When my wife put me under house arrest

There was a season in my marriage when my wife developed an obsession so intense it deserved its own medical journal. It was not love. It was surveillance. The kind of obsession that turns a spouse into a full-time detective, border patrol officer, and prison warden—rolled into one angry human being.

To her, I was not a husband. I was asuspect.

Any time I stepped out of the house—whether to go to work, attend to genuine errands, or simply breathe fresh air—she concluded, without evidence or hesitation, that I was on my way to meet another woman. In her mind, Nairobi had turned into a single giant dating scene, and every woman within a ten-kilometre radius was waiting for me personally.

She therefore took it upon herself to escort me whenever I left the plot. Not lovingly. No. This was not a romantic send-off. It was a security escort. Think of a prison officer walking a dangerous inmate to the gallows.

She would walk me right to the gate, sometimes even beyond, her eyes scanning left and right like CCTV cameras. She would stand there, arms folded, watching me until I disappeared from sight—just to make sure I didn’t pause to greet anyone, smile at anyone, or accidentally make eye contact with another female human being.

Greeting women, by the way, was a crime punishable by hellfire.

Now, on this particular day—the one that would later earn its place in my personal Hall of Trauma—we stepped out of the house as usual. She was escorting me, eyes sharp, jaw clenched, spirit ready for battle.

Then it happened.

A young lady who was seated near our entrancelooked...