would send her into a relationship with a young engineer who worked for an electricity generating company. She started dating the guy when she was still in High School and would end up marrying him immediately after. Perhaps to fill that void.

A decision she regrets today. A decision that led to her doubting her own worth. The physical and emotional abuse she was subjected to could have as well been lifted straight out of the pages of a horror movie script.

“This thing was not supposed to end in a relationship,” she says laughing. Her laughter lighting up the little corner of the restaurant we were seated at.

For the first time she made eye contact and held it for long. When you meet Merab today, she is a bubbly woman. Full of life and oozing of positivity. Everything about her is purposeful.

She gets into a room and occupies it with her confidence and her soft smile. A beautiful woman. It’s actually a coincidence that this restaurant we are at is called Hermosa Chica – Spanish for ”pretty girl.’ Quite befitting.

You would not know what level of darkness now stays locked behind this beautiful personality that is Merab today.

“I was supposed to help my cousin get an internship. Nick who would later become my husband had told my cousin that he would hook her brother up with a position where he worked if she introduced him to a beautiful young girl,” she explained.

Other than being pretty and young, the girl just needed to be able to open her mouth and have something sensible come out. Merab was barely seventeen and still in high school when they met.

Despite her being an underage girl and school going, he didn’t mind it. Apparently, he had a thing for young girls. Merab confirmed this a couple of years later when he found him trying to date her younger sister while still married to her.

*We might get back to that later.

The relationship between Merab and Nick moved from zero to a hundred (in a petrol head’s manner of speech) very quickly. Quite to the bewilderment of her cousin Lilly who had assumed that once her brother got the internship they would break it off.

“Nick swept me off my feet. He gave me what I thought was love and the attention that I needed at the moment. Something that I was badly missing. Something boys my age at the mixed boarding school I went to could not give me,” she explains.

“I was having sex at 17, with a man who was about 33 at the time. I was fascinated by how he seemed smart describing the things he did for work. He was studying for his PhD. Soon he would be Dr Nick Omondi,” she adds.

Catch your breath for a moment here. Let me link this for you in case I have lost you along the way.

Merab’s dad is absent. He lives huko in the US. Has almost zero connections with her and her two sisters other than the upkeep he sends, which is quite important because it keeps their lifestyle. Oh…and the ocassional phone call.

The phone call only happens once during their school holidays. This is 2007 when not every part of this country is covered with good mobile network. In Nyabondo, Kisumu County where they grew up, they had to go stand at a particular place at 3 PM when their dad had promised their uncle that he would call.

Like a mzungu he would call at exactly 3.05 PM, I don’t know what that time would be on his side of the world. They would talk about school and what they needed. If they had not performed to his expectations there would be a lot of barking from their dad’s side of the conversation. It was never something to look forward to.

Then here was a man. Nick. Soon to be Dr Omondi. So kind. He was the man who visited Merab at school. The man who showered her with pocket money. The man who made her the envy of her peers. The man who gave her the glow … if you get what I mean.

“There was this one moment we got caught. I had lied to my grandparents that I was going back to school. It was about two days before we were due to open. My plan was to go stay with Nick for the extra days,” she explains.

“I had packed a couple of home clad in my school bag. Nick and I decided to go do some shopping in Kisumu. At that time he was living in Katito because it was closer to his work place.

“There used to be a Co-op Bank ATM at the entrance of Mega Plaza in Kisumu. While waiting as he used the ATM, I noticed my uncle approaching. He was in the company of my grandma. I told Nick to run. I knew my people. He did run.

“I was beaten. My dad was called and he told them to take me to the police station.

“What kind of a father does that? The cops beat me up trying to get me to tell them who Nick was, and where he worked so that they could arrest him. I did not. Eventually, they got tired of beating me up. I befriended a female cop who looked sympathetic. She understood I was in love. I gave him Nick’s number and they arranged for him to secretly drop my school bag. Of course at a fee,” she adds.

This little brush with the law did not puncture the wheels of their relationship.

“I was blossoming. My face was radiant. For once I was settled. I felt good. I felt loved. I finally knew what an orgasm was,” she says. A cheeky smile escaping the corners of her. She pauses. Turns her head to her left, then raises it to stare at a painting on the wall that’s besides my seat. It’s a painting of women at what looks like a fish market. Endowed women. The ones with thighs you would describe as ‘thunder thighs.’

Her gaze stays there for a while. The silence between us only punctuated by the occasional buzz of the coffee maker. After what seems like an eternity, her phone rings. When she excuses herself to take it, I notice tears welling inside her eyes. It’s a quick one. She tells the person on the other side that she will call them up in twenty —

She straightens up. Pushes her hair behind. If I knew a thing about weaves I would have described how it looked but I don’t. It’s just long, black and seemed expensive. She picks a paper towel from the table and gently arrests the little tears trying to escape her eye socket.

“When I finished my KCSE, I wanted a level of independence. I felt that neither my grandparents nor uncles were letting me have the space I needed to make my decisions. My father with his barking orders attitude from continents away was not helping either,” she says.

Merab decided that the best cause of action would be to go live with her maternal aunt. They had barely maintained contact after her mum’s death when she was only in class four.

Even at that young age she had very fond memories of her mum. She was from Kisii. She says Gusii women are loyal. She stood by her dad despite his violence, rudeness and absenteeism.

‘She was a keeper ‘ in her words. She thought she would see a bit more of her mum if she moved to live with her aunt in Nairobi. But there was no way her family in Nyabondo would agree to that.

So she decided to sneak out. She did not have enough money for fare and Nick had agreed to help. She packed a bag and left one Sunday when everyone had gone to church.

“There was no fare at Nick’s either. Not one day later. Not one week later. Not a month later. Before I knew it I was pregnant,” she explains.

Nick was the first child in a family of seven. Merab was now being elevated to wife status. Pregnant at 18…her body barely nomanaging to cary the additional weight. The mood swings. The morning sickness.

By this time, “her people,” as she refers to her family, had known where she is thanks to Lilly. They had moved to a house Nick was building not too far from where he worked. It was not complete but they were not paying rent. When schools closed his other siblings would be there with them too. At times it was a handful. But she was a dutiful wife. Taking care of everybody. She had to learn this pretty fast.

She woke up early and warmed bath water for her husband. They had no running water in the house. She made breakfast for everyone, and ensured her husband had pressed clothes.

She thinks it’s the hard work combined with her frail body that made her lose her first pregnancy.

A few days after, her dad showed up at her gate. When she saw him, she knew exactly what the conversation would be like. Orders like he was a military sergeant and her a private. She could not take that. Not when she is just recovering from losing a pregnancy. Not even when the man had flown from half a world away.

He could not believe it. His own daughter was refusing to open the gate. She had grown. No longer a “yes sir” kind of girl. She wished he could understand her. Part of her wanted to open up but she knew very well what would follow. She was not ready to deal.

She turned her back. Walked to the house. Leaving him standing there at the gate. Wondering what had become of her once little girl perhaps. But did he even know his little girl?

In less than a year she was pregnant again with her first-born daughter. By this time things had started getting bad between Merab and Nick. He started drinking and coming home late. He was also cheating. Mostly with the ladies at work.

This was before phones had fingerprints and complicated passwords. He would send her to check something on his phone and she would find a text message from the girls.

She was sorry for herself. She was nothing like them. They were more educated. Sophisticated. They had their own money. What was she but an insecure leech? She thought. Thoughts she did not share with anyone.

When the baby came things got a little more complicated. You see Merab did not have a house help. She did not want to overburden her husband. He had this house to finish. He had his six siblings he was paying school fees for. He was the sole breadwinner. Feeding nine mouths. Not to mention the relatives he still had to do stuff for in the village.

Merab also had a deep desire to be loved by her in-laws. She was not going to be seen as the one who was wasting their money.

But when their first baby came it was just a little too much. By then some of the in-laws were also done with school. She tried talking to Nick to have some of them move back to the village. He would not hear any of it. In fact, this was also the beginning of a frosty relationship between her and the in-laws.

“Because Nick provided everything I needed (financially), he felt that he could always have his way with me. He actually did. At this point my relationship had become both physically and emotionally abusive,” she says.

“I had already accepted that he was cheating. I was glad that he was not doing it in my face though. But now violence was creeping in. The thing that terrified me about my own parents’ marriage was now in my own house,” she explains.

Merab recalls the first time she walked out. Her son had been irritated by something and she was crying. Nick had just returned home and he was not in a very good mood. When the baby refused to calm down, he took his sandals and hit the baby severally on the head.

Merab could not take it. She intervened. Nick apparently read that as her challenging his authority. He beat her to a pulp.

A few days later he reached out and apologized. After a few more days of begging, she agreed to go back to her house. This cycle of violence and her walking out would repeat itself severally over the period they lived together.

There was another time they got into an argument as she was preparing to bath their youngest son. She had a basin full of water in at the foot of the bed, before she knew it, all that water was poured on her and the baby.

“He then started beating me. I was more of confused because I did not see the basis for this beating. I know how I sound right now, but I had come to accept being beaten for certain things. In this instance I did not deserve it,” she says.

“Worse of when he hit me I fell over my daughter who was lying near the edge of the bed. Not even the baby’s wails would stop him. I remember him calling one of his brothers who was in the living room telling him to help him strip me, claiming I was trying to run away with his ATM card,” she added.

Merab had always had one of Nick’s ATM cards. He gave it to her and would always ask her to withdraw money from the account either for house utilities or at times when he needed her to run errands for her. He had never accused her of anything like this before. She wondered where the ‘running away’ bit had come from yet it was him provoking her.

“They actually started stripping me. I had the card on me that day because I was running some errands earlier on. By this time they had dragged me to the floor. I reached into my pockets and handed him the card. He left the room smiling,” she narrates.

Here was a man ready to strip his wife naked in front of his brother. You can pause for a moment and let that sink in a bit.

Things even got worse when Nick moved to Nairobi and left her here. He would barely communicate with her. She was not even allowed to call.

