21/11/2025
Today I want to drop for you, my beautiful readers, a book chapter for your weekend read…
Nairobi greeted me like a stubborn auntie loud, fast, and completely unimpressed by my village manners. Everything moved with a sense of urgency. Even the pigeons looked like they were in a hurry. The first morning I woke up at Nelly’s place in Parklands, I stood by the window and just stared. Cars, buses, people in suits, women with handbags that looked more expensive than my entire wardrobe. Hola suddenly felt like another lifetime.
Nelly was his cousin’s wife kind, cheerful, always smelling of baby lotion and fresh ugali. She lived with her husband and a toddler who cried for no apparent reason, then smiled like nothing happened. Their flat was small but warm, and Nelly treated me like a little sister. “Here, we don’t sleep past six,” she said, handing me a cup of tea that first morning. “In Nairobi, time is money. Even sleeping costs something.”
I laughed. “Then I’m already broke.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”
And I did. Slowly. Painfully. Hilariously.
Every day was a new lesson. Lesson one: never trust a matatu tout who says, “Just one more seat.” It’s a trap. You’ll end up sitting on air. Lesson two: when someone tells you “hii ni Nairobi,” believe them. I once tried to cross a road like we did in Hola - slowly, with dignity. A boda boda brushed past me so closely, my soul reached home before I did.
My college was in Parklands, a lively campus with students from every corner of Kenya. There were engineers who thought they were geniuses, lawyers-in-training who argued with the cafeteria staff, and business students who wore suits even when buying mandazi. I joined the law diploma program and sat in the front row because my father’s voice echoed in my head: “If you sit at the back, you’ll hear gossip instead of knowledge.”
Still, I wasn’t all discipline. I made friends fast mostly girls from different towns who shared the same struggles: too little money, too much ambition. We laughed, shared lunch, and swapped life advice that none of us were qualified to give.
Every afternoon, after classes, I went to my clerical job at a nearby government office in the city centre, the one he helped me get. I was the youngest person there, which meant I did all the filing, most of the typing, and half of the tea-making. The office had its characters: a senior officer who never remembered my name, a typist who always had gossip, and a secretary who swore she had once met the President’s cousin.
Still, I loved it. It made me feel important, grown-up, like I had finally joined the world of people who carried handbags and signed documents. Sometimes I’d sit at my desk, pretending to be busy, while secretly watching others through the reflection on my stapler. There was so much to learn about adulthood. People didn’t say what they meant, and everyone had a file that went missing every Monday.
Evenings at Nelly’s were the best. She’d tell me stories while we cooked. “You’ll get used to the city,” she said. “Just don’t lose your village sense. Nairobi can confuse even the clever ones.”
I nodded, even though at that point I was already confused by half the things she said. “How can a place confuse you?” I asked.
She smiled. “Wait till you fall in love here.”
I laughed and waved her off, but her words stayed with me. Because the truth was, I already had.
He called every few days short, steady calls that made my heart do gymnastics. He never said much, but his voice carried care. “Are you eating well?” he’d ask. “Don’t skip meals. Don’t overwork.” Sometimes he’d tease me about the city. “You people in Nairobi, you forget home quickly.”
“I could never forget Hola,” I’d reply. “The dust follows you everywhere.”
We laughed easily. There was something about his calmness that balanced my restless energy. He never promised too much, never used big words, but his consistency was a promise in itself.
When he visited, I always felt both shy and proud. He’d bring simple gifts books, a shawl, a handbag thing that made me feel seen. One afternoon, he came by the office to drop something. My colleagues whispered like journalists. “That’s him?” one asked. “He looks serious.”
I smiled quietly. “He’s not serious; he’s responsible.”
They laughed. “Same thing, madam!”
After a few months, I moved into my own place a small bedsitter in a building that had more gossip than plumbing. The neighbours were friendly but nosy. There was a lady who knocked every evening to borrow salt and return it as advice. “Young girl like you, living alone? Be careful with Nairobi men.” I’d smile politely, thinking, If only she knew.
That little room became my kingdom. I bought a curtain with flowers, a second-hand gas stove that hissed like a snake, and one plate that served both as dining ware and décor. When I first cooked ugali by myself, it came out hard enough to defend the house, but I still ate it proudly.
Life had rhythm. College in the morning, work in the afternoon, home in the evening. Sundays were for church and Nelly’s chapati. Sometimes I missed home so much I’d cry quietly at night. I missed my mother’s laughter, my father’s authority, the simplicity of Hola. But when I woke up each morning and saw the city sunlight peeking through my window, I knew I was growing.
