24th August 2010

933

She comes straight to my office from work. She’s an English teacher, which means she’s got a studious air. She’s bedecked in a light green one-button coat, of course fastened deliberately because she’s a teacher and the world expects something from teachers. Her shoes are proper – the type you hear clanking importantly down school corridors, sending kids scampering to their desks. Teachers seem to have a walk that accountants don’t. “Aren’t you dressed like a proper mwalimu? I feel like I need to behave!” I tell her as she walks through the door, because with English teachers you always feel like you have to mind your Ps and Qs. 

“I look too serious? Will this make me more approachable?” She unbuttons her coat and lets it hang loose. 

“Better,” I reply. 

She sits and looks through the glass walls of our office, to the sweeping vistas of windmills on Ngong Hills, right down past the meandering Southern Bypass and the skyline where planes disappear to land. “This is a beautiful view,” she remarks. 

“You should see it at  night when the lights come on,” I tell her perching myself at the edge of my desk. “Tea or juice?” 

I send for juice from Java. “Where is Fred?” she asks looking at Fred’s unoccupied desk. 

Well, Fred has already left. See, he just got back from his beach honeymoon. He’s now a proper husband, so he’s probably at home now, having evening tea with Mama Zenani, talking and cackling.

Her juice comes. She says, “Where do we begin?” 

Her story goes back ten years when she had just started her teaching career and was living in a bedsitter in a block of apartments along Thika Road. On this block were shops on the ground floor where she’d often stop by after work to pick up something; bread, milk, eggs, a matchbox, tissue paper or cooking oil. Seated outside the shop, on a long bench, were chaps just whiling away time. Most of these chaps would sit outside the second hand furniture shop talking boisterously as men do when they are sitting on a bench outside a second hand furniture shop. She had a young son, but since she was barely scraping through life, she had sent him to live with his grandma until she settled down financially. 

Whenever she would go to the shop these boys would holler at her. They’d say, “Sasa Mueni.” “Mambo Mueni?” “Leo unakaa poa Mueni.” “Mueni utakunywa soda leo?” You know, just guys shooting in the dark. Harmless banter. She was always friendly but she wasn’t about to fall for any of those monkey tricks again. The last time she fell for them she got a baby and the baby daddy jumped ship. So, no, Mueni was not going to have a soda. 

But there was this one chap who caught her eye. He stood out because of his silence. “He would never say anything to me, a very quiet guy. Always very smartly dressed,” she says. 

She could tell that he was different. How he sat there, legs crossed, clean sneakers, shirts that looked well taken care of, his hair shaved and oiled. While most smoked or occasionally drank alcohol, he didn’t. “He was a head taller than the rest when he stood, dark and good-looking,” she says. “He had a slight limp when he walked but you wouldn’t notice it unless he was walking fast. He also had a scar running under his arm.”  Later he would tell her that he got cut by iron sheets in upcountry when he was a boy. 

He didn’t have the courage to speak to her but he somehow got her number and rang her one day. He said he was Ng’ash from the shop and she immediately knew who he was. He sounded hesitant. “He said he wanted to see me, but not at the shop,” she says. So they met after school. 

“He was the inquisitive type. Very interested in knowing about me, my job, my family. I told him about my son who was staying with my mom. He asked why I couldn’t stay with him and I told him I couldn’t afford it,” she says. Soon he started walking her home from school after work. “He would call me at 4pm after classes and say, ‘I’m outside the gate.’ Then he would walk me to my flat,” she says. He was a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. He never rushed to invite himself up, like most guys we know. We won’t mention names here today. He would chat her up downstairs and end by saying, “Sawa, see you tomorrow?” It happened for so long until she thought, aii, kwani is he waiting for the lunar eclipse?

One day she invited him up. He stood in the middle of her one-room digs looking around at her meagre existence. His head almost touched the overhead bulb. It was evening, so the light from the bulb hit the middle of his head giving the impression that he was the one emitting light. She had a meko in the corner,  utensils, a bed and a makeshift wardrobe on which her teacher-clothes hung. Shoes in a corner. There were no seats. The bed was the seat. “I think you should be staying with your son,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He had long legs and bony knees. She made him tea and they sat next to each other on the bed, sipping tea from cheap porcelain mugs and talking. Rather, she talked, he listened. 