“He would ask ‘are the children okay, is someone dead?’ If the answers to both questions are “no” then he would ask why did I decide to disturb him. Was I not aware that he was working hard to give us a good life?” She says with a smile in her face, but you could feel the sadness in her tone.

Things were so bad that her friends created a Whatsapp group just for checking in on her. If she did not respond to messages on the group one of them would go to her house in the morning or during the day to check up on her.

The day Merab moved out for good, Nick almost killed her. Remember Lilly? Yes, Merab’s cousin who introduced her to Nick. Now, Lilly sort of had a clandestine relationship with Nick.

There are days Nick would be in Kisumu but he would never come home. Merab would hear about it from friends or would be sent photos. Most of the time he was with Lilly.

On this day, she had been told he had been seen with Lilly. She did not expect him home. One of her friends and a maternal cousin were visiting. Merab was also unwell. She had sinuses that needed an operation. Nick knew nothing about her medical condition. He did not care. But he provided her with a medical cover that guaranteed her the best medical care. Even if it was as a result of the beatings he gave her.

Nick came in around 1.00 AM and found her cousin and friend watching a movie in the living room. One of his younger brothers was also there.

“I was already in bed because I was not feeling too well. The cold weather was not making my sinuses any better. I just heard him roar in the living room asking who were those in his house.

“When I got up to get to the living room we met in the corridors and he slammed my head against the window grills. I tried pleading with him explaining they were my guests but he would here none of it. By that time the children woke up and were now screaming,” she narrated.

They had an older house help who took the kids and locked them up in a room. The girls – her cousin and friend also hid in another room. The brother in -law could not help either. Nick is a ‘small god’ he listened to no one.

Merab always hid an extra key near the living room door. It was her secret escape plan, but that night she could not reach it.

“I have wanted to beat you for so long. Today you have given me a good reason to kill you,” he said as he dragged her towards the kitchen to get a knife.

Merab doesn’t remember much about what happened. She passed out. Right in the living room near the kitchen. Nobody bothered to take her to the hospital. When she woke up in the morning, not a single part of her body was not aching. Her head was swollen, and so was her entire face.

Even getting her head into the CT-scan machine in hospital was a problem. That same day Nick left for Nairobi and later on for a trip to Uganda. He did not even bother calling to see what condition she was in.

Every time Merab would try to involve Nick’s family in solving their problems she would get more beating. Her own relatives have severaly tried to talk to Nick but he would here none of it.

A part of her was still in love with him. Maybe because he provided so well for them. Merab also admits she feared what starting life on her own would mean. She had never worked a day in her life.

“Ominde, I had never even bought a spoon with my own money,” she explained.

But when she returned from hospital she decided that she was leaving. A few days before she left she called Nick and told her she wanted to go. Asked him to allow her to take one TV and a fridge with her because they had two of each. He accepted.

“In a way I was not even asking for those things. I did not need them. I just wanted to know if he realized what he had done and if he was going to be afraid of losing me but he was not moved. So the next day I packed and left. Took the kids, our clothes, a TV and a fridge.

“We moved to a single-room house. By the time my relationship had gotten extremely bad I had started seeing someone secretly. He was very understanding and never pushed me to make any decisions. To date even though we are not romantically involved, he still supports me,” she says.

That was not the last beating she got though. Before moving out she had been invited to a wedding in the family and she had promised to attend. Again, being the good woman she was, when the date of the wedding came she took her children to the village. During that visit Nick tried to get back with her but she refused.

When it was time to leave and a cab had come home to pick them, chaos erupted. Nick for no reason at all started beating her up again. In front of guests and his family. He dragged her on the ground, tearing her dress.

“what’s funny is that instead of people coming to help, they brought lesos to cover my nudity. For some reasons word reached my family that I was being beaten. I think it was the taxi guy who called. My family sent officers from a nearby police station. That’s when I was recued. Nick ran away when he was told cops were coming.”

Even after moving out she had bouts of anxiety. She worried one day he may find where she lives and beat her again. She would be startled by banging doors or falling objects.

Merab had to go through months of counselling. She says during her marriage with Nick her children were so much affected by the violence that they would poop themselves in school whenever nick was around.

“Today I am happy I decided to leave. I should have left earlier, but I am glad it wasn’t too late. I left with my life. Many people don’t. Recently, Nick called and asked me to get back to him. That he had changed. If there is one thing I know, people don’t change,” she says.

Nick still pays for his two children’s upkeep. That though, is all that still connects him to Merab. She has settled in business. Lives in a middle-class estate in Kisumu and is grateful for the life she still has.

Author’s Note: What saddened me about this story was the culture of normalizing intimate partner violence in our society. There were neighbors who heard her screams at night. There were family members who knew exactly what what was happening – some even witnessed the violence first hand. But at no time did anyone ever think about calling the cops. People like Nick get away with their actions because we enable them. Tujiangalie.

Photo by MART PRODUCTION from Pexels

The post ‘Men don’t change’ appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

You are not used to this warming chapo biashara.

You hear a gentle knock on the door, a knock so gentle that can only be from a well-mannered girl. Your boys Kevo and Brayo knock like someone will die if you don’t open the door immediately.

No, it’s not one of those.

It’s a gentle knock. Three firm taps on the shutter. You run to the bedroom and spray your cologne around your neck (then wave your hands in the air like you are getting an epileptic attack) – you want her to get an impression with the hug.

Thirty – eight seconds passed between the tap and you opening the door. She is patient. A lady. Her parents raised her well.

You are greeted by her lovely smile. You notice for the first time that she has a tiny beautiful dimple. You return the smile. She opens her arms for a tight, warm hug before you close the door behind her.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say.

She smiles. Gives an approving node as she moves her eyes around the living room.

“Humble indeed,” she says turning to face you. She, however, thinks your 69 – inch gaming TV is a bit over the top, but she won’t say it now.

“You actually doing a lot better than most of your peers,” she adds. She also knows you don’t drive a Subaru (I don’t know the relevance either).

You feel like you are already winning. You are playing the good boy, though, we all know you are not one. You are ratchet, but ratchets don’t get this type of girl.

Today, you just want to make an impression. No fast moves. You want to show her that you can be patient. You are however wearing your best boxers. Choosing it from fourteen other contenders was a struggle, but you thought if you get a chance to get naked before her today, this will make the best impression – impressions are all today is about. No, we are not judging, after all, she is also wearing her best panties. She even waxed.

“The food will get cold, shall we?” you say pointing towards the dining table.

“Right into it,” she says with a smile again.

“Where do I wash my hands?” She asks.

You point towards the sink that’s next to the dining area as you get into the Kitchen. You bring out the bowl of beef stew, still feels hot. Some vegetables. You had laid the plates and cutlery earlier.

She takes her seat as you make the last dash to the kitchen to bring out the chapati, but boy oh boy… the microwave dried the chapatis .

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“People don’t talk about sex openly even within relationships and therefore it’s difficult for people to know whether they are doing the right things. What we are doing is offering our participants to understand their bodies better, ” explained Jovian.

The event featured demonstrations by a renown sexologist Stephan Okwany who showed the participants how they can enjoy their sex lives better. This included sexual organ hygiene, foreplay techniques, demonstration on sex positions that guarantee most pleasure and use of sex toys among other topics.

“The event targets women and men who would love to learn more about how to optimize their sexual life and health. The topics we covered varied from sexual reproductive health, effects of birth on women, types of exercises to boost women’s libidos, sex positions for maximum orgasm, intimate accessories demonstrations, and toys and lingerie sale.”

A section of the audience who were bold enough to speak to us had this to say:

“Sex is real, revered, blessed and a beautiful thing that should be approached safely, honestly, and with openness. It’s a topic many people fear but engage in wholeheartedly when they feel safe. Many homes and relationships have stunted because of a lack of openness in discussing what satisfies them, and knowing when to say yes or no and be respected.” – Caroline Ogot

” This was a mind-opening session, I thought I knew all there is to know about sex but from what I have seen here today, I have barely scratched the surface.” – Participant.

“I am really grateful for this opportunity because it allows us a safe space to openly explore our sexuality without being judged by others.” – Participant.

“We learned a lot today, our sex life was on the rocks but we are now going to try out new stuff and see if we can re-ignite the passion.” – Participant.

“They should more of such…it was awesome….. Women need to understand their bodies and pleasure points.” – Participant.

Jovian hopes to make the event a monthly one with each edition targeting different groups.

“We are also planning to replicate this in other towns, Nairobi will be our first stop,” said Jovian.

Despite the fact that organizers of the event had to deal with threats and negative messages from certain quarters, the event was largely a success and those who attended look forward to the next.

The post Bold Kisumu Events Organizer Puts Together A First Sex Show In The City appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

After the previous day’s incident at his house, Dennis did not know what to expect. He felt a churn in his stomach as Derrick laid a hand on his back saying, “you should get away from your desk more often, it’s good for your health and your mind.”

They were going for lunch at a private golf club in town. They were all members. Derrick, Dennis, and James. Derrick owned a real-estate firm that had properties in Nairobi, Mombasa, Kisumu, Nakuru and Thika among other towns. He recently partnered with a venture capital firm and was expanding his business interests to South Africa, Nigeria, and Senegal which was the newest baby.

He frequently traveled there to meet with the team and review their strategy for the booming Dakar real-estate market, and to sign deals with Senegalese banks and other financial institutions. James was his head of marketing and strategy for the Kenyan market and Dennis was in charge of operations.

Dennis was a workaholic. Derrick trusted him with the company. As long as he was handling something, Derrick would rest easy that it would be handled as he would himself if not better. Their relationship had started ten years earlier when Dennis joined a firm he worked for before starting his own business. He had loved his aggressiveness and when he decided to ‘start his shop,’ Dennis is one of the people he poached from his old firm.

In the ten years working as Derrick’s right-hand man, Dennis had become like family. Other than sorting out issues at the firm, Dennis sorted out Derrick’s private issues. He had access to his bank accounts. He knew which personal bills were due and sorted them out before Derrick even knew. He knew when the personal cars for both Derrick and his wife Mercy needed to go for service. He organized for the membership club subscriptions. He paid their kids’ school fees. Derrick had a personal assistant, but it’s Dennis who even booked his flight – apart from this one to Dakar where he was to spend four days.

