For over a decade, I’d thought our marriage in Ruiru, Kiambu County, was solid. We’d faced tough times—financial struggles, illnesses, and raising our three kids in that close-knit estate where neighbours look out for each other. My husband seemed like a good family man, someone everyone respected. I never doubted him. Then things shifted quietly. He started staying out late, saying it was work in Nairobi. His phone was always glued to him. He’d step outside to take calls, no matter the weather.
When I brought it up, he’d get upset and say I didn’t trust him anymore. I pushed the worries aside, telling myself it was nothing. One evening, he mentioned a meeting in Westlands, dressed sharper than usual, even put on cologne, and skipped dinner. Something in me snapped. I couldn’t stay home wondering. So I took a taxi and followed his car, my stomach in knots the whole way.
He drove right past Westlands, through Parklands, and into a gated compound in Kileleshwa. I watched him park and walk up like he owned the place. A woman came out, smiling, and they hugged and kissed like old times. Everything we’d built felt like it crumbled right there. I sat in the taxi, numb, tears falling without a sound. The driver glanced back but stayed quiet. When they went inside, I just headed home, heartbroken. Read more https://drbokko.com/?p=35566