Eventually she gave him a spare key and not long after, she came back from work one day to find she had new furniture; a cabinet, a big flat screen television, a small carpet, more utensils. The house looked different. When she called him excited and confused he said, “I think you should look for a bigger house. I want you to bring your son to live with you.” So she got a bigger house in a new block of flats. He paid the three month deposit and rent for a couple of months. After a month she brought her son over. 

They were officially dating. He would spend most nights at her house.  He was doing business, at least that’s what he said; a supplier of electronics. “I never really knew where he lived. The first time I asked him he didn’t say exactly where, but he gave me a general direction,” she says. He was not the type of guy who stayed in the house for too long but when he was in, he would cook for them or just watch music videos, mostly Kikuyu Gospel songs or Kikuyu secular music. Guys like Kaka Man, a guy from Kandara who has sung a song called “Clearing and Forwarding.” (I’m not even making this up). There is Ben Githae, Hezeh Ndungu the Akorino star, Muigai wa Njoroge, Daniel Kamau otherwise known as “DK”. This guy kills Gatanga chicks. These chaps calmed Ng’ash. 

He never raised his voice, Ng’ash. He moved around the house like he had paws and not feet. Quiet chap. Even though he was only twenty seven years old then, he carried his age with a commanding maturity like he was forty five years.

He would be away on business for several days and come back to her. He was kind, generous and understanding and she was in love with him, his bony knees, kind face and the scar on his arm. “One day he came home from a trip to Kitale and he looked restless, which was unlike him because he was the kind of guy who never wore his emotions on his sleeve,” she says. “He locked himself in the washroom, saying he had stomach issues.” When he came out he went to the door and locked it even though it was barely 7pm and their neighbourhood was secure. 

“Under no circumstances should that door be opened for anyone,” he told her in a tone she had never heard him use. A scared tone. That evening he sat on the sofa, saying even less than he normally would. “He looked jumpy,” she says. 

Shortly after 9pm there was a knock on the door. He nearly jumped out of his skin. He pointed at her and said, “Don’t open that door.” She was confused. “Why not?” she asked. “Just don’t!” he said, moving to the end of the room. Another knock. The voice of the caretaker came from behind the door, “Mueni, the police are here.” She looked at him. Cops? What-in-the-f**k! Cops?!

“I was terrified,” she recalls. “I felt sick; suddenly having an urge to go to the bathroom.” 

The door was now being pounded. A gruff cop voice said, “Fungua hii mlango saa hii!” She felt her knees giving away. She leaned against the wall and looked at him. He was shaking his head and mouthing, “Don’t!” 

Above the door was a glass pane. The cops removed the putty around it and wedged it out. Then they showed them a teargas canister and told them that if they didn’t open the damned door they would lob the teargas into the house and smoke them out. “Now I was literally shaking.” Screw it. She opened the door.

They were three cops. Two in civilian clothes with those dodgy baggy jackets that cops wear. They were all big men but one of the cops was the size of Mount Longonot. He loomed large at the door. They had guns. They looked like they were not there to drink tea or listen to DK’s music. The one in uniform had big black shoes that shone in the light of the corridor. They brushed past her, filling her house with aggressive energy. Suddenly it felt like there were too many men in her house. They seemed to fill every space. They had that disposition of men who had been to the darkest ends of the city and they didn’t mind staying if you wished them to. 

One guy hit Ng’ash in the face with the butt of his gun and he went down. Then a butt landed on the side of his stomach. He let out a wounded moan. They kicked his ribs as he curled into a fetal position trying to protect his head and vitals. The uniformed cop, a badass with a strong, square jaw planted his boot on Ng’ash’s throat and shouted, “WHERE THE FUCK IS THE GUN?” in Kiswahili. Across the room she thought to herself, Gun? Gun? GUN? What gun?!! You got the wrong house. We don’t have guns here, we listen to Kikuyu gospel music. This is Ng’ash, he’s a good man

The uniformed cop kept kicking and beating him, shouting that they needed the gun while the rest turned the house upside down. They ripped through the sofas with knives, pulled down picture frames, tore the mattress, emptied drawers, looked in the bathroom and in cabinets and knocked shit over. “They even ripped open packets of flour and rice and poured everything into the sink. I wondered, why would anyone keep a gun in a flour?!” she says. 