Unknown to Derrick though (at least until recently), bills were not the only private thing that Dennis was taking care of, neither were the cars the only thing he was servicing for him. He was also taking care of Mercy’s bedroom needs. They had had an affair that was now in its fourth year. One of his trusted security guys had tipped him off, but he had rubbished it as an unwarranted rumor. He was so angry that he fired the guy. He did not mention it to either Dennis or Mercy.

Somehow, he soon noticed that a couple of things were off between Dennis and Mercy who also worked at the firm. They were a little too close. It never bothered him before but after the idea of an affair was planted in his mind, he started noticing things he previously did not.

For instance, when he looked at the phone logs for Dennis’ company-issued phone, most of the calls were to Mercy even though their roles did not require that much interaction. Also, they were always lengthy. On digging further, Derrick started to see a lot more patterns that pointed to a more than a working relationship. Their cars’ tracking systems would put them at the same places when they needed not to be. At times when Mercy had indicated she would be elsewhere with her female friends. With his recent trips out of the country due to expanding business ventures across the continent, Dennis and Mercy would coincidentally be away from the office at the same times. Convinced that Dennis was having an affair with his wife, he secretly hired his former head of security to trail them. When he was convinced that they were indeed having an affair, he set up an elaborate plan to catch them in the act.

He made up a fake business trip to Dakar, he claimed there was an emergency there and his tickets had been booked by the Dakar office. Since Dennis was only heading the Kenyan operations, he had no way of confirming if indeed the trip was legit. He did not even suspect anything.

“It was right there on my face and I did not see it. There was not a single trip Derrick had gone for without me organizing his logistics. I guess I was blinded by the opportunity to have a few days to myself with his wife that I did not see that this could have been a trap. We had become so comfortable with the affair that we thought we were invincible,” Dennis explained. His eyes showing a mixture of regret, not sure if it’s regret for having a four-year affair with his boss’ wife or for being caught.

That trip did not happen. Instead, Derrick had gone to the village and came back with his mother, two brothers, and their wives.

On the same day Derrick had left, Mercy had given his house-help a three-day leave to go see her people. She was so excited and happy. Mercy had always been a nice boss. Not just to the house-help but all their employees. Both Mercy and Derrick believed in Richard Branson’s philosophy of “Take Care Of Your Employees And They’ll Take Care Of Your Business.” Unkown to the house-help though, her going away was creating private space for her lady’s sexual escapades. The guards rarely came around the house unless when doing their patrols, but once someone was already inside the house, there was no way they would see them. Especially if they drove in the boss’ car that has very dark tints.

“Was it not enough for you that you were already sleeping with his wife, did you have to do it in his house and his bed?” I couldn’t help but ask Dennis when he was narrating this story to me shortly before leaving to Dakar for his new assignment. He was in the last days of his two-week leave in Kisumu.

Dennis was a long-time acquaintance. We sort of grew up in the same neighborhood. We were not close pals growing up but we occasionally interacted, especially on our way back home from school. Some of my classmates were friends with him. A couple of times we had played football together on weekends but for some reason, we never clicked. Our meeting on this day was sheer coincidence, I had gone back to the hood to visit an old friend. Dennis had been there for one week to visit his folks and catch up with the hood. We meet at one of the ‘locals.’ I hadn’t seen him in ages and you know how easy it becomes to start up a conversation with people you grew up with, especially if they seem to be doing well. I had asked him what he is up to these days, and that’s when he mentioned he is moving to Dakar. I was instantly interested because I have spent a few days in Dakar myself and coincidentally at that time a friend of mine was trying to hook me up with a media gig in Dakar. One story let to another and with alcohol in the picture, we soon ended up here with him explaining the circumstances under which he is relocating to Dakar.

He kept quiet for a moment before responding to my question. Took a sip of his Tusker lager, stood to stretch his arms then sat back on his seat. He looked further away for a moment then turned his head sideways to face me, biting on his lower lips for a couple of seconds before opening his mouth.

“Dan, for sure I have no idea what got into us. It was her idea, but I did not object to it either. I guess it was the thrill. I mean, we had done crazy stuff before but not like this. The plan seemed perfect. The kids were in boarding, the house-help was away, the guards would hardly notice that anyone else was there as we would go in her car. They had no other workers in the home – they had no gardener, they hired a landscaping firm to regularly maintain their lawn. It seemed well planned out, and I would only be there for a couple of hours.”

Mercy was woken up by the sound of a car driving in. Her husband was not expected home at least in another three days. She was not expecting any guests either. So, she covered herself with a bedsheet and went to the window to see who was driving in. Dennis was still asleep in bed. He had heard her get out but was a little too tired to be bothered. It had been an exhausting morning of marathon sex. Mercy had gotten this PDF Kamasutra book with sex styles from her friends and she wanted them to try out. He says it was more of acrobats than sex. She needed deeper penetration, they were trying out positions that the book said guaranteed that.

There are women who just like gentle rubbing and a little penetration, then there are women like Mercy who only reach orgasm with deep penetration. Dennis’ was the guy Mercy actualized her sexual fantasies with. Her husband was 18 years older and cared more about financial stability than her weird sexual appetite. Dennis, on the other hand, was only two years older. He was also sexually explorative. They had even tried pegging before. I had to go Google what pegging was after my conversation with Dennis that afternoon and you can imagine the look on my face when I found out. Of course, there was no way a man like Derrick will let his wife “do him” with a strapon.

On this day it was deep penetration day. They had tried Libra, The Plow, Lotus Flower, Torch, Downward Dog, Eifel Tower, London Bridge, Corkscrew, Unicorn, Anvil and by the time they got to Spread Eagle, Dennis was done and out (you might want to Google those styles by the way.).

You can imagine her surprise when she pulled the blinds and noticed her husband’s car. Her husband did not have a driver, he preferred chauffering himself in his Land Cruiser V8, Range Rover Sport or Mercedes-Benz S650. He said, “what’s the use of buying an expensive car and letting someone else enjoy driving it?”

The car drove into the parking lot which was away from her view at the window. She rushed to wake Dennis up.

“You need to get out my husband is here.”

Dennis says he did know what to think. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but Mercy kept shaking him up. They had the door unbolt. Dennis was stark naked, he quickly grabbed his boxers and put them on. Before he could grab his other clothes they were hearing footsteps in the house. They were coming upstairs towards the bedroom. There was no time. He could not jump over the window because of the grill. He could not fit in the closet either. There was no space under the bed to hide. There was no time to think. Mercy quickly pushed him into the master bathroom and jumped on the bed pretending to be sleeping.

“Where is he?” Dennis heard Derrick ask.

“Who dear?” Mercy responded as if she had no idea what her husband was talking about.

“The ungrateful owner of the shoes I saw at the door when I came in and that pair of trousers I can see on the other side of the bed,” Derrick replied. His tone was calm but firm, Dennis says.

“It’s not what you think hun,” Mercy attempted to explain but Derrick cut her short.

“Cut it. Dennis, I know you are in the bathroom. Come out right now before I lose my cool.”

Dennis came out of the bathroom. He was in his boxers. His shirt half-buttoned. Some buttons in the wrong holes. One of Derrick’s brothers grabbed him by the back of the neck pushing him down the stairs into the living room where Derrick’s mum was waiting with his other brother and their wives. Derrick came down with Mercy. She was covering herself with nothing but a bedsheet. They made them sit next to each other.

“Look at your mother-in-law in the eye,” Derrick barked at Mercy who was hiding her face in her palms sobbing.

I ask Dennis what was going through his mind at that time.

“Man I was feeling hot and sweating profusely that I could not think of anything. My mind was completely blank. I had no idea what they were going to do with us. I was embarrassed to be sitting there naked. They all knew me,” he says.

“He asked me why I had done this to him despite him treating me like a son. He asked me why I had to do it in his own house and his bed. I could not face him. I did not know what to say. I think I blamed the devil.”

Dennis was ordered to get back to the bedroom, dress up and go to the office. He was asked never to contact Mercy again. When he was telling me this, it was about two weeks after the incident and he had heard nothing about Mercy.

Back at the golf club, it was an uneasy lunch for Dennis. Eating with the man who caught you sleeping with his wife the previous day is not something many of us can stomach. Derrick must have been a strong man too to still face Dennis. James the Marketing Director had no idea about all that.

As they ate lunch Derrick informed Dennis that he would be sending him to head operations in Dakar. He asked him to hand over within the week to James who will take over the local operations. He was to then proceed on a two-week leave as the company prepared his relocation papers.

Dennis was surprised at the turn of events. He was being given a second chance he did not even believe he deserved.

“Why do you think he forgave you?” I asked.

“Man, I have no freaking idea. Maybe he is setting me up to go get killed in Dakar. Maybe he is just giving me a second chance.”

That last week Dennis spent clearing was the longest week he had had at the firm. Derrick tried to make it a little bearable by limiting contact with him during that time. They threw him a farewell party the last day. Dennis has been in Dakar for two years now, he even earns more money than he earned in Nairobi. He still has no family of his own.

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay 

The post DEEP PENETRATION appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

Her ex husband was seriously ill at Aga Khan Hospital, Kisumu. One of his friends had called and begged her to come make peace with the man before he died.

Their relationship had not ended on a good note, scratch that. Their relationship had ended violently. So violent that Nancy was in the hospital for two weeks and her husband in police cells.

But for “the kids” she had decided to withdraw the assault charges, against the wishes of her lawyer, her friends and her family. She did not want to be the woman who sent the father of her 12-year-old son and nine – year old daughter to prison. That is not who she was.

Nancy had been a house wife since graduating from Kenya School of Law (KSL), Nairobi. She studied for her law degree in Uganda, was admitted to the bar as an Advocate of the High Court but had never practiced.

