Rain started falling that evening in Kisumu, gentle at first, then heavier, drumming on the roofs. In a quiet part of Milimani, Achieng sat on her bed, phone in hand. The air carried a faint scent of untouched tea and unease. At twenty-eight, she worked hard and kept things in order – or so everyone thought. But she’d been carrying a little secret for months. Nothing physical, she told herself. Just texts, delayed responses, and someone who truly listened. It felt innocent enough. She never expected it to complicate everything.
Over in another neighbourhood, her husband Brian closed up his shop late, nearing midnight. He’d been putting in extra time to save for a better home in Kisumu, convinced hard work would strengthen their marriage. He trusted Achieng completely, like the steady ground he walked on. Riding his motorbike home through the wet streets, his phone lit up with her missed call. It vanished quickly. He shrugged it off as a bad signal and kept going, not realising that moment marked a shift.
The secret had a name: Kevin, an old coworker now in Nairobi. Their conversations began with work gripes and shared memories from Kisumu days. Soon they turned personal and supportive. Kevin was there when Brian came home exhausted. Achieng saw it as emotional support, nothing more. She tried stopping once and even cleared the messages. But she brought them back, feeling that pull of guilt and thrill. Secrets like that tend to grow if you keep feeding them. Read more https://drbokko.com/?p=35560
