It’s Monday morning, cold, grey, and raining heavily. The kind of rain that makes you question all your life choices, especially the one about leaving a warm bed. My body is screaming for one more hour of sleep, but duty calls. I’m exhausted from traveling, and honestly, stepping outside feels like a bad idea. But I have an appointment at the Ministry of Lands at 9 AM, so I have no choice. I convince myself to get up, though I leave the house shingo upande-reluctantly, dragging my feet like it’s a punishment. It’s the kind of feeling that’s like being forced to eat sukuma wiki, something my nephew Azel treats like the ultimate betrayal when it shows up on his plate.

The Ministry of Lands is somewhere around Upper Hill. If you’re ever headed there, just say you’re going to Ardhi House. That’s the magic word. Without it, you might find yourself wandering around aimlessly. Directions aren’t exactly my strong suit, bu that’s the best advice I can give. Though, if you check Google Maps, you’ll see it’s somewhere around 1st Ngong Avenue. But that’s not Ngong, it’s still Upper Hill. Upper Hill has these Ngong Avenues running from 1st to around 5th, and it’s confusing, that’s just the city’s way of messing with you.

I get there, take a seat at the waiting area, and brace myself for what I suspect will be a long wait. Two hours in, I’m still sitting there. The counters are open, but the employees are busy beating stories, laughing, sipping tea, and chewing gum carelessly like it’s part of their job description. There’s a crowd of us waiting, but it’s like we’re invisible. I guess that’s just how government offices work-people paid to show up with an attitude, sip tea, and tell you, “Rudi after 2 to 3 weeks.” Absolute nonsense.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, I finally get sorted. I leave the building feeling drained but slightly relieved. My next stop is Kasarani, so I head towards Imenti House to catch a Metro Trans. When I get there, the bus is almost full, just one seat left at the back. My seat.

I head straight to it, ready to sit down and disappear into my thoughts. But just as I’m about to sit, the guy next to me looks up and says,
“I like your style in particular.”

I smile, say “Thanks,” and settle in. The bus starts moving. A few minutes later, he turns to me again,
“What’s your take on love? Do you think it exists?”

I pause, not sure how to respond to such a deep question from someone I’ve known for less than ten minutes. But before I can even open my mouth, he starts talking.

Grab a seat. If you can, get some popcorn. This is where things take a sad and confusing turn.

He’s been in a relationship for three years, the only woman he’s ever truly loved. He helped her out with school fees and rent, even though he was still a student himself. She was studying in Mombasa, and he was in Nairobi. Long-distance is tough, but they made it work, meeting whenever they could.

She wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was his person. She shaped his character, helped him grow spiritually, and made him a better man. He told me he used to be the life of the party, always out drinking and living recklessly. But she introduced him to faith, and before he knew it, he’d swapped club nights for Church Keshas. Friday nights that were once filled with the buzz of whiskey and loud music became quiet thoughts and bible studies. Life had flipped on him, but in a good way.

They had a good thing going, late-night calls that stretched until dawn, surprise visits that felt like scenes from a rom-com, and inside jokes only they understood. Their love was the kind that made the future feel certain, like they were slowly piecing together the blueprint of a family. It was rosy, the kind of relationship that makes you believe love really can conquer all. But then, life threw a twist.

His dad was diagnosed with stage four cancer (I didn’t ask for his name or the lady’s name, that’s why I’m just going with he, she, and whatever fits. Boys don’t really bother with names, they just get along and let the conversation flow). Everything changed. He had to step up, juggling school, work at his dad’s law firm, and caring for his father. His relationship took a hit. Calls became less frequent, meet-ups rare, and slowly, the distance grew, not just physically but emotionally.

Then came the heartbreak. She got pregnant after a one-night stand with someone she can barely remember, a random guy from a party she didn’t even want to attend. It wasn’t her scene, but she showed up anyway, maybe out of boredom, maybe just to get her mind off things. One reckless decision, in the middle of loud music and blurred conversations, flipped her world upside down. Now she’s expecting a beautiful child, innocent and unaware of any of this, while she drowns in regret, reaching out, asking for forgiveness, hoping somehow to fix what feels too broken to mend.

He’s on his way to see her, somewhere around Mwiki Phase 3. He doesn’t know what will come of it, whether they’ll find closure, reconciliation, or just more heartbreak.

The bus slows down, it’s my stop. I stand up, unsure of what to say to someone who’s just poured out their soul. So I keep it simple,

“I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

I step off the bus and find myself thinking about how random encounters with strangers can really stick with you. It’s funny how a brief conversation with someone you’ll likely never see again can stick in your mind long after the moment has passed. Life’s like that, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s the unexpected, the small interactions, that leave the biggest mark.

That conversation stuck with me, and now I can’t stop thinking about what happened after.

@okelododdychitchats