She met George* through a mutual acquaintance while at KSL and their relationship advanced pretty fast it even scared the friend who introduced them.

He was a man hard to resist. In fact, within a month of getting to know each other, George had given Nancy his Mercedes Benz C200 to drive herself to school with and for her errands.

Within another month he had rented an apartment for her in Langata, moving from the one-bedroom house she shared with a friend in Ongata Rongai. The apartment was tastefully furnished.

Nancy had lied to her friends and family that she had gotten a well paying part-time job with an international NGO in Nairobi. George spoilt her rotten.

When they were not spending the weekend in Dubai, they were in Zanzibar or Diani or cooling off at Enashipai Lodge in Naivasha.

Nancy was living in the fast lane. She was sending good money back home to her struggling parents in Adiedo, Kendubay. Her two sisters in high school no longer had fee arrears nor struggled with shopping. Her mother who is a staunch SDA adherent thanked God for her each night.

Her grades at KSL could not keep up, she had had several retakes but she eventually passed and was admitted to the bar. It was a great celebration for her family.

This was also the day she introduced George to them as a friend. They had dinner with her mum and dad, and the aunty who had paid her high school and campus fees at The Intercontinental Hotel, Nairobi. Though they suspected that George was more than a friend, they would not confirm it till later that month when he visited their rural home.

It was not Nancy’s idea to introduce George to her parents at that time, but being who he was he had made it happen his way.

“I remember he had asked me to accompany him to Homabay for a function. We flew to Kisumu on the 6.30 AM flight arriving there just shortly after seven o’clock.

“There was a driver waiting for us. We had breakfast at Imperial Hotel before driving to Homabay Tourist Hotel. While in Homabay he met with a couple of guys, though the meetings did not seem that important to make a man take the first flight out of Nairobi.

“When he was done, which was by about noon, he suggested that since we are passing by Adiedo on our way back to Kisumu, we do some shopping for my mum.”

Nancy had assumed that they would get someone to drop the shopping to her mum’s, but no, they were delivering the gifts by themselves. It was a lot of shopping.

Her mum was happy and excited to see them. Her dad was his usual self – cautious. Read a little too much in everything. Maybe for good reasons. In fact, he had asked George straight what his intentions were with his daughter that day.

“I want to marry her,” George had responded. Nancy was shocked. They had not talked about marriage. The drive back to Kisumu was filled with silence.

She wanted to start a fight, ask questions but she could not do that with their driver in the car. So she looked outside the window, most of the time staring at the moving trees, villagers going about their businesses, at the road-front shops branded with telco logos.

George was lost in his own thoughts too, at times bumping his head to the soft rhumba tunes oozing from the car’s stereo.

When they got to Kisumu George told the driver to stop for more fuel and drive to Gem. He was taking her to meet his mother. He had a beautiful home in the village but no wife.

He had been married before but his wife had left with his two kids. She had asked why but he only claimed it wasn’t working, no details. The children still visited his Nairobi house.

His mother was happy to meet him. His dad had died a while before that. They did not spend the night in the village, drove back to Kisumu that evening and spent the night at Sovereign Hotel.

That is the night he had asked her not to bother looking for a job. He was going to marry her, her job would be to take care of their children.

Other than him forcing his way on people, he seemed to be a good man. Nancy thought that she could even make him a better man.

He had flourishing businesses, interests in private security, real estate, hospitality and a host of other businesses he did with local and national governments thanks to his connections.

They had renovated her mother’s house before her dowry was paid. It was an event villagers in Adiedo spoke about for months. They had not seen that many cars in one place before. There was no church wedding. At the time of the dowry, Nancy was already pregnant with their first child.

Nancy soon started to hear rumors about George’s previous marriage. Claims of extreme cruelty against his ex – wife but she chose to ignore them. The George he knew was incapable of the kind of things they said he did. He wasn’t perfect but to her he was trying to be a good man and she appreciated that.

He took care of everything Nancy and her children needed. They had moved to Kisumu just before the baby was born. Nancy even earned a monthly allowance, an amount that a lot of her colleagues who were working were not making. She used most of it to take care of her parents and siblings. She kept a little for herself.

She was friends with other girls who were married to the city’s tycoons. They had some sort of ‘rich wives of Kisumu club.’ They kept her occupied when George was busy travelling, or when she needed a break from the kids.

They occasionally traveled as a family, mostly during school holidays, but George traveled a lot still. Most of the time, alone.

The little arrogance and forcefulness that Nancy thought she could change grew. George was rarely ever at home, Nancy hardly knew where he was three-quarters of those times.

When he was home he came back when everyone was already asleep. The kids barely knew him anymore. When she asked all he said was “I give you everything you need, what do you want me here for?”

But that was not all, Nancy started hearing stories of him with other younger girls. Girls in campus. At times she saw photos of him with younger girls on other people’s social media pages.

There were times he came to Kisumu for the weekend but never came home. Once when he was home she confronted him, he slapped her so hard she had a ringing sound in her ear for almost an hour. It was the first time he hit her. He never apologized for it.

His philandering ways became so obvious. He was dating a student from Maseno University. He had rented an apartment in Kisumu’s Tom Mboya estate. They were always seen in town together.

His photos were on her Instagram. Nancy had begged him to respect her and the kids and not publicly display his cheating ways. She had made peace with the fact that there was a younger girl in their relationship, what she had not made peace with was him humiliating her in public.

She had reached out to both their parents for help, his mother sympathized with her, her own mother told her to just hang in there, perhaps blinded by George’s generosity. Her father only said, “I warned you.”

One Saturday George had thrown a birthday party for his firstborn son. He had invited both their friends to the party. There was music, food and a lot of drinks. All was going on well until the new girl showed up too.

Nancy was in the kitchen when she was told that she was at the house. She came straight to the living room and asked her to leave her house.

She looked at his husband and asked him why he would bring his “whore” to their son’s party. An ugly scene followed, guests left, George left too with the girl.

That night, George came back drunk and beat Nancy up to a pulp. If it wasn’t for the guard who had called the neighbors for help, Nancy would have died.

She was rushed to the hospital. Her husband was arrested the following day. Nancy stayed for a week in hospital but when she came out she refused to press charges against her husband.

The police had no option but to set him free. She said she was doing it for her children. She packed her bags, took out the money she had been saving and left with the kids to Kampala where she had gone to school to start over.

It had been two years since she had left. She had not talked to George the entire time. She allows the kids to come visit their dad, but she had never been back to Kenya herself.

Two days before this day, George’s best friend had called her apologizing on his behalf. He had told her he could die any minute. He paid for a return flight from Entebbe to Kisumu.

George’s mum was seated on a chair next to his son. Their eyes locked. Christine the new wife was busy wiping his tears. She cleared her throat first and spoke.

“Nancy, I am sorry for what we did to you and the children. Forgive us so that my husband and the father to your children can live.”

Nancy was surprised that she thought that George’s state had anything to do with her. She turned to look at her.

“What did you just say? ” she asked.

“I only asked for forgiveness,” Christine replied.

“I forgave you and your husband the day I walked out of his house. It’s the reason I did not press assault charges. He would now be sick in a crowded public hospital and with a handcuff on his arm.

“I am here not to offer anything beyond what these doctors have been offering. I only came to let you and George know that I had forgiven him.

“To say goodbye the right way, not because I think he will die, but because we never got a chance to. As for you (she said looking at Christine in the eye), I only pitied you, if you knew the things I knew, you would have not done what you did.”

George did not say a word. Only tears flowed from his eyes.

Nancy returned to Kampala the following morning. George died that afternoon. Neither Nancy nor their children attended his funeral.

I met Nancy in Kampala last year. We were at the rooftop of Arcadia Suites Hotel. She sat with her back towards the city, I sat directly opposite her, facing Kampala’s towering buildings in the horizon.

It was one of those quiet evenings, very little traffic on the road below that leads to the British High Commission. Quite the opposite of what it is during the day.

I asked her what her biggest regrets from their relationship was.

“Ignoring what I heard about his previous marriage. Not taking the little signs seriously. I overlooked the subtle arrogance, the rush that he had in getting us married. I regret being blinded by the wealth and the flashy lifestyle,” she says after a brief moment of silence.

“How do you feel about him now that he is gone?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I am at peace with my past I think. I am glad I set him free before he died. It’s not been easy for me and the kids but we are managing. One day we will go lay flowers at his grave,” she says.

*Names have been changed.

The post ‘Let’s say our goodbyes right’ appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

However, behind the perfectly made-up face and the ear to ear smiles lie a deep scar that very few know about. Not even the people closest to her.

Christine grew up as a very happy girl but today happiness is a facade she only wears in public. In the privacy of her house, she often breaks down in tears. For three years now, she has suffered from depression and feelings of rejection that she is yet to know how to deal with.

Let me take you back a little to the first time I made contact with her. I had written a long post on my Facebook wall about my experience with depression and being suicidal in my late teens and early twenties. The reaction to that post was beyond my wildest imagination. A lot of people shared and tagged friends on the post. There were comments of encouragement and people asking about how they could be of help to friends and family members. Of course, there were the usual negative comments too. Then there were those who came to my inbox and Whatsapp DMs thanking me for the courage of speaking out about this topic that many would rather ignore.

Christine was one of those. She told me she was fighting to stay alive. The day I made that post was one of her toughest days. Coincidentally, it was exactly three years since her six-month-old baby died. She had no one to talk to about her feelings. That evening I stayed late in the office chatting her up – mostly it was just listening (or should I say reading what she wrote).

I met Christine a little over two weeks ago, for the first time. We had been friends on Facebook for a very long time. I have no idea who sent the other a friend request. If it’s her who sent one, then I must have accepted because of the numerous friends we have in common. I swear I am not one of those dudes who accept friend requests from ladies based on their looks. I don’t even look through their photos. If we don’t know each other in person we have to have at least 100 mutual friends.

When Christine asked where we could meet for coffee, I said Acacia Hotel’s Buzz Bar without thinking too much about it. It was a Monday morning – about 8.30 AM. It was so convenient because it’s just a short distance from my former office. I was hoping to be back in time for our usual 11.00 AM meeting.

