Becky Shikunyi

Brenda Wanjiku had mastered the art of surviving quietly.  Life in Kayole did not allow softness; it did not wait for your emotions to catch up. It moved fast, loud, and unforgiving, and so she learned to move with it. Every morning began the same way: the kettle hissing, footsteps outside her door, and a small voice calling her back into purpose.  “Timo… amka pole pole,”  she would whisper, and Timo Mwakio, barely three—almost four—would reach for her without opening his eyes, curling into her like she was the only thing that made sense in a confusing world. And to him, she was.  Brenda had built her life around that certainty. Her son needed her, and for a long time, that was enough. Everything else—love, promises, men—she had learned to live without. Then she met Mark. It was an ordinary day along Langata Road, in a quiet café where nothing remarkable was supposed to happen. She hadn’t planned to meet anyone, hadn’t even planned to stay long. But then he spoke. ...

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 ...

Some betrayals arrived with a thunderclap. Others slid in quietly, like saltwater into a wound—painful only after everything was already ruined. Malik had been building a future that didn’t exist. The guesthouse in Malindi had become more than a love nest. It was where he’d dared to imagine permanence again—something solid and beautiful and real. He’d sketched plans to turn it into a boutique hideaway: a bistro on the lower floor, rooms overlooking the sea, and a rooftop bar for sundowners. A place filled with music, rosemary, sea breeze, and the low laughter of lovers. But the foundation he was laying had termites in the wood. And her name was Aida. --- That Friday, Malik had risen early, energized by the new sketches he’d worked on all night. He bought fresh hibiscus flowers on the way, something he knew she loved. He imagined surprising her—maybe even whispering the beginnings of forever. He didn’t expect to find a stranger’s shoes at the door. Or to hear a man’s voice echoing in th...

Malik couldn’t remember when the seed of doubt first took root—perhaps it was the way Aida once flinched when a phone rang. Or how she never let him take her photo, never let him walk her to the edge of town. The town knew her, yes—but only in shadows. Still, his body betrayed his logic. Days were molten with want. She would show up at the beach house wrapped in nothing but an oversized linen shirt, the wind teasing its hem as she brought him mandazi and whispered Kiswahili lullabies into his neck. Nights were primal—raw silk sheets tangling around limbs, wine-stained lips, whispered vows that never made sense by daylight. “I want to live in this house with you,” she once murmured, tracing the outline of one of his restaurant sketches with a salt-wet finger. “I want us to build something beautiful together.” But even in that moment, Malik noticed the ring mark. A faint pale band on her finger, usually covered by coral bangles or varnished nails. She caught him staring and kissed him to...

In the days that followed, Malik found himself trapped — not by bars, but by satin sheets and whispered lies. Aida was a woman of silken danger. Every morning, she stirred beside him with bare thighs tangled in kanga cloth and a crooked smile on her lips that promised more chaos than comfort. He should have walked away. But every time he tried, she touched him — and his resolve melted like sugar over a flame. They made love often. Wildly. Softly. Sometimes with desperation, other times with reverence. In the hush of the humid afternoons, she’d press him to the bed, her palm to his chest, riding him with slow intent as if writing scripture with her hips. At night, when the ceiling fan clicked overhead and the crickets outside grew loud, she’d pull him into her like she needed to be filled just to feel alive. But it wasn’t just sex. It was something more consuming. He started skipping breakfast at the café just to hold her longer. He stopped sketching. His days blurred into her skin — he...

Malik had come to Malindi to forget the ache of Nairobi. The city had grown cold — not in temperature, but in soul. Glass buildings reflected his tired face back at him each morning, and the clatter of construction sites no longer excited him. He needed silence, sunlight, salt on his skin. So he left. Packed light. Gave his brother the keys to the apartment. Booked a flight with no return date. Malindi was warmth. Malindi was breath. He settled into a quiet guesthouse tucked behind a veil of pink bougainvillea, its walls chalk-white and cool, the carved Swahili doors creaking with secrets. Ceiling fans spun lazily above linen-draped beds. The ocean hummed in the distance like a sleeping god. On the second morning, he saw her. She wasn’t trying to be seen — and that’s what made her unforgettable. Aida moved like someone who had survived things no one ever fully healed from. Her hips told stories. Her laugh carried both play and pain. She wore a coral wrap dress, loose at the shoulders, ...

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...

Six months later, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla still clung to the air — but now it mingled with something new. Laughter. Jazz. And the quiet rhythm of two hearts learning how to beat in sync. Lisa’s bakery had grown — not in size, but in soul. The walls still wore their soft cream paint, the counters still bore the daily dusting of flour, but now there were signs of life beyond survival. A second espresso machine gleamed in the corner, a gift from Malik after she finally admitted her old one sputtered more than it steamed. A framed photo of the rooftop tasting night hung near the register — her in red, him in black, both of them caught mid-laugh, unaware the moment had been captured. And behind the counter, next to her apron, hung his. He didn’t bake. Not really. But he was there. Every morning. Every late night. Every moment she needed someone to lean on — or push her forward. Lisa had never believed in partnerships. Not after Daniel. Not after the betrayal that left her r...