He kept insisting that he didn’t have a gun and they kept beating and kicking him. When it was clear that there was no gun, one of the cops, the one with a thin moustache said, “Mama, kuja.” She was terrified, she stood there, thinking I’m not going to this cop. “Mama kuja hapa!” he repeated, this time not so kindly. So she went and he held her hand and walked her to the bathroom and told her to get in. She was now shaking like a leaf in a storm. She thought, okay, today I get raped. This man is going to lock himself with me in there and rape me. Or kill me. Her only consolation was that her son was away visiting.  But the cop said, “Do not leave that bathroom under any circumstances.” Then he locked her in. From there she could hear her man crying and pleading. It went on for thirty minutes and when the door opened, Mount Longonot was standing there. “We are leaving with your husband,” he announced. 

“I asked where they were taking him! He sarcastically said, ‘Tunampeleka Mombasa.’” She laughs. When she went to the living room she saw what they had done to him. He had blood coming out of his mouth and thin, fresh wounds on his arms where they had burned him with the side of a hot iron box. 

They left with him.

“The next day at the police station I learned that he was a robber. He and a bunch of other guys were breaking into people’s homes and maybe even worse. A pastor he had robbed came and identified him at the police station. His two accomplices had been nabbed and worked to reveal where he lived. They ratted him out,” she says. “Apparently in one of the robberies he had cut his finger and I remember him coming home with it bandaged. When they sent his blood sample to the lab, it matched the sample from the scene of the crime.”

“Were you shocked?” 

“Yes. I was shocked and disappointed and embarrassed that the man who had gone to visit my parents to ask for my hand was a thug. That he’d break into people’s homes and rob them violently. This very quiet man. I was confused.” 

At the cop station were his brothers and his mother, who seemed unperturbed by the turn of events. When she was allowed to see him in the cell, she asked him if the allegations were true, if he did what the cops were saying he did. He said, “No. Don’t believe them.” 

The case dragged on for months and in that time while he was in remand, he would still send her money for rent and for her daily use. He would call her and tell her, “I’m going to send you money but you have to withdraw it immediately I send it. It’s important that you withdraw it as soon as I send it, okay?” After six months the pastor agreed to drop the case if he was paid back all they stole. Then he was out. He came back home. 

“Why did you stay knowing that this man was a bad man?” I ask. 

“I don’t know. Love? Loyalty?” She shrugs. 

Life continued. He would often have his friends over to have meetings at the balcony. Then they would leave. Sometimes he would be back, other times he would call to say he would be back in the morning. She would find money in the house. “One time he called and said ‘There is money under the bed, please count it for me and arrange it well.’ I went and found almost a million shillings,” she says. She did his banking because he didn’t have an account. 

He would come home late at night sometimes and leave early in the morning. He bought a matatu and put it on the road and started a pig farm. Some days he would just sit in the house, watching his Kamaru videos, nodding to DK. She never saw a gun in the house but she saw bullets fall from his pockets when she was folding his clothes to put in the dirty laundry basket. He never changed, he was the same gentle guy who cooked and loved her and her son. When he was not going to come home for the night he would call and say so. 

“So, you completely ignored the other side of his life?”

“Well, I once confronted him and he said I was free to leave,” she says. “It wasn’t that simple. I enjoyed the luxury but I also loved him as a person. He was very good to me.”

One weekend in August 2010 he called her and said, “Come to the CBD, we need to shop.” “He loved good clothes and was a sharp dresser. That day he bought me clothes and he bought himself official clothes, which was strange because he never wore official clothes,” she says. “We did our rounds in town, shopping and then we had something to eat and he put me in a taxi to head home. He said he would come later, that he had some things to do.” 