Ordinarily, I would have just walked the 578 steps that stand between my former office and West End Mall, but on this particular Monday, the Kisumu sun seemed unable to make up its mind whether it wanted to shine or let the rains take over. I did not want to take chances by walking, so I jumped on a motorbike. It took Samuel Ababu; my bike guy when I am at the office, less than three minutes to get me there. One day I will tell you a story about Sam.

Christine wore stone-washed denim pants, a cream turtle-neck sweater, and brown leather boots. She had a brown leather handbag that was now resting on a seat directly opposite Buzz Bar’s entrance. Her sunglasses were on the table next to a gold iPhone 6 Plus. She wore a golden Michael Kors wristwatch with brown leather straps.

Her head was bowed when I walked in. She was perusing through the contents of the menu. It was not difficult spotting her despite the fact that this was our first meeting. She looked just like her Facebook and Instagram photos, if not a little prettier. I guess I was not that difficult to notice either. She stood up with a wide smile on her face the moment she lifted her head off the menu and saw me walking towards her. Perhaps she had heard my footsteps. She gave me a tight bear hug before motioning me to take a seat opposite her. Still smiling.

“It’s good to finally meet you, ” she said to break the little awkwardness that came with the brief moment of silence after I had taken my seat.

“Yeah, it is, ” I said trying not to look uneasy. I did not have any reason to be. Maybe I was taken aback by her beauty.

Have you ever met someone so beautiful that the words you had get lost in your mouth? You just stand there or sit down staring – at times with your mouth wide open…Yes, I was having one of those moments. I almost forgot why I was there for a quick minute.

“Daniel, are you okay, ” she inquired.

“Yes, I am, ” I replied trying to compose myself. Small droplets of sweat were starting to form around my face despite the chilly weather outside. I took off my half jacket and hung it on the back my seat.

I was a little uneasy. It had everything to do with our sitting position. When meeting someone, I like to get to the venue before them so that I can choose a position with a vantage view of all the entrances and exits. On this day I had my back turned to the main entrance to Buzz Bar and the other glass door that joined the first-floor restaurant with Buzz Bar was on my left side too. Not that I felt that she might be dangerous, I just don’t know how many enemies I have created out here in the line of work and I never want to be caught unawares.

I however relaxed with the hope that Murphy’s law will not apply. I ordered house coffee – double espresso while Christine settled for the “Irish Devil, ” a signature Buz Bar cocktail that is made from Jameson Black Barrel.

“I hope you don’t mind me drinking this early, ” she said. Her eyes peering into mine, perhaps in an attempt to read what I was not saying with my mouth. Christine did not just have a beautiful face and figure, she was also tall. About six feet tall. So you can imagine her looking down on my 5″ 6′ frame. Kinda intimidating.

One of the things I have learned from personal experiences and interacting with people from all walks of life is never to judge anyone. Before I pass judgment on other people’s choices I often remind myself that “not everyone I meet has had the same experiences as I have.” It helps me respect each person’s choices and opinions.

“No, I don’t, ” I said with a smile.

“I can never start my day without a drink. I usually have bad hangovers in the morning and a shot of whiskey helps me stabilize. At night I can’t sleep without having a drink. I can’t remember the last time I slept like a normal person, ” she explains.

Christine is in Kisumu visiting with friends and family. Not even they know of her depression problem that’s now compounded by alcohol dependency. She was not always like this.

Three years ago, Christine was your average girl next door. That is if your next door girls graduated top of their medical classes, work at one of the country’s top private hospitals and are taking their Master’s Degree specializing pediatric surgery. That was Christine’s life. But she was also looking forward to starting a family.

Her boyfriend was a young medical researcher working at a research institute in Nairobi that is affiliated to Nagasaki University Institute of Tropical Medicine. They had been living together for two years but had dated since her campus days. Before her last pregnancy, Christine had had three miscarriages. The first two were within the first trimester. The third was at six months. She says her boyfriend had really wanted them to have a child and she was becoming increasingly worried about not being able to give him one. They saw different obstetricians but none seem to know what the problem was.

After her last miscarriage, the bond between Christine and her boyfriend began to weaken. She says she felt as though she was less of a woman.

“I could not give him the one thing he really wanted. He was capable of making me pregnant but I could not carry a baby to term. It weighed me down. I was afraid I would lose him to someone who could give him a child, ” she explained the first time we talked on Facebook.

One of the doctors she saw after the last miscarriage advised her to wait for six months before she tries getting pregnant again. She could not.

Not when every single day that passed she felt as if she was losing the man of her dreams. A man she saw herself growing old with. In her mind, she had always played this scene where they had both moved to work in Kisumu. Her husband was teaching at Maseno University’s school of medicine while not conducting research at KEMRI – Kisumu station. Their two children were now both grown-ups, living away from home. On Saturday afternoons they would sit on the balcony of their four-bedroom maisonette in Riat Hills on the side that overlooks the airport, immersed in books with occasional glances at each other. At times she would engage him on a surgical case she is working on at Aga Khan, Avenue, Kisumu Specialists or any other big private hospital that would be in town at that time. Some of those weekends their peace would be disrupted by cops who came by after their Christian neighbor snitched that they were smoking weed in the balcony. The highlights of their afternoons would be gossiping about their kids. Their son who now acts all independent, throwing all his energy in his tech business. He would act like he did not need any help from mummy and daddy but quite often would run to his elder sister to borrow money promising to return if his business picked up. Of course, his sister would get the money from their folks but they would all promise to never let him know that the money was from them. Boys and their pride. They would talk about the girl and their worries about her disinterest in getting married.

Chances are that these were now just going to be dreams playing out in her head. She could not wait for six more months. Not when her boyfriend now spent more time at the bar with his work colleagues than he did with her. Some of them female. She had lied to him that she was on the pill but she wasn’t. Just three months later she was pregnant again. She did not tell him. She had raised his hopes three times and ended up disappointing him. She wasn’t going to do it a fourth time. So she waited. He only became aware when her morning sickness became intense, by then she was already four months in.

She still remembers the day they brought the baby home from Nairobi Hospital. It was the happiest day in their lives. Their house had never been that warm. At least not in the recent past. That night, her boyfriend went down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. In front of his mother and two sisters. She said yes. She had said yes months before he asked. At times she wondered if he ever would. That night he uttered the all important four words.

This baby was going to grow up in the most loving, caring and protective arms. That is what she thought. How could she not? Their baby was going to be raised by two doctors, what could go wrong?

“Daniel, I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe that he died on me, ” she said as a drop of tear escaped her eyes rolling down cheeks, messing up her makeup.

I stayed there still. Not uttering a word. Avoiding eye contact. I did not want to see her cry. We had talked about her experience before. Each time we talked she mentioned a detail she had not mentioned before. Coming to this meeting I had not known what to expect. I to some extent thought we would just be buddies having coffee and catching up. It happens that I am one of the people she confides in and that conversation that started with her explaining why she is drinking at nine o’clock opened the gates to this moment.

I kept my eyes on her right hand which was rested on the back side of her iPhone that was lying on the table – face down. I started at her nails which had brown stick-ons.

I did not ask her what happened to the baby. Maybe as a journalist, I should have. It would have satisfied the curiosity you have right now. But on that day, I was not a journalist. I was just a friend who was listening. Another thing that experience has taught me is learning to listen. I was not going to intrude into her grief by asking questions that would make her relive the most traumatic moment of her life. If she volunteered the information, well and good. At that time I did not even think that our conversations would make it to one of my Monday stories. I am glad she later granted me permission to use them in a story.

“A part of me died with him. I had him for six months. I was a good mother, then I was not a mother at all, ” she said as more tears rolled down her cheeks.

I wanted to hug her but I did not. I wasn’t sure if it was even appropriate. So I extended my left hand and gently rested it on top of her right hand which was still on her phone. I handed her a napkin with my other hand. She gently dried her tears. I moved my other hand so that she could use both of hers.

“You know we don’t have to talk about this. We can talk about other happier things like your coming final exams or the fact that you are no longer doing graveyard shifts at Kenyatta National Hospital’s pediatric unit for your residency, ” I said trying to change the topic.

“I haven’t talked about this with a lot of people. I feel like I need to let this out. It’s okay if you feel overwhelmed, ” she said.

I understood her. I felt her pain. We had lost a child at birth too about four years ago. We also had had multiple miscarriages. I know how difficult it is to find someone to talk to about these things.

“No, it’s okay. You can talk about anything you want to, ” I said with a gentle smile.

The death of their son left her depressed. She resigned from her job. She hardly took care of herself. She had no idea how to cope. To make matters worse her boyfriend left. One morning he just left as if he was going to work and he never came back. He did not even take his clothes with him. All attempts to mend their relationship failed. She thinks he left because she could not give them a baby. She blames herself for him leaving.

Christine registered for a Masters programme and buried herself in books and her new residency program at Kenyatta National Hospital as a way of dealing with the loss. It was not enough, so when she was not studying or working, she was drinking.

She is almost done with her course work. She still drinks. At times a lot. There wasn’t much I could do other than listen. I gave her contacts to an organization called ‘Still A Mum’ that offers help to women who have lost their babies. It was started by a friend of mine known as Wanjiru Kihusa. They are based in Nairobi. I also gave her my brother’s number. My brother is a psychiatric clinician, I am sure he can be of more help to her or even give her better referrals.When I reached out to her last week, she was yet to contact either of them.

That Monday I missed my eleven o’clock meeting. I don’t regret it though. I picked up the tab to pay the bill but she would not let me.

“This is on me Daniel, I know we are still a little far from month end but let me take it. The next date will be on you,” she said.

I would never let a lady pick the tab on a first date but because she said “month end” and not “end month” I let her settle it. I have never understood people who say “end month” when they mean “month end.” Christine wasn’t one of those people.