The morning after didn’t come with tangled sheets or whispered promises. It came with silence. Lisa stood alone in her bakery, the early light spilling through the windows in soft gold streaks. The scent of vanilla and yeast filled the space, familiar and grounding. Her hands moved on autopilot — kneading dough, prepping trays, setting timers — but her mind was still on the rooftop. On Malik. On the way his voice had dropped when he said he wasn’t walking away. On the way he hadn’t kissed her — not quite — but had come close enough to make her forget every rule she’d written for herself. She hated how much she’d wanted him to close that last inch. The bell above the door jingled. Lisa didn’t look up. “We’re not open yet.” “I’m not here for a croissant.” Her heart stuttered. She turned. Malik stood in the doorway, dressed down in a charcoal T-shirt and jeans, a coffee in one hand and something unreadable in his eyes. He looked different in the daylight — less polished, more r...

Lisa didn’t sleep that night. She tried. She lay in bed, eyes closed, body still, but her mind wouldn’t quiet. It kept replaying Malik’s words, the way he’d stood in her bakery like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t afraid of the mess beneath her surface. Because there was a mess. One she’d spent years cleaning up, hiding behind perfect pastries and polite smiles. But Malik? He didn’t flinch. And that terrified her more than anything. By morning, the sky was bruised with clouds, and the scent of rain clung to the air. Lisa stood at the window of her apartment, coffee in hand, watching the city stir. Her phone buzzed on the counter. Malik : 8pm. Rooftop. One last tasting. No pressure. Just… come. She stared at the message for a long time. Then she typed a reply. Lisa : One last. And hit send. The rooftop was empty when she arrived. No music. No crowd. Just the city lights flickering below and the low rumble of thunder in the distance. The tasting table was set again — two ...

The rooftop had emptied. The crowd had thinned to a few lingering guests nursing cocktails and murmuring over city views. The music had softened to a low, sultry hum — jazz with a heartbeat. Nairobi glittered below, a sea of lights and secrets. But up here, the world had narrowed to two people. Lisa stood at the edge of the rooftop, her hands resting on the cool glass railing, the wind teasing strands of hair from her bun. The red silk of her dress clung to her skin, still warm from the heat of the kitchen, the spotlight, the way Malik had looked at her like she was something rare. Something dangerous. Behind her, footsteps approached. Slow. Certain. She didn’t turn. “You stayed,” Malik said, his voice low, close. “I wasn’t sure I would,” she replied. “Why did you?” Lisa exhaled, watching the city pulse below. “Because I wanted to see what you’d say when no one else was watching.” A pause. Then, “And what do you think I’ll say?” She turned to face him. Malik stood just a bre...

The dress was a statement. Red. Silk. Backless. It clung to Lisa’s curves like it had been stitched for her skin alone. Every step she took felt like a dare — not just to the world, but to herself. She hadn’t worn red in years. Not since the night she’d walked away from a life that nearly consumed her. But tonight wasn’t about the past. It was about power. About reclaiming the parts of herself she’d buried beneath flour, sugar, and silence. The rooftop lounge loomed above Nairobi’s skyline like a secret whispered only to those bold enough to listen. From the moment she stepped out of the elevator, the city’s chaos melted away. Up here, everything was curated — the lighting, the music, the scent of citrus and smoke that lingered in the air like a promise. And then she saw him. Malik. He stood near the bar, dressed in black. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the strength beneath. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes — those dark, unreadable eyes — locked on her the mo...

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla clung to the air like a soft blanket, wrapping itself around the tiny bakery Lisa had built with her own two hands. It was her sanctuary — a place where sugar masked sorrow, and spice whispered secrets only she understood. The hum of mixers, the low jazz curling from the corner speaker, the golden afternoon light filtering through lace curtains — it was a world she’d crafted from scratch. Safe. Predictable. Hers. Outside, Nairobi pulsed with life — matatus honking, street vendors shouting, the sun baking the pavement until it shimmered. But in here, time slowed. In here, she was in control. Lisa stood behind the counter, her apron dusted in flour, piping the final swirl of buttercream onto a tray of cupcakes. Her fingers moved with precision, but her mind wandered. She’d been up since dawn — baking, prepping, avoiding the ache that sometimes crept in when the world got too quiet. The bell above the door jingled. She didn’t look up. Probably another...

Being the head of the house isn’t just about providing; it’s about balancing responsibilities, managing relationships, and making tough decisions that affect the whole family. For many men, particularly firstborn sons, these roles can feel like a never-ending battle. They wear many hats—protector, provider, leader, and now, in many cases, a husband—and the pressure of it all can sometimes feel overwhelming. From the day he’s born, the firstborn son is often expected to step up, and as he matures into adulthood, the weight of this responsibility intensifies. The Dual Role of Being a Sibling and a Leader As the firstborn, he assumes the role of the ‘big brother’ early on. For some, it’s a title they cherish, but it’s also a role that demands something from them that others may not fully understand. With younger siblings, the expectation can be high. He’s not just a sibling; he’s also an unofficial parent, a role model, and the person his younger brothers and sisters look up to. The relat...