She went home with the new clothes. At 6:30pm she cooked dinner then waited for him as she watched television. By 7:30pm he still hadn’t showed up so she phoned him. He didn’t answer. She called again at 9pm, and the phone rang endlessly. At 10pm, his phone was off. She went to bed worried, because it was out of character. She snatched pockets of sleep, expecting to hear the front door open. When she woke up, she checked her phone for any messages or missed calls. Nothing. His phone was still off. She decided to take the day off and wait for him in the house that day. She couldn’t eat. She sat as if waiting for a train. She stood at the window, trying his phone. Whenever she heard footsteps outside the door she would open the door, expecting him to find him standing there, tall and dark. He would say his phone died. He could say the dog ate his phone. Whatever. She didn’t even care what the excuse was, all she wanted was for him to show up. At noon she called his brothers and his mom and said he was missing. They said there was no need for alarm and that they should wait until the next day because he would show up. He didn’t.

“The next day we searched all the morgues. Then police stations. The following day we searched all the hospitals, bed by bed. Nothing,” she says. She waited for a week. Then weeks turned into months. And months into a year. He never showed up. His body was never found. It was like he had never existed. She’d smell his clothes in the wardrobe. A knock at the door would get her flying to open it. 

“One day I went to visit his mom and she told me about his criminal past, how he was always different from his brothers. He always wanted a better life than them. He never settled for the village life. The village shunned her because they knew she was the mother of a thug,” she says. 

At some point she had to confront the question; what should she do? When would be the right time for her to move on? How do you move on when you don’t have closure? How long can you wait? What do you do with these new clothes that you had bought? And his shoes? She tried his phone constantly. She waited. She eventually moved to a smaller house she could afford and started adjusting her life. Weeks passed. Months passed. She started dating again when it was obvious that he was never coming back. Two years after the day she last saw him – 24th August 2010 –  she married another man. 

She married a man dry different from the one who had disappeared. “I looked for the opposite qualities,” she says. She married a man who wasn’t tall. A man who is light in complexion. A man who isn’t soft spoken, a man who doesn’t mind his voice filling his mouth or the room he’s in. A man who doesn’t listen to Ben Githae or Hezeh Ndungu or even “DK”.  If her ex-husband was chalk, she married cheese. 

“He doesn’t love me the same, either,” she says. 

“How does he love you?”

She searches for words because she has to be careful here. She doesn’t want to sound a certain way, which way, I don’t know. “ Well, my ex was a provider…,” she says. “The thing is, my husband has been out of work for the past three years now and so I’m bearing most of the responsibility. I’m not used to that. I was used to being taken care of.” She takes a beat and says, “There is this thing he used to do every morning. He would sit on the bed and just watch me dress up for work. He came from a very humble background and didn’t really pursue his education. I think he was always proud that he had a schooled woman, a working woman and I would see the pride and admiration in his eyes when he’d be watching me dress up for work. I liked that. I don’t know…it made me feel special.”

“Do you compare them a lot?”

“Yea, sometimes I do,” she says. “He had a way of chasing his dreams and taking pride in providing even though he went about it the wrong way.”

Sometimes she wonders if she contributed to how things ended for him, and if she did enough to change the course of his life.  “Sometimes I wonder if I encouraged it, you know? Did my enjoyment of the money he gave me contribute to all this? Was it because I didn’t push him enough to change his ways? Maybe I should have left before he disappeared so that I don’t bear the burden of his disappearance.”

Getting over him took a long time. For the longest time Mueni wondered if she would run into him in town, in a restaurant having tea, in a supermarket picking eggs, in church, in basement parkings, at a bank queueing, in a pharmacy buying Eno….. She wondered if there would be a knock on the door. “In the streets I would look over the heads of men, to see if I could see him because he was always a head taller than most men. Sometimes I would see a man with the same walking style and my heart would beat so fast I could feel my chest shake.” She would constantly look into faces in crowds and if he saw shoes like the ones he liked to wear her heart would stop. For a while he was a ghost that hounded her. 

Now she has a daughter with her new husband and the memories of her ex are in the background, like faded paint. 