The post PART OF ME DIED WITH MY BABY appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

Andrew drew a cigarette from his packet of Embassy Lights. It had a photo of a man and a woman in bed at the front. He says he has always asked for a packet with this specific image when buying his cigarettes. The photo warning is meant to give the impression that tobacco smoking can cause impotence. He says it’s better than the images of a cancerous growth on someone’s throat.

He took two puffs and a long sip of his Pilsner Lager. The cigarette still burning in his left hand. In my drinking days, I drunk Tusker. Room temperature Tusker Lager. I have a problem with people who say “warm Tusker” or “warm beer.” It gives me the picture of a waitress going to the microwave with their bottle of beer to warm it up. I, however, have a bigger problem with people who drink Pilsner Lager, something is gravely wrong with their tastebuds. I mean, how do you enjoy drinking something that tastes like piss? Don’t ask me how I know how piss tastes like.

To borrow the words of Tyrion Lannister in Game of Thrones, “It’s what I do……I know things.”

I will cut Andrew and his piss-tasting-like drink some slack, he has had a rough weekend. It was Easter Monday when we met, he had woken up that morning since going to bed in the wee hours of Saturday morning. He had gone home with a woman he met at a club in town. He woke up all alone, thinking it was Saturday morning but it wasn’t. He had slept through the Easter Weekend. Dead unconscious.

He did not care about sleeping through the weekend. After all, he had always hated Easter and other holidays that made the weekends longer than usual. To some extent, he hated all weekends. He hated anything that reminded him of his solitude.

Until one year ago Andrew had had the perfect family. Two lovely children. Twins – a boy and a girl. Like most fathers, they were his world. His wife was a pharmaceutical sales representative. They had met at a law firm he worked for when his wife was suing her former employer for wrongful termination. He was initially not working on the case but was brought in because of his closing skills. Her employer settled the matter out of court, leaving her with a handsome settlement. One coffee date led to another and in two years they walked down the aisle at St. Stephen ACK Church.

Things, however, took a turn after just three years of marriage. His wife asked for a divorce and moved out of their house. It’s been one of those ugly divorce processes that suck the life out people. Andrew has not seen his children in the one year they have been separated.

He doesn’t visit his parents anymore, or at least during these holidays. He hates being the only one among his siblings with a broken family. He often finds his eyes tearing whenever he is home watching his brothers’ and sisters’ kids run around their grand mother’s huge compound. He hates it when they sit at the dinner table and all his brothers are served by their wives but he has to serve himself. At times he excuses himself to use the bathroom but truth is, he goes to dry his tears.

He chose to bury himself into work. He now has his own law firm which he says is doing pretty well. When he is not leaving the office at midnight he is at the bar till midnight. He hates the emptiness of his own house. He thinks the house hates the emptiness in his soul too.

Easter Friday was one of those Andrew and his house could not stand each other. He had gone to the bar early, at midday. It was a holiday, nobody was going to give him a ‘bad eye’ for drinking his vodka that early. Not that he even cared if they did.

David has two favorite bars. Kelly’s at Kilimani shops and a popular club in town. He likes Kelly’s because it’s a staggering distance from his house and he doesn’t have to use his car when going to drink there. He hates drink driving but he still does it often. When he goes for a drink straight from the office or on weekends he goes to the club in town. There he mostly drinks his room temperature, Pilsner Lager. He calls it “Pilsner warm” though. I and Andrew can never be friends. I would always be correcting him or making jokes at his choice of drink. You don’t want me doing any of that to you.

Andrew was already in a ‘molten state’ when he left Kelly’s for the club in town. He did not have to go but he was already at that point when drinking where anything goes. Going to the club in town seemed to be the most brilliant idea anyone could come up with at that time. So he got into his car and zoomed to the club. Three minutes drive.

Andrew sat at on the black couches that are near the Dj booth. The club was almost empty despite being a Friday. The counter seats were all empty. Andrew hates the counter seats. He says as much as they are called “sina tabu’ seats, seating at the counter screams stress and depression. He says if you know anyone who likes sitting alone at the counter, check on them.

” I was on my second beer when two chics walked in. One extremely beautiful and the other not so beautiful. The pretty standard way in which girls roll, ” he explained.

“I have never seen two beautiful girls walk together, ” he continued.

“Me too, ” I said nodding in agreement.

The beautiful one wore a colorful dress extending to just above the knees. Short enough to create excitement but long enough to cover the essentials. He doesn’t remember much about what her other friend wore.

The sat on a couch on the farthest side from where Andrew sat. They ordered for Heineken and a quarter bottle of Gilbeys Gin. As to who was drinking what, your guess is as good as mine.

Andrew being the Luo he is, the vodka he had been drinking since midday and the sight of a beautiful woman all conspiring to cloud his judgment decides to summon the waiter.

“Give the light skin girl two of whatever she is drinking and her friend another quarter,” he said with a self-reassuring smile on his face.

When the drinks came the light skin chic smiled in Andrew’s direction. He smiled back. They told the waiter to ask him if he could join them. He did not hesitate.

I still don’t know who bewitched Luo men with light skin women. We need to find him or her for the antidote.

He doesn’t remember her name but remembers she said she worked for an insurance firm and was new in town. She was a good conversationist. Spoke good English albeit with a slight accent that Andrew couldn’t really place.

More drinks flowed and the party moved outside to the tarmac. The club was now getting livelier. More revelers.

Andrew had parked his blue BMW 318 near the club’s entrance. They had been joined by two other acquaintances at their table and one of them was keeping the other girl busy. The light skin chic suggested that they go make out in his car. That was an offer so hard to resist and when they thought no one was paying attention they disappeared into the car for a steamy kissing session.

Andrew’s heart was racing. It was the first time he was kissing anyone since separating from his wife. His body was excited but he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. The alcohol helped. But the chic was so good at what she does with her tongue. His loins were bursting, longing for pleasure. The chic suggested they take it home – exactly what he wanted to hear at 3.00AM.

They settled their bill and left, Andrew obviously intoxicated but with just enough strength to get this car home. He was excited about his catch and could not wait to lay this yellow skin on his bed.

The last thing he remembers is taking a sip of water in his bedroom. He had left the water unattended to when he had gone to the bathroom. He remembers the lady insisting that he drinks the whole of it, that hydrating will prevent him from getting a hangover.

He woke two days later, groggy from the effects of the drug the lady had laced his water with. His phones were not where he usually puts them. He also remembers he came home with someone but he was in bed alone. He staggered to the bathroom to see if someone was there but there was no one. He came back to the bedroom and noticed the drawers had been left open. Inside, his watches were missing. His wallet had been ransacked. The visa debit card he was using to pay his bills on Friday night was nowhere to be seen. So was his ID.

He rushed to draw the sitting room curtains to check if his car was outside. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the car parked in his usual spot. His personal laptop that’s usually on the sitting room floor was gone. The charger was left though, perhaps because it was one of those chargers that looked more like a phone charger than a laptop charger. It was also still plugged in a socket far away from where the laptop was. He realized he had been drugged and robbed. That was not all, his house was also locked from the inside.

Andrew opened the sitting room window and shouted for help. They lived two bachelors in the compound. The other guy never drunk, so, Andrew had trusted him with his spare key.

He opened the door and helped Andrew to his car before driving him to Aga Khan hospital. His urine analysis showed the drugs had cleared from his system.

Andrew’s neighbor is a long time friend of mine. We went to the same High School about a decade and a half ago. I met them together at Kelly’s on Monday afternoon.

He still doesn’t believe that pretty spiked his water (of all the things to spike). He lost a lot of stuff but he says his biggest loss was not “tasting” the girl.

The post ROBBED BY A LADY OF THE NIGHT appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

This car that had been a gift he bought himself at the beginning of the year, was perhaps the most important thing he owned at the moment – a 1998 Mercedes Benz C200. He had always wanted an old school car but when buying their first car, he had to settle for a newer family car. His wife had wanted something more reliable that would not keep them at the garage every weekend. He could not wait to buy this ‘baby’ when he made himself some extra money. It also ended the fights over the family car that he shared with his wife. Brian had hated fights. He was brought up in a family where his parents never fought, at least not openly.

Here he was today. Seated in the car staring at the narrow path that led to the one bedroom extension that would become his new home. His car had in it all his earthly belongings; a couple of clothes and an assortment of documents. The nine thousand shillings in his pockets and the few pending invoices he had of clients he had supplied but were yet to pay was the difference between himself and poverty.

The engine was off. The loud bass beats that characterized his presence in the car were silent that evening. There was no four-year-old baby trying to get his own perception of the world by asking his daddy a hundred questions each minute. No hugs from the little man. No kiss on the cheek. Just silence. Silence punctuated by the sound of his own breath, and now that gentle knock on the window.

“Niko sawa, nilikuwa tu kwa simu kidogo,” he responded. A little lie he thought Mike would buy.

His eyes were still teary. He wondered how his life had gotten to this point again. Everything seemed perfect when their life together had started. He had a job his peers would kill for, they had lived in their own home and then there was the adorable four-year-old boy. But now, there was none of that. Just him, the Mercedes and a new whole life he had no idea how to navigate.

Mike was not one of those nosy landlords. He knew how to mind his own business. He looked about two or three years older than Brian but with a heavier build. Lived alone in the main house. Had an eight or nine-year-old girl who visited over the weekends. I think I would like to have a landlord like Mike, you probably would too. This place was perfect for a do-over. The tranquility of Milimani. No nosy neighbors to ask him a tone of questions regarding why he was moving out here alone.

Brian had seen it all. At 25 he had made his first million bob. This was back in 2006 when a million bob still meant something. You could walk with it into Al-Husnain Motors and get an ex-Japan Toyota Premio – the one they call Premio Nyoka. It was the in thing then. You would still have enough change left to fill your tank and do some shopping for your mum. When you bought a new car back in the day, you had to drive it home and show it to your mother first. It was a huge achievement that your mother had to be given an opportunity to brag about to fellow women at the next chama meeting.

Brian did not buy a car with his first million. In fact, it was a little over a million from a clean business deal. Not government tenders. Not kickbacks. No godfathers. Just a young man working his ass one tiny project at a time.

