Love & Heartbreak

“Look here, I still don’t understand why you have to do this to me…”

“What? What in Heaven’s sake are you talking about?” you innocently ask.

“You very well know what I mean…why are you so selfish? What have I done to deserve this?” she says, breaking down into a teary mess.

You still have no idea why she’s acting like this. You’ve woken up and you find her curled up like a puppy at the edge of your bed. She’s sobbing uncontrollably, and like the good old clueless man you are; you try to soothe her first.

‘Don’t you dare touch me!” she hisses, almost biting your head off.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Your hands retreat to your lap and you are reduced to looking at her. She looks small wearing your oversize Ralph Lauren shirt.


Like something you can cuddle.

Your back is propped up against the wall sporting your Calvin Klein boxers. You’ve never felt this helpless in your life.

You don’t understand where this kerfuffle came from.

Alyssa had slept over for the night after date night the previous night. She looked normal alright. You got back to your apartment. Her slipping in your shirt and snuggled in your embrace till you both fell asleep. And being the heavy sleeper you are, she obviously woke up before you.

At least you remember that is what happened.

‘Look, hun, is anything the matter?” you tread carefully as these are volatile waters.

She ignores you while giving you the death gaze. She’s stopped sobbing apart from the occasional sniffle here and there, rocking back and forth on the bed staring blankly at the Persian rug on the floor.

You might as well go make breakfast than stand there trying to figure out whether it’s you or her hormones.


*Rewind 10 hours back*

“You know how Tony Mo calls it?” Afolabi asked, throwing his head back in a mild laugh, “he calls it vodoski, and you, my dear friend, have drunk too much,” he said, to no one specifically. It’s boys night out and you and your particular breed of friends are at your favourite bar in Kitengela; waiting for the kickoff to the much-anticipated Manchester Derby (It’s Manchester City versus Manchester United, to my readers who are vaguely uninterested in football) and you really love how this opportunity is serving you. You know, Tusker flowing like the Nile, nyama choma and the usual mutura you can’t get back at South C.

You know Afolabi is the typical kind of alpha male. The main man in your pack of wolves (Read-hyenas). But his is an interesting story.

He has two sides.

The Afolabi with a stunning woman draped on his arms and his other rather tame alter ego.

Tamed by his woman.

Any female would fall for his fluid lines and deceptive charm. You have always wanted to be like him; you know; the women, the class, the money.

The atmosphere is slightly subdued with heavy jazz tones. This is your third shot of vodka and you’re still riling to go. You rarely drink. Drink is for the weak. And that is what you are right now.


You lean over the countertop and reach out for a bottle of triple distilled Smirnoff.

“So this is what you do when you’re not writing,” a feminine voice speaks – vaguely familiar.

You turn to your side.

Afolabi with a stunning woman draped on his arm.



Hold up.


“Let me introduce you to my bar girl here, Imanda, this is Annazzitta,” Afolabi says, seemingly answering the puzzled look on your face.

“We have met before, haven’t we?” she asks with a knowing look on her face.

“Ummm…yes…yes, we have?”

“And shall we discuss your latest story over a drink?” she says, cleverly unwrapping herself from Afolabi’s arm.

Like a gift.

“Umm…absolutely, be my guest,” you say – quite sure that you have set yourself on a path from which there is no return.

She takes two glasses of brandy and leads you to a table at the furthest end of the bar.

Déjà vu.

It was like the lightning that announced the coming thunder.

She was wearing a soft sea-blue laced dress, slashed to the knee and a dark blue flimsy bun scarf to match. The dim lighting accentuating her nut-brown skin.

You both sit at the table. A comfortable distance from the main floor of the bar. With a partition to accord the necessary privacy.

If its darkness we are having let it be extravagant.

The Dilemma cannot be solved by mere dancing and waltz. It will be solved by bloodshed. Passion. Blood. Red. Wine. Drunk from the Cup Christ poured His blood. And course through your veins like Yeshua. Like Moses and His Staff. Like Jesus and His Wine.


“Are you okay, you seem rather distracted,” you hear her say – the voices in your head just can’t seem to stop – and neither are they making any sense.

“No…No, I’m alright, just a little too much vodka,” you reply.