“What if he comes back tomorrow?” I ask her. “If he just shows up?” 

It’s a Saturday. You are getting your last born daughter ready to go for a birthday party. The doorbell rings. It’s one of those dreadful doorbells that wake the dead. You walk towards the door as you shout out to the househelp who is in the other room to find the tiara that your daughter wants to put on her head. The doorbell rings again just as you open the door. The first thing you notice is that the man standing there is very tall. And dark. The second thing you notice is that he looks familiar. It takes you a second to realise it’s him. He has put on some weight, but it’s him. He’s wearing a green polo shirt. You don’t know if he’s wearing trousers, your mind can’t register past the green colour. Your mind is frozen. You stand there like a pillar, your mouth agape. 

You feel the presence of someone behind you, and you know instinctively that it’s your husband. Your new husband. The one you have been married to for six years. He says, “I’m sorry, can I help you?”

The tall man says, “Hi.” His voice. It’s him! It’s him. You feel your throat clench and your chest constrict. You hear blood rushing through your veins.  “Can I help you? Are you looking for something?” your husband repeats, his voice edgy now. You turn to look at him. He’s got a towel around his waist and he’s holding the old toothbrush that you hate. 

“I don’t know if you know me, but Mueni does,” he says. “I’m Ng’ash and I’m here to get what belongs to me.” 

Your husband stares at him for a while, suddenly recognising him from the one picture you showed him. He finally says in a very calm voice. “I don’t know if you have noticed, but this is 2023. What belonged to you belonged to you in 2010.” 

I repeat, “What if he comes back tomorrow? If he just shows up?” 

“I won’t take him back.” She says. 

 

******

Edited: For anybody having issues with notifications, please resubscribe and we’ll be good to go. Thanks.

 

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183 Comments
    1. Exactly! This describes a guy my friend and I call him ‘Kindry’ (He uses the word kindly all the time with his meru accent!). He is damn quiet, attends church, sharp in dressing, tall and (handsome according to my friends! He ain’t handsome to me!). However, he is a con man hahaha! He conned my friend and many other people. I guess he still is a con man. His truth is lies..whenever he opens his mouth he speaks lies that appear true! Damn; some of these quiet gentlemen are a nuisance! hehe!

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  1. ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

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  2. Her ex husband isn’t that bad. He was doing the right thing (hustling) like most of African politicians the only difference is that he had involved violence.

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  3. Madam English teacher don’t be so sure about not taking him back we so it happen in hurricane someone took back what belonged to him

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  4. Wow!

    “Once we receive new/additional information on something(anything)…are we then to still continue operating/functioning like we never received this additional info in the 1st place?”

    #GoodHeavens

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  5. I would so take him back.

    Why? Because theirs was true love. She loved him. Even when she knew his worst, she stayed.

    He loved her. Loved her in the right way. He loved her son he provided. He was also proud of her. He made her life and that of her child better.

    Yes he was a thief who stole, used violence and carried a gun…..but in many ways he was a loving husband, a good dad.

    My love for that husband who adored me and my son would have me take him back in a heart beat. A love like that is rare to find.

    The second “new” husband would just have to live with it.

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    1. I like you for your honesty. Surely, it is very difficult for a lady who was properly loved to completely separate from the man responsible for her happiness. Madam English teacher will easily take him back. I would understand .The current husband shouldn’t have taken her without properly inquiring about the past and ensuring it was properly resolved.

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  6. Is two years enough time to forget ??
    What of closure? I can almost see him watching from a distance.
    Am left wondering!

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  7. The description in the first paragraphs of this story makes one guess what kind of a job this tall guy did. Thugs are always cool, calm and collected. Don’t ask me how I knew it.

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  8. WOW!!!! I always look forward to Tuesday’s………. but this one, I am now sad.
    You may think you know some one but you wake up one day and you question every moment, action and try to piece up all past events.
    Mueni appreciate you were loved, and you loved, keep the memories but life moves on…. It has to…..you are a mother and you got your children to raise.

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  9. The man was killed by flying squad, body stuffed in a gunia full of stones and thrown into a river full of crocodiles. That is how flying squad operates.

