text: Write a story about two people who need each other but are too stubborn to admit it Stubborn at hear t We met just right after college. His eyes sparkled like the tiny stars radiating light through the dark sky. His face, long, smooth and incredibly handsome. His smile wavy and definitely sent my heart throbbing. Ours was a love written in the sky, one described in all telenovelas, Maria De souza meets Fernando Diego, a love predicted and definitely spat on by our African ancestors as a way to seal the deal but nothing good goes by without predictable and unpredictable challenges. After months of chasing each other, forcefully fighting the feelings bombarding my heart, pushing him away to find love in another woman’s arms and numerous insults every time he spared no time for me; I finally said yes to my love; or so I thought.... “Njuka, mind putting your phone down for one minute?”, I requested. Like always he sneered and moved to the couch near our television set. Miss. Mobile phone had become a constant disturbance of our peace in this house. Everything about Njuka revolved around his phone. The frequent laughter escaping his now ugly mouth had become an irritant to me. But maybe I should say, the fact that I did not know who was making this Luhya man gush and smile so sheepishly was causing me sleepless nights. But he was STUBBORN. So stubborn and prideful that he did not realize he was causing me pain, ignoring my needs and literally being absent and present in my life at the same damn time...However, I was determined, determined to cause him thrice as much anguish he was causing me. Anyone who knows Luhya women know they are the epitome of stubbornness and arrogance. It was time I give him a dose of his own medicine. I had endured years of being talked down to, being embarrassed and not being given attention. Not forgetting the nights, I had to give myself pleasure simply because Njuka no longer found me attractive. After weeks of not being heard I decided to start my revenge mission. The first strike was not cooking. I smiled thinking of him walking into a house, filled with a mouth-watering aroma but no food to eat. That evening I had marinated my steak, grilled it and gluttonously devoured it with my all-time favorite, Ugal i and kachumbari. Njuka like always walked in, sat at the dining table, said hi without lifting his head to look at me and sat graciously scrolling through his phone waiting for me to run to the kitchen as the good loyal wife and serve him his dinner. Five minutes into sitting at the dinning, his voice roared through the living room, “ Awinja, where is my food? What are you waiting for?”, he asked. “Ask the women you chat with to bring you dinner, nonsense!”, I roared back. My heart skipped a beat. I do not know what led me to answer him yet all along my plan was to give him a cold war-silent treatment. Njuka stood in disbelief. The African man in him had been awoken. I could see his vein protrude on his forehead, his eyes bloodshot; one would think he was drinking the famous traditional alcohol, busaa aka chang’aa. He hastily walked towards my direction, raised his hand and just as he was about to hit me, he paused and stopped in his tracks. I jerked from the chair, pulled his shirt and asked him to beat me now that he badly wanted to lay his hands on me. He then pushed me so hard that I dropped back down on the chair then went to stand near the dining table and started ranting. He went on and on of how I had changed, how my character was despicable and how I wanted to be the man of the house. My stubborn self-did not back down either, I addressed the disrespect unleashed by his miserable self, the numerous phone calls and texts that stole my joy and the many cold nights I was experiencing as a result of sleeping like we were siblings. Guess what? Nothing was solved. Our stubbornness got the better part of it, infact, it ended with me locking him out of the bedroom, forcing him to sleep on the couch. The next couple of months went by really slow. Our house was a battlefield. Bottom line, he was doing his own laundry, ironing his own clothes, cooking his own meals and sleeping on the chair every time he got home before me. I on the other hand did not care, or so I thought. I focused on taking care of our two kids once they were back home on holidays. Tiptoeing to the bedroom at 6am before the kids got up became part of our favorite routine. Every day at 6am I would open the bedroom door; he would come back to the room to avoid our eldest son asking questions. Every evening he would come back home in the wee hours of the night to avoid looking our children in their eyes and having that guilty conscience devour him. Did I miss him? No. Did he miss me, I guess not. Then one time our youngest was sick. My pride could not allow me to call him or inform him we were at the hospital. I packed some few bags, rushed him to hospital and had him admitted. I stayed there for two weeks without receiving a single call from him to even ask where we were. I lost it, I broke down, I wanted to tell the world what a jack ass I was married to.... but my stubborn heart could not allow me to show the world my life was crumbling. The endless questions from my sons why their father was not coming to visit them killed me. It broke my spirit but I always ended the conversation with one statement, ‘daddy traveled out of the country for business, he will come soon.’ End of discussion. I would silently watch couples bringing their kids to hospital, enjoying the sweetness of being married to the right partner and watching their children run around in hospital filled with unexplainable happiness that comes from having a stable family. Two weeks of camping in hospital with my boys came to an end. When we finally got home, all I wanted was a nice homemade meal, a good bath and some sleep on by big comfortable six by six bed. As the taxi pulled over at our gate, I could hear loud music and booming laughter coming from our house. I shuddered at the thought of walking into a house full of naked women doing whatever naked women do with married men. No sooner had the taxi stopped than my boys ran out of the car, straight into the compound. My efforts to scream their names at the top of my voice were overshadowed by the loud music permeating the air. I quickly paid off the taxi driver, picked our suitcase and ran off after them. Getting into the gate I dropped off the suitcase, jumped the three staircases leading right to the door, hit myself on the flower part hanging by the door and ran straight to the living room. The site of intoxicated men sitting on my white velvet couch, half-dressed ladies shaking their not so visible behinds in my living room and Njuka hugging our boys dressed in a black boxer short, white vest with a cigar oozing smoke out of his ugly mouth made my blood boil. This was going to be a murder case! “Get out of my house now!’, I screamed. The ladies scrambled picking whatever items they had come with. The men grumpily stood up and slowly started walking towards the door. But I felt like they were wasting my time. So, the wild me ran to the kitchen, picked up a knife and ran back to the living room threatening to kill them. You should have seen those suckers run for their lives with their big potbellies, heavy feet and gigantic bodies almost collapsing from the heavy shaking as a result of the running. I almost laughed but I could not. I was raging! If my boys were not present, I would have stabbed those suckers. At this point my boys were hiding behind their half-naked father, and Njuka was begging me to calm down. I could not stand the sight of this man. Everything about him made want to throw up! How did I fall in love with this clown? I pondered. “How dare you? How dare you disrespect our matrimonial home like this?”, I asked “I thought you had left me. You disappeared for two weeks. No one knew where you were, not even your mother! So don’t come here demanding for answers. This is on you!” He roared “I have spent two weeks in hospital, Jay almost died from an asthma attack! Yet you were here drinking and having sex with hoes?”, I cried “How was I supposed to know our son was sick? You never called to tell me. You are always acting like I mean nothing to you. You are so stubborn that you do not see you are breaking this family! At my age, 40 years, I cook for myself, clean my clothes and sleep on a couch. I should not have married your silly ass! Damn you woman!,” Njuka shouted. At this point I had had it. How dare he blame me when he started all this? Leave it to men to cause chaos then blame women for it. This man could not admit he was the reason for everything happening to us. His main aim was to guilty trip me into blaming myself for his own mistakes. I was tired of the games; I was done with this whole conversation. I therefore, held my children's hands, took them to their room, tightly hugged them with hot tears stinging my eyes, promised them that mummy will always be there and went to sleep. Waking up at around 7pm, I rushed to the kitchen, made the kids their favorite, pilau and chicken. As I stared at them eating, I was convinced that I did not need this man. Either way we have been living like this for years and I was doing alright. I promised myself not to cry or bow to the pain I was feeling. I was not going to apologize to this man, neither was I moving out of my house. I was ready for phase two of the games. Who does not like poker? What once started as a beautiful love story, turned to be an unending horror themed affair. To the heart that once loved, to the minds that once wobbled at the mention of each other’s names, to the playful spirits that jolted every time we deeply gazed into each other's eyes and to our weak bodies that bowed to the splendor of our love making; this is your story, a story of stubborn hearts blinded by pride but deeply filled with love. I could see the pain behind his pride, I could smell his fear of losing me even during our most heated arguments, I could sense he needed me as much as I needed him but I could also see two stubborn hearts that would go to any length to justify their wrongdoings; it was all a competition! And I was not willing to lose. So, let the games begin! *Tales of a Kenyan Lady*