Becky Shikunyi

The first morning I opened the bakery without Daniel felt like waking up from a long, bitter coma. I didn’t cry. I didn’t hesitate. I just unlocked the door, flipped the Open sign, tied my apron, and got to work. The silence was different. It wasn’t empty—it was peaceful. No shouting. No lies. Just me, the hum of the fridge, and the smell of rising dough. Njeri stood by the counter that morning, sipping her coffee with a knowing smile. “You’re glowing,” she said. I laughed softly, brushing flour off my cheek. “I’m healing.” --- Rebuilding wasn’t easy. Some clients had heard rumors—whispers about the accountant scandal, the violent nights, the betrayal that burned everything to the ground. Daniel tried to spin his own version of the truth. But I didn’t respond. I baked. When people came for gossip, I gave them warm cinnamon rolls. When they came with pity, I offered passion fruit cupcakes and a smile. My hands found therapy in buttercream swirls and sponge layers. My rage melted into ga...

By the time December rolled around, the bakery was buzzing with Christmas orders—plum cakes, sugar cookies shaped like snowflakes, red velvet bento boxes with candy cane toppers. To the outside world, we looked like a success story. Smiling photos, behind-the-scenes clips, and seasonal cake promos. But behind the kitchen door, our world was rotting from the inside. Daniel had stopped showing up most mornings. He claimed he was “handling suppliers” and “courting new clients” from the upmarket side of town. But I wasn’t stupid. He was courting alright—but not clients. My face still bore the faint shadow of that slap, but I hid it behind makeup and smiles for the customers. I kept telling myself to hold on until January, until we closed for a short break. Maybe then I’d leave. Maybe I’d find the strength. I never expected the betrayal to come in numbers. — It started with a bounced payment. A client had paid for a wedding cake via bank transfer, but the funds weren’t reflecting. I checked...

I had always imagined pregnancy would feel like floating—light, magical, almost holy. But that morning, as I stood in the tiny bakery bathroom with shaky hands holding a positive test, I didn’t feel holy. I felt terrified. I waited until Daniel got home late—again. His shirt was untucked, his lips tasted like whiskey, and his eyes were glassy, but the moment I told him, he sobered up fast. “You're pregnant?” he asked, staring blankly at me. I nodded, smiling nervously. “I thought we’d be happy…” He didn’t say anything. Just stared. Then turned and walked out. He was gone all night. When he came back the next day, he said nothing. No apology. No excitement. No mention of the baby. We worked side by side, silent, kneading dough as if nothing had changed—except everything had. The pregnancy was rough. Nausea hit hard. My back ached. I was always exhausted. But I still showed up in the bakery every day, because the orders didn’t stop—and Daniel wouldn’t let me. He grew distant, distrac...

After graduation, reality hit faster than a fallen soufflé. Utalii College had pampered us with structured lessons, free ingredients, and guided supervision. Out here? There was rent to think about, suppliers to chase, branding to build, and zero buffer for error. But Daniel was still Daniel—unshakable, sexy, persuasive, and full of big ideas. “You’ve got the magic in your hands, babe,” he’d tell me, kissing my knuckles. “We just need a space. A little oven. We’ll start small.” He found the space—an old, abandoned corner shop in South B, Nairobi. Cracked tiles. A dripping tap. Paint peeling off the walls. But when we stood in it, imagining what it could become, our eyes filled in the gaps. I could already see the pastel tones I’d paint, the racks of cupcakes cooling by the window. Daniel imagined shelves filled with profits and clients walking in for custom cakes. We named it Sweet Crumbs—his idea, my heart. We scraped together savings. Daniel took a small loan from a cousin. I sold my...

If someone had told me that the love of my life—and the man who’d later break me—would walk into my life holding a piping bag, I would have laughed. But I wasn’t laughing that day at Utalii College, in the middle of our baking lab, sweating over dough and daydreams. I was in my second year, trying to keep my head down, dreaming of starting a little cake shop one day. I wasn’t flashy. I didn’t party much. I had flour under my nails most days and stayed behind after class to perfect my kneading technique. Baking was my peace—my escape from a world that never seemed to slow down. And then he walked in. Daniel Mwangi. A new transfer student from Mombasa with smooth cocoa skin, a jawline that could cut fondant, and eyes that held something magnetic. You know the type—walks into a room and makes everyone else fade into the background? That was Daniel. He wasn’t just good-looking. He had this confidence—like he’d already owned a bakery in another life. Like he could charm vanilla out of a bea...