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  10. She moved on too fast. Is she sure this isn’t rebound? Why did she move on too fast? I know she would take him too back
    By the way,how come I’m not getting the email alerts

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    1. I will tell you why she moved on too fast, she wanted someone else to take care of her, she couldn’t take care of herself.

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  11. “Why did you stay knowing that this man was a bad man?” I ask.

    “I don’t know. Love? Loyalty?” She shrugs.

    This reminded me of NARCOS

    3
  12. Am sorry Mueni for deserting you when you needed me the most. i know you have moved on, kids and all,……am still alive trying to rediscover myselfu and aligning my words and deeds with the dictates of the Big man,….i know there is still ’embers’ of love left for me in you. I AM COMING BACK TO GET YOU LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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      1. Wuueh…this will leave Mueni conflicted….with a what if …what if it is truly him…what if he bought all the new clothes to assure me he would come while it was his last treat, his exit strategy. Ng’ash FAKE, don’t do this. A guilty accomplice won’t be finding peace for a while.

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  13. Beautifully written, as always Biko. Am still mourning the fact that, last Saturdays column in the Saturday Nation, will be your last. No more Saturday’s morning ‘fix’ for me any more. Sad. Anyway the good thing is I follow you on all your social media platforms. So somehow I will get my ‘fix’ one way or another. Keep doing what you do best Biko, playing with words beautifully.

    4
  14. Wueh, i felt like i was watching a movie. Sooo surreal.
    Yaani si i am loving the women and marriage series.
    Mueni, yaani u never wondered where all that dooh came from??
    Alafu, mama Ng’ash, i have too many kweshens.
    Yaani, lemmie just digest this for now.

    Quite th gripping read Biko. Well written.

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    1. Risper,

      You just said “kweshens” and moved on just like that? You have really cracked me up.

      At that part where the story moved to the imagined part where Ngash reappeared, I was holding my breath waiting for “except it was really him and not an imagination”.

  15. Someone can’t just go MIA on you for years then come back to want what belongs to him.But if “what belongs to him” agrees to go with him then “what belongs to him is a zombie”.

    1
  16. Biko! Why do we have to wait till next tuesday??‍♀️
    This article had me sitting at the edge of my seat!

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  17. Ng’ash just come back, she needs you , she just don’t know it. she sees you in her dreams and sleeps in the bed you bought.

  18. She has never forgotten how Ng’ash made her feel.Most women wouldn’t forget.She will continue to look for his head subconsciously above crowds.

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  19. There is this thing he used to do every morning. He would sit on the bed and just watch me dress up for work. He came from a very humble background and didn’t really pursue his education. I think he was always proud that he had a schooled woman, a working woman and I would see the pride and admiration in his eyes when he’d be watching me dress up for work. I liked that. I don’t know…it made me feel special.” If wishes could be real…..

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  20. Who still needs notifications to read Biko? That’s like a ritual. The only good thing that happens to me on Tuesdays is that I am still breathing and Biko has written.

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  21. I feel connected to this cos I used to sing with kaka man Nduati in matangas and act in church youth but the bugger claims he doesn’t remember me. I don’t know a single song of his though so maybe I’m the snob.

    1
  22. Waaaah!!! I started reading and kept thinking, “please don’t let him be a thug” and then,….bam!!! Wtf!!!
    She will definitely take him back….

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  23. I re subscribed last week but still did not get this week’s notification. Also, I believe if he turns up Mwalimu will take him back.

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  24. How does he love you?

    There is this thing he used to do every morning. He would sit on the bed and just watch me dress up for work. I liked that. I don’t know…it made me feel special.”

    2
  25. [Saint Anthony] said, in his solitude, he sometimes encountered devils who looked like angels, and other times he found angels who looked like devils. When asked how he could tell the difference, the saint said that you can only tell which is which by the way you feel after the creature has left your company.