Brian was a jogger too – not a marathoner but a guy who jogged in the evenings and at times in the morning. He paced his life pretty much the same way he paced his jogging. When out for an evening run he gave himself simple targets; “let me run until that bend” he would tell himself. When he got to the bend he would set a new target. Once in a while after running through a number of targets he would stop to walk a little, reward himself with a sip from his water bottle and would start running again and repeat the process until his target for the evening was done. He applied this with his professional life too.

But Brian had also had his fair share of misfortunes. He had surrounded himself with a lot of people to mask his loneliness. When he had made his first million he had just suffered a breakup that led to a suicide attempt. Deep inside he was emotionally unstable. Most of it from unattended to stress. His girlfriend of two years had brought another man to their bed when he was away traveling for work. He came home to find used condoms in the trash bin. At first, he had found two used cups in the sink. This would not have raised any suspicion but somehow the sight of the two cups made his heart stop. It’s like the universe was giving him a sign. Something told him to look through the trash and boom! There he was, staring at used condoms rolled in tissue paper just the same way she had always rolled their condoms.

He felt his heart sink. Their relationship had been a bit rocky over the past few weeks but he did not expect to come home to this. He did not expect her to disrespect their house like this. When he was going on his trip she had seen him off to the bus station. They had held hands on the way there. They had hugged a little longer before he got into the bus. When he took his seat by the window she was still standing down there waving and smiling. Braving the chill and light evening drizzle. Brian was sure he would come back home to a much better relationship. Then this hit him.

He couldn’t stare at the couch without thinking they had probably had sex there. Despite the Kisumu heat, he couldn’t get into the shower to take a bath without thinking about what they could have possibly done there that weekend when he was away. He got into the bedroom trying to get a fresh set of clothes, the sight of their bed disgusted him. He knew it had been defiled.

He opened his closet and was met with the open box of Femiplan Condoms. Brian had always used Femiplan Condoms with his girlfriend. She was sensitive to hormonal based contraceptives so they settled on using condoms. This was his preferred brand. Not too expensive. Studded and had a lovely strawberry scent. He did not love condoms but it’s the only way they had sex. Their sex life was somewhat boring but they had a great emotional and intellectual connection.

Brian had studied enterprise development, he helped organizations develop sustainable social enterprises. His girlfriend was a nurse who was pursuing a public health degree at a local university over the weekends. They rarely had sex, partly because of their demanding professional lives, partly because Brian hated condoms which would have probably meant the sex was not all that -apart from the few days they had had raw sex.

But here he was, staring at his own condoms. They did not just have sex in their house and on their bed. They used his condoms. I don’t know which of those finished him more.

Brian was distraught. He went and bought a poisonous substance to end his life but not before he confronted his girlfriend and knew why she had decided to betray him like this. He did confront her when she came home that evening.

“What were you looking for in the trash?” She had replied.

That response cut through his soul. He felt betrayed by his best friend. That she did not even try to deny it caused him more pain. He sat on their bed looking at her sitting at the small plastic study table they had fitted in their bedroom for her school work, wondering what had gotten into her. He remembered the day they walked to the bus station holding hands saying nothing with their mouths but a lot with their hearts and gentle stares into each other’s eyes. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. He sobbed. Painfully. He called his mother. He was ready to forgive her but she would not even talk to his mother. His heart broke. His mother’s heart broke too on the other end of the line. She felt sorry for his son. She was worried. That evening she couldn’t sleep. She knew his son, she knew how fragile his heart was. Her instincts were right.

That night, Brian had attempted to kill himself. It was his third and last suicide attempt.

Here he was six years later, feeling lost again. Wondering why unhappiness had to stalk him everywhere he turned.

It took him about 15 minutes to move his bags from the car to the house. He had dropped everything in one corner of the sitting room. There was a mattress on the sitting room floor. His friend had brought it with her earlier when they had come to pay a deposit and rent for the house. They came in her car. He liked the place as soon as he saw it and paid without haggling over the rent.

His friend lived close by. She had convinced him they pass by her place on their way back to town to get some bedding. Brian didn’t mind sleeping on the hard floor, he was just happy that he had finally decided to move out – far away from the violence.

The previous day had been a Sunday. Brian had gone to close some business deal that took longer than expected. It was one of those deals men close in a bar. He had frequently updated his wife on the status – not really on his own will but because he knew how crazy she could get. When he was done he called her to tell her he was coming home. She had told him to stay wherever he was. That she would not open the door for him.

Brian got home to find the padlock to the gate changed. He jumped over and knocked on the door. Silence. His phone calls went unanswered. He got back to the car and drove to a guest house in Milimani. He spent the night there. In the morning he drove back home to change and go to work. His wife demanded to know where he had spent the night. He explained in detail trying so hard to keep calm. Brian hated fights but he loathed morning fights more. They spoiled his entire day. There was however no escaping one this morning.

“Sasa ulikuwa na hao malaya wako, si ndiyo?” She had shouted.

Brian kept quiet.

“Unaniona mimi ni mjinga nakuongelesha na unanyamaza,” she said grabbing Brian by the collar of his shirt and pushing him towards the wall.

He never fought back or hit his wife. He managed to get her hands off his neck and push her away to free himself. She came back charging with her head like a bull. The impact throwing Brian’s back against the wall. He hit the back of his head.

Their son who was asleep woke up and sat by the edge of the bed. He was watching in silence. Not crying. Just staring. It was hard to imagine what was going on in his head. Difficult to know if he understood what was unfolding right in front of his young eyes.

“Stop. I can’t do this anymore. Let me pick up my things and go. I will continue supporting you and the baby as I have always done. Just let me go,” Brian had told her.

Brian loved his son. He was the best thing to have happened in his life. He did not want him growing up thinking it’s okay to be violent. If he stayed here, that was exactly what was going to happen.

“Toka, rudi kwa hao malaya wako,” she shouted moving to his side of the closet and starting to throw his stuff on the floor.

Brian took out his traveling suitcases and threw the clothes inside. Once in a while she would stop him to pick an item she had gifted him. He was only to carry the things he had bought. It did not take long before he had his clothes and documents in the car. He drove off with tears rolling down his cheeks as his wife hurled unprintable words. The neighbors watched in disbelief. They were not so surprised though. If they were it was about how a man like Brian could be so cool in such a situation. How he could leave behind his son and their house just like that. There were rumors that she had cast a spell over him circulating in the neighborhood.

He left without knowing where he would spend the night. He was lucky to find this house online. Lucky that the landlord was likable. Lucky that he still had this one friend he could count on.

When he was done setting things down in the house he cried. He cried bitterly for his son. He asked him to forgive him for bringing him into this life. He wasn’t sure about his belief in God but he prayed and asked him to take away the suicidal thoughts and feeling of defeat. He felt peaceful after.

That night Brian slept on the mattress on the floor. It was a cold night. He had no curtains on the windows. He stared at the light outside with tears still rolling down his cheeks until he fell asleep. He had eaten nothing that night.

That night marked a fresh start for his new life.The day he walked away from a relationship that would have killed him or sent him to prison for murder leaving behind an orphaned son. Painful, but he hoped it will get better when morning light comes in.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The post A FRESH START appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

I notice that other than the few male journalists who are here, there is another man paying close attention to what one particular woman is doing. At times he lightly pats her on the back and offers a gentle smile. At first, I assume that he is one of the trainers from Limau Cancer Connect. I later learn that he actually is a husband to one of the breast cancer survivors.

James Osundwa would have been in Kitale attending to customers at his electrical hardware shop or supervising workers at his farm today. However, he chose to be here. Standing beside his wife and watching her knit away, like the brave gentleman he is. At times he offers her words of encouragement. He has been by her side since the first day they got the shocking news of her diagnosis with stage- three breast cancer and the subsequent mastectomy.

“Breast cancer is not something you can fight alone, you need the whole community around you. There is a stereotype that being diagnosed with cancer is a death sentence and so you need the people closest to you standing by your side.”

While this came out more naturally to James, most women who are diagnosed with cancer do not get the support they need from their spouses. Some men have divorced their wives or even married a second wife when their wives are diagnosed with breast cancer.

Roselyne Buya; James’ wife will be going for a chemotherapy session tomorrow (Wednesday). Her husband will be right there next to her holding her hands as he has always done. Seeing her husband there eases the pain that comes with cancer and the side effects of chemotherapy.

“See how my face looks radiant despite the rigorous treatment I am going through. This is a direct result of the love and support I have received from my husband, my extended family and my employer,” she says.

Roselyne adds that seeing how supportive her husband is, encourages her to keep fighting the disease.

James does not only show up for sessions like this which allow his wife to interact with other survivors and share experiences. After a chemotherapy session such as the one she will have tomorrow, Roselyne will be too weak to do anything for herself. James has taken it upon himself to understand his wife’s nutritional needs and when the medication takes its toll, he will be there to prepare the meals she needs to recover her energy. He also cleans and takes care of her every other need during this time.

“My husband has put aside every important thing he has been doing to walk this journey with me. I feel very special and loved,” says Roselyne.

Nancy Githoitho is the founder of Limau Cancer Connection. She founded the organization after losing her mother to breast cancer. She uses her networks in the US where she lives to fundraise for items like prosthetic breasts for cancer patients who are economically underprivileged. She is here in Kisumu on the invitation of Kisumu Cancer Support Group – a network of cancer survivors and caregivers that both Roselyne and her husband belong to.

Nancy agrees that it is important for men to start supporting their wives who are diagnosed with breast or any other form of cancer like James is doing.

“Having such a loved one holding their hands adds days to a cancer patient’s life. They even heal better. Women want to feel loved and emotionally attached to the special people in their lives and their families during this healing process.”

Women who have undergone mastectomy like Roselyne need the prosthetic breasts to regain confidence in their womanhood. The prosthetics also help women who have had one breast removed to get their balance when walking.

