THE SCARLET DHOW (Malik's Story) - Chapter 5: Wind Above Ngong Road


Ngong Road shimmered with heat as July winds stirred the red dust across the tarmac. Nairobi was colder than Malik remembered—not in temperature, but in spirit. Malindi had burned him raw. The city, with its noise and unspoken ambition, felt like both punishment and possibility.

But possibility was what he needed.

The rooftop property near Adams Arcade was a skeleton of concrete and rusted beams when he first visited it again. The elevator groaned, the stairwell stank of mold and rat piss, but Malik looked at it with a builder’s gaze. Beneath the grime was grace.
The skyline stretched wide from up there—Kilimani in the distance, the Ngong Hills whispering promises if one dared to listen.

He unpacked his life slowly. A sketchpad. A kettle. His tools. Silence.


---

Malik poured himself into the project. The restaurant would be modern but warm, open but personal. Bamboo trims, lots of stone, panoramic glass for sunrises and rainstorms. A place where people could fall in love or heal after the ones who didn’t stay. He didn’t want to just serve food. He wanted to serve solace.

Yet every so often, in the quiet hours of design and dust, Aida would haunt the corners of his mind. Her laugh. Her fingers tracing his jaw. The lies.
He refused to make space for her memory. But memories didn’t ask for permission.

What helped was building.
What helped was purpose.


---

One Tuesday morning, as he reviewed fabric swatches for seat cushions, his phone buzzed with a notification from Instagram. A friend had tagged him in a post—something about local artisanal businesses. His thumb hovered, disinterested, until the word bakery caught his eye.

He clicked.

And there she was.

Lisa.
Bright smile. Apron dusted in flour. Her hair tied in a red scarf. The caption read:

> “From heartache to honey—Lisa is proof that even broken recipes can become masterpieces.”
– @NairobiCreatives



Something shifted in him.
He didn’t know her. But there was something honest in her eyes—something familiar. Like she, too, had learned how to rebuild with trembling hands.

He read the post again. She ran her own bakery. Specialized in themed cakes. Had a tiny shop in Kilimani. No mention of a partner.

He saved the post. Not to stalk. Not to plan. But to remember that beauty still existed in the people who kept going.


---

That weekend, Malik took a walk through the city with no destination in mind. Nairobi’s madness made his thoughts feel lighter somehow. As he passed a flower vendor near Prestige, he paused—then bought a small bouquet of lavender and eucalyptus. He had no one to give them to.

He just needed something alive in his apartment.



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