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  26. Were it not for the fact that Ng’ash was a thief, this would have been a great story. Truth is, Ng’ash did not love you, it is you who loved him. He was using you as a smokescreen, a shield, a social status to communicate that he was a good guy while robbing and murdering innocent, honest, hardworking dads from this city. Am sure Ng’ash increased his robbery activities after meeting Mueni to sustain the feed them and afford their rent. When he was telling you to count his money, it was him showing off how much he had looted for you. I got ZERO sympathy for any thief. On the other end, was Mueni, with a false social status, going around the boutiques picking off Italian selections paid with blood money.

    One lesson I have picked from the two stories, is that women throw reason out of the window where love is involved. Just scroll through the comments to see some yearning for loving robbers. Ptho!! Bure Kabisa

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    1. Very well said. I’d like to add that Mueni didn’t “love” him either. Money here was doing all the talking. She mistook her love for his money to be true love.

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  27. If I were Mueni, I would take him back in a heartbeat.. That was true love that doesn’t come twice… He might have been a gangsta out there, but at home he was a loving husband, a dad, a provider, a gentle soul, a lover, an inspiration and number one fan to his wife.. I would take him back..

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  28. A gripping read.Most times the heart wants what it wants,whatever it takes.And yes,she will definitely take him back.

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  29. I am shaking with emotions …. what??? Yaani you can live with a guy like that? With adrenaline flowing in you every day …am not boarding

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  30. After watching Nairobi Halflife…i know he is dead. Anyway..the bigger issue here is the rise of Kenyan men who like to be provided for.. Omg… It is not only hard get a God fearing husband.. Ontop of that it is even waaaay harder to get a provider. Providing for a man and children is tough. Sies mek.

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  31. I need closure, can we have like a part two!! Dude might just show up and will Mueni ever forget him? sooo many questions!!

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  32. But why did it end that way…all in all am grateful for Ng’ash reuniting Mueni and her son. Robbery aside, Ngash wherever you are heads-up for the little meaningful things you brought unto Mueni

    2
  33. If this wasn’t a true story I would be hopeful that Ngash comes through. But it’s not, I honestly think Muenj is in love with him, but Ngash was a thug, a criminal ,he had victims I can’t sympathise with him because he was kind to his woman. It doesn’t mean he was like that to everyone especially, the ones that have seen his wrath. It’s a good story, but I hope he doesn’t come back.

    2
    1. I don’t know what kind of women you are referring to, I just know I am not one to “love” a thief or a potential murderer.

      3
  34. Am not even sure how to feel!! It’s a rollercoaster of emotions.. just reading this made my headspin. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, i over think issues too much. Dedinately a good read.

    1
  35. When I read he was different from the other group of boys, in character and dressing, calm and collected, I knew he was a thief. Talk of staying in Gaza. We know them.

    2
  36. One meter under the bed…I was like ka-ching ka-ching, I need a thug boyfriend ASAP. I don’t even mind if he limps NOTICEABLY akiyao!!!

    2
  37. I wanted Ng’ash to come back, this drama could have continued a little bit.
    It’s worrisome that good girls end up with bad boys, and surprisingly, as long as there’s money or a false sense of love they will stick on. It’s curiously interesting.
    Then what happened to Ng’ash’s Matatus and pig farm?

    6
  38. Ladies just love bad boys, how do you stay with a guy who uses violence to rob people? One day the violence will land on you tusichochane tafadhali.

    3
  39. So, Annie are you ok, are you ok Annie?
    Then you
    Ran into the bedroom
    You were struck down
    It was your doom
    You’ve been struck by
    A smooth criminal

    Aoow…

    Let me the Lacoste of Samburu… But this thing called love (if it is that)…

    2
  40. Miriam of the novel ‘,my life with a criminal’ and Mueni on one side.

    At some point ,thought gun itapatikana kwa bathroom.

    @ngash-rudi kindly so that this series ends jamaneni.

    3
  41. Wow! The many faces of love. Mere mortals in social sciences believe they have it down to a science and describe emotion in terms of healthy vs unhealthy, real vs fake, right vs wrong. Yet society alone doesn’t validate or invalidate our feelings for other human beings. Nothing is wrong with how you loved him Mueni, or how he loved you, the rest of his actions that may have interacted with the law and such and such perhaps we can pick apart and take issue with, but not the deep true feelings that were expressed and shared consensually and deliberately. To love another so deeply is a rare blessing, or curse.