One evening, as I was leaving work, my boss called me into his office. “You’re doing well,” he said. “Young and ambitious. Don’t get distracted.” He didn’t know how close to the truth that advice was.
That night, I told him my husband about it. “My boss says I shouldn’t get distracted,” I said.
He laughed softly. “He’s right. Don’t get distracted. But also, don’t forget to live.”
Those words stayed with me. Because life, as I learned, is not just about discipline and dreams it’s also about learning to laugh when things don’t make sense, to find warmth in unexpected places, and to believe in yourself even when you don’t have everything figured out.
At nineteen, I was juggling more than I had ever imagined, school, work, independence, being a wife, and a love that was slowly taking root. It was beautiful and overwhelming.
And still, I found humour in everything. Like the day I ironed my blouse with the wrong side of the iron. Or the time I confidently boarded the wrong matatu and ended up in Westlands instead of Parklands. When I told Nelly about it, she laughed so hard she cried. “You’ve officially become a Nairobian,” she said.
Looking back, those were some of the sweetest years of my life. The innocence, the laughter, the courage to dream even when the road was uncertain. I didn’t know what tomorrow held, but I believed in the promise of today.
And so, between classes, work, and quiet phone calls that stretched into the night, I built a life one small victory at a time.
It began like most big things in my life quietly, confusingly, and completely without warning. I had been feeling tired for weeks, yawning in class, snapping at colleagues, and craving mangoes like they were oxygen. I thought maybe it was stress. Or Nairobi dust. Or hunger. Nairobi could exhaust even the strongest of hearts.
But then, my skirts started getting tighter. And not in the "I need to stop eating chapati" kind of way. Something was different.
Nelly was the first to notice.
“Dadaa as she would call me, you’ve been sleeping too much lately,” she said one morning as I prepared for work.
“I’m just tired,” I mumbled.
She raised her eyebrows. “Tired? Or tired?”
I laughed nervously. “There’s a difference?”
She smiled knowingly. “A very big difference.”
I tried to wave her off, but her words lingered like a mosquito in the night. I couldn’t concentrate at work that day. When the phone rang, I jumped like I had been caught stealing. Every little sound irritated me. Even my favourite colleague, who always made me laugh with her endless stories, suddenly seemed too loud.
That evening, I stopped at a small chemist on my way home. The pharmacist was a young woman with kind eyes. She handed me a test kit like it was an everyday thing, but to me, it felt like she had just passed me the Constitution.
Back at my bedsitter, I stared at the little box for almost an hour before opening it. My hands were shaking. I kept thinking, What if? But when I finally did it, the answer came too quickly two lines. Bold. Clear. No room for negotiation.
I sat down. Then stood up. Then sat again.
I laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again because I was crying.
I whispered, “Oh no. Oh yes. Oh no again.”
For a while, I just sat there, staring at the test like it would change its mind. But it didn’t. Life had already spoken.
The next morning, I woke up early and went to work like everything was normal. I even wore lipstick, as if colour could disguise shock. I spent the whole day pretending to be fine, nodding in meetings, typing nonsense on the typewriter, smiling too much. My colleagues probably thought I had found a rich boyfriend. If only they knew.
At lunchtime, Nelly called. “How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly.
“Don’t lie. I can hear your fine is shaking.”
I sighed. “Nelly, I’m pregnant.”
There was silence. Then she said, softly, “Ah. So now we start a new chapter.”
I burst out laughing through tears. “You’re taking it too calmly.”
“What do you want me to do? Scream? You’ll wake the baby before it’s even formed.”
Her humour was exactly what I needed. That night, she came over, bringing food and her calm spirit. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “You have a good man. He will stand by you.”
And he did.
When I told him, his reaction surprised me. He didn’t panic or raise his voice. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “We’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
Those words became my anchor. We’ll handle it.
The weeks that followed were a blur of emotions excitement, fear, confusion, joy. I attended college in the morning, worked in the afternoon, and grew a secret in my belly that no one else knew about yet. I was nineteen and learning what it meant to carry both a child and a dream.
Pregnancy is a funny thing. One day you’re glowing, the next you’re crying because your shoe doesn’t fit. I had cravings that would shame a chef. One day it was mangoes, the next it was roasted maize at 10 p.m. I once walked halfway down Limuru Road looking for a woman who sold boiled eggs because I had convinced myself she was the only one who made them “right.”