Your head is swirling, and so are her words, you take a gulp of the brandy in your hand. You really don’t know whether it’s the alcohol or her that’s firing you up.

“Let me cut to the chase, you know from the very first time I saw you back at Pepino’s, a feeling has been gnawing into me, eating into my insides,” she says – the conversation taking a completely different turn.

“ghhghg…Sorry?” You ask, choking on your brandy.

“You never seemed to leave my mind. My fucking head. I’m pretty sure I didn’t just meet you for nothing. That fairly warm evening. In a lonely place. Over a warm mocha,”

“Oh…well, that experience stuck with me too,”

“You feel sort of fictional. Like someone I’d have to pay to meet. I don’t even know how to explain this,” she says, her eyes turning a shade darker than her hair.

Everything just became tense.

She moved in for the kill, and just like all your other experiences, it was as if you were watching it from afar.

“Sometimes we don’t have to fight our own animal instincts, should we?” she crooned, slowly closing the distance.

The distance between your two faces. Her lips. Her oriental fragrance. Still the same.

You slowly removed her glasses, cupped her face in your hands and leaned in.

Passion.Blood.Fire.(For the lack of a better description of the feeling)

Her eyes almost closed with the sweet pain of desire. Desire that tore through her like a sword. Desire that made her body tremble against yours. Desire that made her breath come out slightly laboriously.


Desire that turned Samson over to Delilah. That Philistine babe.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do anything stupid please,” you say, out of breath.

“Why should you be sorry?” she replies, starved and hungry.

“Oh come on Ana…I can’t do that. I told you I can’t. I just…”

“Woman up,” she asserts, giving you both no time and space to recollect your thoughts, and presses her lips hard against yours.

And just like Judas was betrayed by Jesus, beset us our sins to cleanse us from goodness.

Voices play in your head, just like in the House Of Atreus.

Her entire essence takes over you. Her animal urges now dictate the pace.

And at the very back of your mind.

You know.

That you’re cheating on her.

With this Philistine babe.


Becky with the good hair.


Love & Heartbreak

It’s half past five, eight minutes shy of 1738.

The weather; temperate, and Nairobi’s vibrant night life is just about to begin. You are not alone, it’s your birthday and Alyssa is treating you out (Oh, and did I forget to mention that you two are dating?) She holds your hand as you exit IMAX at 20th Century Plaza after watching Logan. You cross Mama Ngina street where stands Dedan Kimathi’s iconic statue and she leads you to Pepino’s Pizza at Moi Avenue. You climb up the stairs and head over to the coffee lounge. The place is half full.


You cannot stand crowded places. There is a girl (She looks likes she’s from USIU) typing fluidly on a sleek MacBook Air. Her phone with the Mickey Mouse cover on the side.

Alyssa buys two cappuccinos and you sit on the balcony overlooking Nairobi traffic. French Montana’s Unforgettable is on play and the ambient lights stage a dance in the mirrors on the opposite wall, saturating the entire atmosphere with a lazy feeling.

“Hun,”Alyssa purrs.


You make small talk with her as you try to make coherent sense of your relationship with her. You knew it wasn’t right from the beginning but you both drifted towards each other from the very first time you met at the party.

This relationship.

Her addiction to you.

She had already hinted at moving in your apartment but you still wanted to put her on hold. It was too early. She excuses herself and says she needs to dash downstairs and greet a friend or whatever. You take out your phone and try to pass time by playing Tetris (Yes, Tetris) but you can’t seem to get to level two because you had opened a window in your mind and escaped.

At the corner of your eye is a woman. She’s sitting at the furthest end of the lounge and you decide she’s Indian (From M.M Patel or wherever) You notice there’s this little game you’re playing with her. You check her out. She checks you out.

The adult version of Peek-a-boo (See what I did there?) She’s nursing her coffee mocha and you can tell from her body language that she was yearning for something. A certain wistfulness in her eyes that you can’t really place. After what seems like an eternity, she stands up, coffee mocha in hand and walks towards your table.

“Is anyone sitting here?” she asks.

Of course, there is someone, in fact, your girlfriend, but since you are not the kind of person to close doors that haven’t been closed yet; you say no.

