Hello dear Ex,
You remember the text. Just two words from me: “Makosa imefanyika.”
Then the screenshot. The carefully crafted context. A false confession that I had gotten another girl pregnant.
No long phone calls. No dramatic confrontation. No demand for explanations. Just your short, steady reply:
“You know that’s a deal breaker for me, Nick. Though I feel hurt and betrayed. Goodbye and all the best. I loved you.”
And then silence. Complete. You blocked me everywhere; WhatsApp, Instagram, calls. Messages left on single ticks. You disappeared as if the year we shared had never happened.
We never actually said the words out loud: “I will never forgive you if this happens.” Not once during those heavy nights in the Ruiru bedsitter after we discovered your pregnancy. After the panic, the morning sickness, the fear of beginning a family with nothing in our pockets. You kept saying that “stranger removal” was the only way forward. I never fully accepted it in my heart, but you went ahead. Afterwards you asked me, again and again, not to hate you. We moved to daily family-planning pills, and I set the alarm every single day so you would never miss one.
I had already told you about my past, the woman who claimed severe PCOS, the large sum I borrowed to cover her treatments, the months I carried that debt believing I was helping someone I loved. Only later did I learn the truth from one of her friends: there was no PCOS. The money had paid for an abortion I was never...