I once lived in a village.
Yes. A village. You read that right.
In my other life—the one that pays my bills—my job does things like that to me. So one day, Nairobi packed me into a box, waved politely, and I found myself relocated. Not for a weekend. Not for a “short stay.” Two full years.
Now, if you know me, you know this: I am a predictable creature. I like what I like. I abhor what I don’t. I do not do grey areas—only black, white, and excellent lighting.
I like coffee. Cappuccinos, specifically.
I like books—all kinds. And yes, I am still one of the last remaining soldiers who enjoys self-help books. I don’t subscribe to the idea that nobody knows how to do life. We’re all here for the first time, yes—but some people are doing it remarkably well, and I, for one, am taking notes.
I like high heels. For 95% of my existence, I am suspended in the air by thin sticks of hope and balance.
I like beautifully curated restaurants that feel like time capsules. There used to be this little place opposite Yaya Centre, Alize —minimal staircase, old European painting at the top. I was, without exaggeration, their most loyal customer. Every climb up those stairs made me feel vaguely Parisian. I’d sit in the corner and watch half of Nairobi through their wide full-length windows. Dreamy. Cinematic. A soft-life anthem.
Now tell me—does that sound like a woman who resides in a village?
Yet, because life is in a toxic situationship with irony…I ended up there.
Let me tell you the one place villages beat cities without mercy: the speed of gossip.
Everybody knows everybody’s business. It’s not nosiness—it’s a survival strategy.
I met Ken (not his real name, obviously), shortly after I moved from Nairobi. He was kind. New to the place too. He worked in a government office I passed on my way to work.
At first, it was always:
“How are you settling in?”
“How are you finding the place?”
About 100 greetings later, it evolved into:
“You’re early today.”
“You’re late today.”
Progress.
If I had to describe Ken in one sentence: he is a man designed to blend into the wallpaper.
Grey shirts. Khaki trousers. Brown and black shoes. Hair trimmed to meet society’s minimum compliance standards. He is not the man you remember at a party—and for clarity, he does not want to be remembered either.
Yet—you would remember him. Because Ken remembers you.
This is how I learned that about him.
Since the village made no provision for cappuccinos (a human rights violation, in my opinion), I had taken to drinking black coffee. And somehow—don’t ask me how—I started adding lemon to it.
If you are a true coffee lover, I know your respect for me has just dipped. I ask for your forgiveness. Please don’t give up on me entirely.
The consequence of this unholy beverage was that I went through lemons very fast. And lemons, in that part of Eastern Kenya, are not exactly a lifestyle staple. I mentioned this to Ken in passing (and now that I think about it, that version of me was also a little whiny).
A week later, on my way to work, he did his usual scan and said:
“You’re late today. Rough night?”
I made a sound. I was whiny and not a morning person. Some traits are permanent.
Then he said,
“I have a package for you.”
If you’re imagining Belgian chocolates or dried roses flown in from Venus et Fleur, I must disappoint you. Ken had brought me lemons. In the beautiful simplicity of that village, those lemons became the best thing that happened to me that day. That’s Ken. He never forgets.
About five months in, Ken started dating Anne (also not her real name). Since the village is roughly the size of a human palm, the news spread at the speed of sound. They didn’t help matters—walking around holding hands, whispering softly. Which, as you know, in an African village is practically public manslaughter.
Then they escalated their crimes.
A few months later, Anne was visibly pregnant.
This is where the real story begins—now that my coffee has kicked in.
You see, those grey-shirt, khaki-trouser men? They walk narrow paths. They tick the boxes of “proper living.” In staying true to that, Ken later told me that when he and Anne began dating, he asked that they both take HIV tests. She agreed—but somehow never found time.
Ken didn’t push.
Ken was in love.
Which means Ken was operating in life using only half his brain—the Hypothalamus: home of dopamine, oxytocin, and the feel-good chemicals that help you make deeply questionable life decisions.
Coincidentally, up until she was seven months pregnant, Anne always went to her prenatal appointments alone. Ken later explained that her clinic days mysteriously fell on the same days he travelled for work.
Around this time, Ken was under pressure.
“They say I must marry her before she gives birth,” he once shared.
Before your opinion of him changes—he personally had no issue with this. The problem was his ancestors. You know – that lady Mumbi and her husband Gikuyu. In the Kikuyu community, marriage during pregnancy is prohibited. One must first give birth. I do not make the rules. I was not on the constitutional drafting committee.
Then one day—an ordinary, lazy, unimpressive day—Anne asked Ken to accompany her to the clinic.
At the hospital, Anne requested an HIV test.
Ken was surprised. Still intoxicated by Hypothalamus, he didn’t see the need.
You already know where this is going. This is the part of the horror film where you grip your pillow.
Anne tested HIV positive.
Ken tested negative.
He was stunned.
She was…not.
They repeated the test four times.
As you can imagine, Ken became a confused man.
So confused that one day he showed up to work in a light blue t-shirt. That alone told me everything was not well. I spotted him outside the office, phone pressed to his ear, speaking fast, feverishly. He watched me approach—but he didn’t see me. I was just a moving shape in his periphery.
“Ken, are you alright?” I asked.
He startled, as though yanked back into his body.
“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone.
Then he unloaded everything.
Now, I am hardly ever at a loss for words. But that day, no matter how much I rummaged through the mental drawer where I keep them, my words had vanished—completely. I offered the usual useless things people say when they have nothing worthy to offer:
“I’m so sorry.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
The worst one of all:
“What will you do?”
As if the man wasn’t already standing at the edge of a cliff. I simply nudged him closer with punctuation marks.
Eventually, pulling out of the depths of the Kikuyu tribal constitution, Ken gathered his family and Anne’s. He told them plainly that because of what he understood to be deception; he would not move forward with the marriage.
Oh, but villages have a very high nonsense tolerance threshold. And he shattered it.
“You will marry her,” they said.
“Before she came to you she was perfectly well. This is your fault. A marriage will happen—whether you like it or not.”
Turns out, khaki-wearers also have thresholds.
“Our son will not move forward with this,” his family responded.
“Once the child is born, we will assume full responsibility for the baby’s needs. But this ends here.”
For a few dramatic weeks, the village came alive. It was a telenovela—broadcast live, twice daily, with no commercial breaks. By their standards, this was premium entertainment.
Then one day, Anne was spotted at the market.
Not pregnant. Not with a baby. You cannot make these things up.
Not long after, Ken moved back to his hometown in Thika—closer to the city, and I imagine, closer to his sanity. I stayed behind for seven more months. No more lemons. No Ken to look forward to on my morning walks. Just dust, heat, and unresolved thoughts.
I never saw him again. I never heard from him again.
When his story crosses my mind now, I always hope that he found love. A quietlove. A mild, kind love. One without shocking medical results or the slow unmasking of deep-seated deception.
I think about people like Ken often—people who want to be dutiful, kind, meaningful without being self-centred – the way life sometimes meets that gentleness with its hardest hands.
I think about Anne too—carefully. I don’t let my mind run wild with judgment. I never heard her side of the story. Stories you see, are rarely owned by just one person.
This is one of those stories I am never quite sure what to take from.
So I hand my confusion to you instead.
Perhaps there is a lesson here for you. Or not. In which case, lets say this is about lemons.
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