She pushes back her long, wavy auburn hair with this brief jerk of her head.

You notice the red smear of lipstick on the tip of her cup.

Just the tip.

“I saw you here and thought you look so familiar…wait…you are a blogger…Authentic African, right?” she asks


“I knew it! Oh, my God, it is you…I’ll have to be honest with you…your stories…”

“What about my stories?” you ask.

“Well, I’ve just finished rereading your work for the third time this evening and I just can’t…..just can’t stop drowning myself in the emotions…..It’s like a Nolan Keats kind of thing…I…umm…”

“Aha…go on,” You prod her further.

“They turn me on,”

“Oh, well…Uuhh…thank you?”

You are quite flattered because one; it is not every day that you get a stunning woman talking to you and two; she says that whatever you write arouses her.

And trust me, I’m not using hyperbole when I say that she is ripe (If you say it in Kiswahili, it brings out the meaning I intend you to know, yes, that one)

She tells you that she is half Palestinian, half Israeli. That she has a younger brother who is a recording artist in Rabat, Morocco (Yours is still flirting with clueless High School girls) You learn that she lives in Kilimani. That leafy suburb.

And slowly, very slowly, you fall in a trance. The music and the traffic noise fades into the background, reduced to a fuzz.

At this point in time, Alyssa seems so small, so insignificant.

She’s wearing a push-up bra, with a bomber jacket halfway her shoulders. She has two piercings; one on her navel and the other just above the curve of her exquisitely shaped eyebrow. Her ripped Balmain skinny jeans the 50th shade of Grey- and monochrome Fenty’s that bordered on New Yorkan high fashion.

Ah yes, the pockmark on her left breast.


Her voice seemed like that of water before a waterfall. The slight half bend of her upper lip as though she was hiding an exciting secret. Her tattoo- a Black Star of David with the points peeking out of her bomber jacket every time she moved her hands this way and that way.

She had this oriental fragrance-sandalwood with a tinge of shisha.

“Hey, …you look distracted…anything the matter?” she asks, twirling her index finger around the rim of her cup. Her cheeks full of colour.

“Nah…Nah…I’m fine,” you lie.

Your emotions are turning inside of you. You refuse to accept the fact that a woman makes you feel like this.

This emotional mess.

“Can I show you something? It’s on my phone, “she says.

“Yeah, sure,” you say; unconsciously subdued.

You both lean over the table, she takes her phone and shows you some pictures in her gallery. You use your finger to swipe forward, and at this moment, she places hers on top of yours.

For a split second, your eyes lock.




Her lips parted.

It was like a conversion experience Saul struck by light on his way to Damascus.

“.…I’m not your typical mzungu girl,” she says, in a voice that turns you into mush.

In this unexpected turn of events, you see Alyssa’s reflection on the mirror, at the periphery of your vision, returning from wherever she went to.

The girl stands up and picks her phone. She touches your shoulder and gives you a peck, just above the curve of your lower lip; a subtle hint at what you could have had, but never will.

The hairs of your emotional being standing on end.

“Who was that Becky-with-the-good-hair?” Alyssa asks with this salty look on her face and venom in her voice.

“Just a fan,” you answer, rather absent-mindedly, no need in complicating matters.

She’s left her cup behind, yes, the one with the red lipstick smear. You pull it to your side and you notice a piece of paper sticking out under the cup.

You take it and read.

You don’t know when she wrote it, or even when she put it under the cup.

It has a number.

And a name.



Love & Heartbreak

You are an 18-year-old. A blogger to be precise. Your life is a mix of both post-high school memories and trying to step into the shoes of tender adulthood. You’ve attended a few parties here and there; all of which you most probably talked to some pretty bird (And told her you own a blog, of course)

She is mildly interested as you ramble on about the kind of stories you write and what a following you have; and you’re saving to buy a domain (You lie; because every shilling you get either ends up in your stomach or as airtime)


She says while checking whether her girlfriend has texted her. You try to cover for your utter lack of charm by asking her for a dance (Clearly knowing you have two left feet – but you saunter on nevertheless – no son of Koitalel ever backs off from a woman)

“A dance?”