    3
  42. I feel like I’d take him back, the way Ngash loved Mueni, it puts some light on his dark ways…oh well, this is a story that hurts and warms the heart at the same time.

  43. This is such a mind boggling story! Wah!
    Is this a story of love? Yes, love of money. Yes, he was a good man to her but he wasn’t to those who faced the end of a gun he pointed. Those he hurt. Those whose lives he destroyed. According to me, she was his accomplice. She enjoyed the proceeds. If she’d take him back, it’d not only be because of the love she has for him, but more so the love of money.

    8
    1. You are right. There is no love here. This is a story of greed. Surprised at how so many people want to romanticize crime, this aint hollywood. This is real life -people. Its all fun and games until you are the one at the other end of the gun, and a fool wants to take your life to go take another one shopping.

      3
  44. Oh my! John Kiriamiti reborn! Am trying to get into Mwalimu’s shoes and the only contrasting thing is that I’d maybe take Ng’ash back. Tall and dark!

    1
  45. “I won’t take him back” to me this is a lie. deep down, she would definitely take him back going by the narrative. she seems not happy with the current husband

  46. She’d take him back in a heartbeat because of how he looks at her. She’d take him back because there was no closure. She would take him back because she still loves him. She’d take him back because she feels like she needs to show him that she’s okay with not having everything. Having him to her is everything she needs….

    1
  47. I have done some crazy things for love but I draw the line at harboring a thief, murderer potential rapist for all we knw. lets just remove our heads in the clouds and be realistic.
    She was aiding and abetting a criminal. Fuck love how many people did Ng’ash PROBABLY rob and kill AT GUN POINT to provide for her.i hope his victims got justice. this is toxic love,she fell in love with a criminal and probably a murderer. he must actually have been a bad one for cops to come searching for him. and when flying squad kill/ghost you it means you had reached dangerous levels and was beyond prison. this isn’t the movies.NO. I hope he stays wherever he is because .She has met a nice man and living a good drama free life.what role model would he have been for her son and other kids they may have had.Those asking for a Ng’ash kuweni swerious.eish!

    11
    1. Eish Kate kuwa mpole……hujalizimishwa uwe na “Ngash”. you can always go for Pastor Waweru. I think the whole point is to show that love comes in all shapes and sizes. It does not come in a horse and carriage. This was the teacher’s story, her account on what she has gone through. It doesn’t have to be right or wrong, but it is her story. Once the honeymoon period is over you are now confronted with the true partner in crime you have between your sheets. It could be an abuser, a liar, a thief, a cheat, a killer, A partner committed and uncommitted. Love is not always black and white .

      3
  48. This world is not our home, I say. Never should one judge the other just from looks. That suspense Mueni experienced should not hit a breathing soul whatsoever.

  49. What a stoy ,Ngash should surely appear soon ..continuation Biko. All in all this animal called love has made people do the unthinkable.

  50. The guy did not love her. He found in her what every thug wants in a woman. A trait common with Kamba women. He on the other hand did exactly what was expected of him…perfectly like the criminal he was.

  51. Deep! Assuming Ngash is dead then all is well. If it so happens that he’s alive, he must be monitoring her life and in his right time might actually be ready for a comeback by killing her current hubby or knocking on her door to take what he truly loved. Those type of guys have zero chills.

  52. Am I the only one wondering where Ngash went to? Is he dead, you know, you live by the sword you die by the sword…ama did he take off like we see in the movies. A new name, new passport, a foreign country, even becoming more talkative in a bid to forget all that was. #whereisngash

  53. i relate to this story 100%. i also dont know what makes someone stay and i also have no idea what happened to my ex. all i know is that am sure i will die of fear the day i set my eyes on him again. nice read biko.

    alafu i thought you had taken a break, kwani there are no post notifications on email?

  54. What a story….it’s left me wanting more to the continuation of this story.
    I hope Ngash shows up in the long run. I would definitely go back to him,i want to be loved just right and be happy.
    whats life?!