TWELVE YEARS BETWEEN US

The first time I realized I was losing her, we were sitting in a car outside a restaurant in Kilimani, and neither of us was talking.

Nairobi was still alive around us.

Matatus were hooting along the road. Motorcycles squeezed through traffic. People walked past us holding phones to their ears, rushing home as if everybody had somewhere important to be.

Inside that car, though, everything was dead.

She stared through the windscreen.

I stared at my hands.

Finally, she said,

"Dennis, I don't think you understand what I need from you."

I wanted to answer.

I had plenty to say.

But for once, I had no words.

She was thirty-six.

I was twenty-four.

Twelve years separated us.

When we first met, that number meant nothing to me.

I didn't see thirty-six.

I saw a woman who knew how to make me laugh.

A woman who could sit across from me in a café and turn an ordinary afternoon into something I didn't want to end.

She had confidence.

She knew what she wanted.

She dressed like a woman who had already figured herself out.

And me?

I was twenty-four, ambitious, broke enough to count every note in my wallet, and still trying to understand what direction my life was taking.

Maybe that's why I fell for her.

She seemed like everything I wasn't.

We met around Nairobi's usual chaos—traffic, phones ringing, people making plans they couldn't afford and pretending everything was under control.

Our first few dates weren't fancy.

Sometimes we'd sit somewhere around Kilimani and talk for hours.

Other times we'd grab something small to eat and drive around Nairobi without even knowing where we were going.

There was something addictive about being with her.

She could be serious one minute and laughing uncontrollably the next.

I loved listening to her stories.

She had lived through things I hadn't.

She had relationships before me.

Experiences before me.

A whole chapter of life before I even became part of her story.

And strangely, instead of frightening me, it fascinated me.

She once looked at me and said,

"You're very young."

I laughed.

"So?"

She smiled.

"One day you'll understand what I mean."

I didn't.

Not then.

At the beginning, everything felt easy.

We explored Nairobi together.

We'd meet after work, talk about our days and sometimes drive around aimlessly.

There were nights we'd sit somewhere with the city lights in the distance and talk about our future.

She wanted stability.

A home.

Financial security.

Someone dependable.

I wanted those things too.

I just didn't know how to get there yet.

That was the problem.

I was in love with the destination.

She was already asking me for the map.

As months passed, the difference between us became impossible to ignore.

If I disappeared for a few hours because I was with friends, she'd question me.

If I changed plans at the last minute, she'd get angry.

If I didn't call when I said I would, it became an argument.

At first, I thought she was simply being possessive.

Later, I realized she was asking for the kind of consistency she expected from a man who had already settled into adulthood.

I was still learning.

And she was tired of teaching.

One evening, we were...