She asks, with this look on her face that speaks volumes about your scant knowledge of history – or rather, current affairs. It hits you hard that the year is 2017 and not 1978 when you could just talk up a female and ask for a waltz.


“Uhmmm…ah…I mean, don’t you want to grab a drink?”

You ask a second time, you are sweating at the armpits and you thank the benevolent gods that you wore a jacket – lest she smells fear.

“Well, I guess I don’t mind,”

You realize you have not been breathing for the last what? 50 seconds? And you sigh and inhale before you pass out.

She said yes.

“What’s your name again?…ah..don’t tell me,” She closes her eyes pretending to remember a name you never told her.

You will probably never know whether she ever did remember.

You take two Coke cans, open them and hand her one. (Coke; one because hard liquor has never seen the inside of your stomach; and two, you still live in your mother’s place and any of her offspring who as much smells like alcohol is banished to the shed)

You talk with her and you find out that you both share a passionate love for smokie pasua, chapo madondo, nyama choma (Ah…a true Nairobian) and dry jokes – the Trevor Noah kind. You pleasantly resign to the fact that she’s not one of these hare-brained Nairobi girls who insist you take them out to Java or Coldstone; when you can barely afford a decent meal of ugali (That’s the glitterati type – with an Instagram following as big as her ego and a billion-dollar attitude)

She tells you she lives in Kahawa Sukari and you reply in a surprised voice; that you also live there (Although you have never been anywhere past Nairobi)

Somewhere in between this téte-a-téte, you begin to notice her full lips; the way she arched her eyebrow every time she asked a question; her Tom Ford Fleur de Portofino perfume; her dark, dense, short, kinky hair; the womanly slowness of her gait; her nose ring that caught light everytime she shook her head this way and that way; and maybe, just maybe, the way she ran her hands through her hair whenever you smiled.

She notices your second hand Ralph Lauren shirt from Muthurwa market, your vans for shoes (that you stole from your brother) the way you kept on smoothing that crease on your shirt and blushing like a 10-year old girl.

“Are you shy?” She asks.

“Me?…Uhmm..yes…I mean no,” you stutter.

You feel thoroughly embarrassed and exposed as you try to hide your hands in your pockets.

“You’re cute.”

“You’re not so badly off yourself,”

You calmly say, trying hard not to reveal the inner turmoil that is raging inside you. You have never felt like this; not ever since Beatrice-with-the-long-legs left you two years ago.

“Follow me.”

And since you have no other choice – you follow her into one of the many rooms in the house.

She sits you on the bed and closes the door behind her. This is the point where all the sex education classes back in school come flooding back. You try to recall what was said about contraceptives and safe days.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Uhmm..what?” You ask-and your blood pressure rises.

She comes and sits next to you and whispers in your ear. Naturally, something awakens in your pants and there is nothing you can do about it. You don’t want her to start thinking that you are one of the easy ones. So you start to think of everything that turns you off (Ashy elbows, city council toilets and saggy tits) but none of this works because her hand is now on your crotch.

Now you try to remember whether you had a Durex tucked in your wallet because you cannot – I repeat – cannot let this chance pass.

It’s a rollercoaster ride from here and you earnestly wish you never met her in the first place. She’s got you cornered- and when you’re most vulnerable.

“What do you want?” you ask.

“To be in Hell with you,”

She says in the midst of her soft moans, digging her nails deeper into your back. Her eyes a different colour altogether. Her back arched. With every move, her patience stretched to the limit. Her eyes shut in bliss. Her moans turned into demands.

You still remember the look on her face, frozen in your memory. Her expression contorted in a confusing mix of pleasure and anger.

All this time your mind was clear. Calm. You felt detached from your body; from what you were doing. It was as if you were watching it from afar.

You hear her let out a lustful gasp – as she breaks into a shattering orgasm. A feeling of pride wells up inside of you – you’ve been able (quite miraculously, of course) to satisfy a female.

You dress up, kiss her goodbye and leave.

You feel empty. You feel frustrated. You feel unfulfilled. You feel tired, desecrated and filthy. The kind of tiredness that weighs on your spirit and drains you of all emotion.

Her name is Alyssa.

She was using you.

And you loved it.