My classmates noticed the changes, of course. I tried to hide it, but Nairobi gossip is faster than Wi-Fi. One afternoon during lunch break, a girl whispered loudly, “Eh, Benedetta, you’re adding weight nicely!”
I smiled sweetly. “Yes, it’s called happiness weight.”
She laughed. “Must be a very strong happiness.”
I laughed too, pretending it was all jokes, but inside, I was terrified. What if my father found out before I could explain? What if people judged me? What if the world wasn’t as forgiving as love?
Still, I kept going. I studied. I worked. I prayed. And sometimes, late at night, I’d talk to my unborn baby like an old friend. “You and I,” I whispered, “we’re going to do this together.”
By then, I was living alone in Nairobi juggling school, my part-time government job, and marriage from a distance. My husband had been transferred from Hola to Meru, in the eastern part of Kenya, but we spoke often, and he visited whenever he could.
One weekend, by pure coincidence, he came to Nairobi for dental treatment. We spent the evening talking and laughing, catching up like two people trying to hold on to something fragile but real. I was seven months pregnant at the time tired, swollen, but quietly happy.
That season, I was learning how to do everything alone—study, work, love from a distance, and grow a child within me. But life has a way of interrupting even our strongest routines.
That morning, he was still in bed when I got up to use the bathroom. I took a few steps and suddenly felt dizzy then everything went black. I managed a weak laugh before collapsing, mumbling, “Aah, what’s wrong with me now?”
The next few moments are a blur stitched together by other people’s memories. I later learned that neighbours rushed in, panicked, and helped carry me from the sixth floor of the apartment no elevator, just narrow stairs and urgency. I was drifting in and out of consciousness, aware of movement, voices, and the sound of my husband’s voice trembling as he called for help.
When I came to, I was in a hospital a dim, cold room with bright lights above me. I could feel my stomach bandaged, my body heavy and sore. Everything was foggy, but one thought was clear: the baby.
I turned to the nurse beside me and asked, “Where’s my baby?”
She looked at me sharply, her voice flat and impatient.
“Were you even in labour pains?” she asked. “You lost it.”
No emotion. No empathy. Just a sentence dropped like a stone.
I froze. I didn’t know how to respond. I wasn’t sure what to feel shame, confusion, fear, or grief.
Later, they told me I had suffered from preeclampsia something I’d never even heard of before. The baby had been removed by caesarean at thirty-two weeks and placed in the nursery. There was hope, they said.
“Her words hung in the air like smoke. I tried to reach for them, to make them untrue, but grief has no handle.”
But the next night, as I tried to sleep, I heard a nurse shouting my name from the doorway.
“Benedetta! Follow me,” she barked.
I got up slowly, my stitches pulling, my heart racing. I followed her down a long corridor into the nursery. The room was quiet except for the hum of machines. She pointed to a small still figure and said coldly, “Look at your baby. He has died.”
That moment shattered something in me. I remember standing there, unable to move, staring at the tiny form that was supposed to be my future. Tears came, but no sound just a pain too deep for words.
The following morning, my husband came with a colleague. We sat together in silence, the air thick with unspoken sorrow. Later that day, we buried our baby in the small hospital cemetery a quiet corner of earth marked only by memory. No ceremony, no family gathered just us, and a grief too heavy to explain. There were no names, no flowers only memory. But I promised that memory would not be silent.
He held my hand the whole time, and when it was done, we stood there for a while, staring at the mound of soil. I remember thinking how strange it felt to bury a dream you had only begun to imagine.
✨ About This Chapter — From Eighteen and Bound
This powerful chapter you’ve just read is from my book Eighteen and Bound, a deeply emotional coming-of-age story that follows a young girl navigating the sharp turns of adulthood long before she is ready.
The book captures:
🌿 Her escape from the quiet familiarity of Hola to the chaos and charm of Nairobi
❤️ A young marriage shaped by love, silence, hope, and growing responsibilities
🎓 School, work, friendship, ambition — all colliding at nineteen
🤰🏽 An unexpected pregnancy that forces her to confront fear, joy, and society’s judgement
💔 A heartbreaking loss that leaves a scar no one can see, but everyone can feel
Eighteen and Bound is a story of resilience a girl trying to hold on to her dreams while the world pushes her into adulthood too quickly. It is about love, survival, choices, and the quiet strength of a young woman whose life unfolds faster than her heart can prepare for.
If you enjoyed this chapter, wait until you see what follows.
This weekend, take your time, breathe with her, laugh with her, cry with her and walk with her through the journey that shaped who she became.