Nancy says that most of the patients who undergo a mastectomy cannot afford commercial prosthetics which go for between Ksh. 30,000 and Ksh. 50,000 (UDS 300 -500). The knitted prosthetics that the women here are being trained to make cost about Ksh. 2,000 (USD 200) to produce. Today though, the yarn has been donated by Nancy’s organization and they will also walk away with free prosthetic breasts.

“Even those who can afford the commercial prosthetics do not like them because they are heavy and sweaty especially in hot areas like Kisumu. ”

Roselyne concludes by encouraging husbands to walk the journey with their wives who are undergoing any form of cancer treatment.

The post RIGHT HERE BY MY SIDE’ – THE STORY OF A BREAST CANCER SURVIVOR AND HER HERO HUSBAND appeared first on Biz Post Daily.

Yes, I understand your confusion. I was equally confused when Dennis explained this to me. For a moment I thought the blunt I had seen him light up moments ago at the parking lot outside 1824 had messed up his head a little – BTW is that a parking lot or you Langata peeps just like parking on the road?

It’s interesting the things people will tell you at a bar when they are high. Even when you are total strangers. Stories often take a personal direction after a few pints (and puffs).

Remember the old Tusker slogan, “makes us equal, has no equal?” well, alcohol truly has a way of making people loosen up to strangers they feel are their equals or have equally interesting lives as long as they are drinking under the same roof (or on the same cabro).

If you want to prove this, imagine you were having an argument with a group of friends and someone says “juzi tukikunywa na Uhuru…”

You clearly know this guy is not in Uhunye‘s league but you also know Uhunye loves his whiskey. Naturally, you will pause to listen to what important state secrets Uhunye divulged in the presence of this guy, because under that roof (or on that cabro), whether real or imaginary Uhunye was “equals” with this guy.

We had been sitting here for three hours now. We had talked about retirement and how people need to plan for it lest they get a rude shock when it happens. We had shared stories about our now retired parents and what they were now up to. I had told him how mine spends most of their sunset years going door to door preaching the JW way. My mum had been so looking forward to it.

We talked about water hyacinth choking the life out of Lake Victoria and of course the mega-corruption in this country. If you want to start a conversation with random peeps at a bar in Kenya today just talk mention an article you read in the recent past about a major corruption deal. On this Tuesday it was the famous multi-billion dam scam. We also talked about the weather – it was a hot and windy afternoon. For some reason, Dennis still had his jacket on. The necktie was just slightly loosened around his white shirt. The breast pockets had the initials ‘D.N’ – I guess they were initials for his name and not Daily Nation. I asked him if he knew Stanley Ogejo. He is the only other lawyer I know who wears white shirts with his initials ‘I.S. Ogejo’ on his breast pocket.

Dennis had seen me stare into the direction of a girl who was singing in the band area. It was karaoke night here and Nairobi peeps take their karaoke a little too seriously. Some people were here by two o’clock. I came in at around four o’clock. Dennis joined a few minutes later.

He asked me if I liked her. I smiled and said I just liked how she sang. She was doing Afro by Les Wanyika backed up by the band. I explained to him that I am married. He looked at my hands. I wasn’t wearing a ring. So I smiled and took a sip of my room temperature Tusker.

“She is married too, but you do know you can be married to two people,” he said. Then smiled. He leaned over as if to tell me a story. I instinctively leaned towards him to hear what he had to say. As a writer, you never run away from an opportunity for good gossip. Might be the subject for your next bestseller.

“Be careful what you tell a writer, it might end up in a story,” I had warned him.

“As long as you don’t identify me in your stories,” he replied. I smiled again and took another sip.

Deno (let’s call him that because Dennis is now a mouthful) looks like one of those cool guys who seem to have it all together. Works at a top Nairobi law firm handling several corporate accounts. He hates litigation, he says “that’s for lawyers who want to die poor.” Married for six years with one child who is now four. Just after she was born, their hitherto perfect family life took a different turn.

Out of the blues, their once peaceful home had become the last place he wanted to go to after a long day in the office.

Imagine after a day at work dealing with clients who think they know more than you do but have never seen the inside of a law class to coming home to deal with a woman who is louder than Omega One and Soul Sound put together.

If you were born after 1990 you would not know who/what Omega One, Soul Sound or DS Njoroge were.

These were the days of the ASK show. I don’t know about how it happened in Nairobi so I will describe from what I know best – the Kisumu ASK Show. Popularly just referred to as “Kisumu Show.”

Kisumu Show was an event people looked forward to for 12 whole months. It was bigger than Christmas and lasted four to five straight days. If your boyfriend did not take you to Kisumu Show, you would dump him for a guy who could. You would dance to Dj Ogweno’s Omega One all night, occasionally playing hide and seek with flying bottles as ‘Jo Obunga‘ fought with ‘Jo Nyalenda‘ over Anyango. Anyango would be a girl who was brought to the disco but decided to change allegiances midstream. That ‘act of treason’ would cause inter-estate wars.

Kisumu show was so important that if a Luo man wanted to tell you that you were beautiful he would just say “Iromo tero e show” (you are worth taking to Kisumu show).

Omega One was loud. So loud you would be standing outside Homeboyz Disco and all you would be listening to is music playing from Omega One.

Deno says whenever he got home his wife would be as loud as Omega One and Soul Sound combined.

They would fight about the calls Deno got. Fight about how Deno talked. Fight about how Deno threw his socks all over. Fight about texts from Njoki the intern, Sylvia the colleague and a string of other female friends in Deno’s life.

Sadly though these fights moved from words to physical fights. Deno is one of those dudes who was brought up in a ‘good Christian family.” Taught not to drink, not to smoke and never to hit a woman.

The latter lesson was from his father. He might have ignored his mother’s lesson but his father’s he did not. After all, he is his father – he carries his name ( I would have added and DNA but we can never be too sure of that these days).

The wife knew Deno would never get violent. He would cheat, drink and come home late but would never lift a finger to hit her. Maybe just hold her down or push her to a corner to restrain her.

So she fought….and fought hard. Hit him in his sleep.

Have you ever woken up feeling pain all over your body after a night of drinking and wondered if someone hit you in your sleep? For Deno, this was real. Not imaginary. He would be woken up by blows when drunk. At times whopped properly – I mean when you are thoroughly drunk how do you even restrain your attacker or defend yourself?

There is nothing as bad as your neighbors knowing your wife beats you. You ninjas remember the memes when Weta reported to a police station that he was assaulted by the wife?

It does not matter how cleaned up or important you are at work or whatever car you drive when your neighbors know you are whopped in the house by the “Mrs” you are finished.

You can’t drink at the local. You will be there ordering a beer at 8.30 PM and your neighbors are like “si uende tu home Baba Nanii, hatutaki drama na bibi yako.” You will leave in shame and they will stay drinking and making jokes about you.

Add on to that being publicly humiliated at times at your place of work or at a club in town when the wife decides to push her craziness a notch higher.

Deno became depressed. There is nothing as having problems and not being able to drown them in whiskey. His life became miserable.

That was until Deno met Crystal. He says they met at work.

Not sure what work was this that brought together a lawyer and a career marketer neither are the details important for this story.

He says he worked with Crystal on a project. Exchanged a ton of formal emails and a few phone calls. One day he decided to DM Crystal on Whatsapp when she was on her leave.

That DM conversation would change their relationship forever.

It started as a simple “I wish we could exchange places” text.

Deno was in the office dealing with clients who think they know better but were never at Moi University’s School of Law with him and his “Omega One” in the house while Crystal was lying by the pool at a  beachfront hotel in Ukunda reading The Art of The Pitch by Peter Coughter.

Crystal predictably replied “be careful what you wish for.”

They exchanged a number of texts that afternoon. Deno got to know more about her. She was married to an engineer who worked in Turkana. She had three kids, all girls.

She also got to know more about Deno. That he was married. That the wife had a business she ran from the house. About their girl, about the things Deno loved about his work and, of course, the things he hated. Still, he was glad to have the job. He knew so many of his peers who would wish they had his job.

Crystal had noticed Deno. Yes noticed. How could she not? He was a guy who was smart, handsome and really good at what he does.

On her part, she was equally good at what she does. Was respected in her company which is a multinational beverage manufacturer. In some of these companies, it’s very difficult for locals to gain respect – white guys with sh*t education are usually treated as better peeps just because of their skin color. Crystal though was respected.

Her husband is usually gone for months on end. He is working on an important project for the country – though not a government or state corporation employee. Works for an international firm. They own their Karen house, kids go to those Groups of Schools for Nairobi one percent – the elder two. The youngest one is still at home with the nanny.

Crystal is also one year older than Deno.

She had however not imagined that Deno would be interested in her. So they texted more often and talked about everything from the weather to traffic to politics over the next three months.

The first DM was sent in August, by November that year they were exchanging nudes and flirting all the time.

While there was nothing wrong with Crystal’s marriage other than the fact that her husband was away most of the time, she found comfort in Deno’s availability. They could talk about anything and everything. Deno was also a year younger meaning they were age mates compared to the husband who was 30 years older.

Crystal says she got married at 20 while still in campus. Her husband was the first guy she had had sex with. Deno would be the second (but maybe hapo alidanganywa).

Let’s go back a bit. This guy was 50 and a loaded engineer and fighting over campus chics with campus dudes. Karma is really a bitch. See how it served him 12 years later! Enyewe malipo ni hapa papa duniani.

What had happened in between is that Crystal and Deno got to know each other more, she sympathized and more importantly they connected more than they connected with their real spouses.

So I ask why they just can’t get a divorce and marry each other.

Deno says he can’t, he is so attached to his daughter. Crystal too can’t leave her husband because of the kids. Also because the husband has never hurt her in any way. She just connected differently with Deno.

Deno and Crystal treat each other as husband and wife. They have two joint businesses, run two bank accounts too. Every year they synchronize their leave days so that they can at least travel somewhere for a week together.

When he was finished I was in shock. I was not aware that such things happened in real life – looked like something off a movie script, but that was Dennis and Crystal’s twisted web.

Is someone else married to your spouse out there?  You just never know.

cover Image courtesy of pexels.com

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