Surviving Her

She wore chaos like lipstick—loud, defiant, and impossible to ignore. She didn’t ask for attention; she devoured it. I tried to tame her, but loving her was like riding a wild horse with no harness—thrilling, reckless, and bound to break you.

She came into my life like Nairobi rain—sudden, loud, and guaranteed to mess everything up. She was the kind of girl who laughed like she was claiming the whole bar, drank her whiskey neat, and posted “healing crystals” on her Instagram story while texting three exes back-to-back. The kind your mother would pray against, your boys would warn you about, and your heart would chase anyway.

I met her on a Thursday. I remember because Thursdays are cursed. You’re too close to payday but broke enough to feel spiritual. She walked into my life like she was late for an audition—heels sharp, smile sharper, carrying stories in her eyes and hell in her handbag.

She warned me.

“Sasa, I’m not the settle-down type. I’m the survive-the-night type.”

I laughed. Thought she was just being poetic. She wasn’t.

She was Nairobi incarnate. Loud, rude, stunning. The type who made you miss red flags because you’re too busy looking at her red lips. She could turn heads and break hearts in a single glance. She quoted Rihanna like scripture and danced like her body owed no one an explanation.

And me? I was a fool with hope in my hands and black coffee in my veins.

We fit like a molotov and a matchstick. Beautiful while it burned.

One night, after a bar fight that wasn’t hers but that she managed to finish, I told her:

“You’ll be the death of me.”

She smiled, sipped her whiskey and said,

“Maybe. But what a way to go.”

We lived fast. Loved hard. Argued like we were auditioning for Nollywood. Then kissed like the world was ending in five minutes. I wanted to hold her still, but she was wind in fishnet stockings. I tried to keep her close, but she belonged to no one—not even herself.

Her honesty was the cruel kind.

“I’m not built for loyalty,” she once whispered in my ear, naked and honest.

“I get bored, fast.”

And she did.

Her phone buzzed like a Nairobi boda—loud, constant, full of mysterious names and emojis. When I asked, she said,

“They’re just friends.”

“Do you kiss all your friends on balconies at 2 a.m.?” I asked.

She shrugged, “Only the ones I like.”

I started shrinking in that love. I stopped writing poetry. The words dried up like the last drops of tap water in a Kayole drought. I’d sit in traffic staring at nothing, listening to Sauti Sol and wondering when exactly my heart became a punching bag.

But love makes beggars of men.

She’d go missing for days. Come back with stories that smelled like cologne and bad decisions. I stayed. Foolishly. Lovingly. Hoping chaos would turn into calm.

Then came that Tuesday.

She was lying next to me, scrolling her phone, giggling at someone else’s joke. And I knew—I wasn’t in her future. I was just her now. So I kissed her forehead, whispered, “Be wild, but be safe,” and left.

Didn’t even slam the door. Just walked out like a man leaving a burning house—relieved, but charred.

Later that night, I deleted her number. Didn’t even flinch. But in my sleep, I dreamt I was holding her hand in Gikambura. It was raining. She smiled and turned into smoke.

Loving her felt like drinking ocean water—beautiful, fatal, and never enough.

Now when I hear Rihanna, or see a girl in red heels laughing too loud, I smile. I survived her. And maybe that's the point. Some women aren't meant to be loved; they're meant to be survived.

She taught me that not all love is meant to build. Some loves burn. Bright. Brief. Brutal.

And sometimes, surviving is the most romantic thing a man can do.

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