Chasing the Wind

He called me his peace, but I was just his pause from reality.

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Peace, but not his

I met him on a Thursday. One of those grey-skied Nairobi days where the sun plays hide and seek and the matatus blast gospel like it’s a lifeline. I was wearing a borrowed blazer, late for a meeting, pretending I had my life together. He was outside Java, leaning on a black Prado like it owed him something. He wasn’t young. Maybe in his forties. Sharp. Clean. Eyes like secrets and a voice that made silence feel inadequate.

He offered a lift. I knew what that meant. Nairobi isn’t naive. I smiled and said no. But something about the way he looked at me made me remember him. Or maybe it was the way I wanted to be remembered.

He found me again. Instagram. A DM that just said, “Still late to meetings?” I should have ignored it. I didn’t. A coffee date turned into brunch. Brunch into nights at an Airbnb in Kilimani that smelled of vanilla and lies.

He told me he was married the second time we met. No games. No hidden ring. He didn’t wear one. Said it didn’t change how he felt about me. Said his marriage was dead. Said I was his escape. His reason.

I told myself I was different.

There’s something about being chosen, even temporarily, that makes you forget you’re not really being chosen at all.

We never went to places he might be seen. Never held hands in public. We existed in the crevices of his life. In between board meetings, golf weekends, and school runs. He sent money. Flowers. Called every morning like a ritual. I saved his number under “N.” Not for his name — but for “Never.” I thought it was clever.

He bought me a phone. Whispered promises through M-PESA messages. Ksh 10,000. Ksh 30,000. Rent for my studio apartment in South B. Once, even a plane ticket to Mombasa. We watched the ocean in silence, like it could wash our sins clean.

But I never met his children. Never saw his wife. Just heard about her in passing, like a ghost that haunted his schedule.

Months passed. Then a year. My birthday came. He forgot.

He sent a late text: “Crazy day. Happy birthday, mami.” No full stop. No heart emoji. Just a message that felt like a receipt.

Still, I stayed.

Because he kept coming back. And I kept mistaking return for commitment.

He called me “his peace.” Said I was his reward. Said he wished things were different.

I started imagining what “different” looked like.

Wedding dresses saved on Pinterest. Baby names in my journal. Fantasies of a life he never actually promised but I had started building in my head.

Then came the silence. First it was a few hours. Then a few days. He said work was heavy. That he was tired. That his wife was suspecting.

I started reading the signs.

Late replies. No calls. Missed dates. Excuses wrapped in apologies.

One day, I showed up at his office. The receptionist looked confused. Said he was in Dubai.

He hadn’t told me.

I waited. He didn’t call. When he finally did, he said, “I thought I mentioned it.”

He hadn’t.

I hung up. Then cried. Not because he lied. But because I realized I had stopped expecting the truth.

I went back to Java, hoping he’d be there like the first day. He wasn’t. Just strangers. Coffee. And a girl who looked like me two years ago — hopeful.

I scrolled through our texts. Read the early ones. The ones that made me feel seen. Desired.

Then I opened Instagram.

His wife had posted a photo. Him. Her. Their kids. Captioned: “Fifteen years and forever to go.”

The comments were filled with hearts.

I stared at it until my screen dimmed. Then I blocked him. Not out of rage. Not out of spite.

But because I finally understood.

I was never going to be the wife. Never the real. Just the secret. The shadow. The stolen moment.

He didn’t choose me. He used me to escape himself.

And I let him.

Not anymore.

I packed his gifts. Sold the phone. Moved apartments.

Started walking everywhere. Breathing deeper. Drinking tea instead of waiting for his calls.

It’s been six months. He hasn’t reached out. I don’t expect him to.

Because I was chasing the wind.

And you can’t marry the wind.

You just get lost in it.

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