I once dated a nurse from Umoja One. Fresh out of college, he landed his first job at a small clinic where he earned Ksh 1,200 a day on locum. Modest pay, yes—but still a good start. Meanwhile, I was making more money doing academic work for university students, writing blogs, and juggling B.A. assignments for friends.
From the beginning, he carried a weight of insecurity that never quite left. He often claimed I would leave him for someone richer, that my financial independence threatened him. But I knew his situation from day one, and I never judged it. In fact, I thought earning Ksh 1,200 a day as a fresh graduate was decent. I believed that once he got a stable job, things would improve.
But his insecurity dug deeper. He began monitoring my phone. He’d scroll through my WhatsApp and texts without my knowledge. I only realized this when we’d argue, and he’d bring up names of random men who’d simply said “hi” on my phone. He demanded explanations. When I refused, he would automatically label me a cheater.
My phone was easy to access—simple PIN or pattern—and I often left it unsecured because of kids who used to play with it. He took advantage of that.
He even monitored my commute. From CBD to Umoja during off-peak hours takes around 30 minutes. But if I took 40, his calls and texts would flood in. I would ignore them until I got home, but the questioning never stopped.
The controlling didn’t end there. If we were in a restaurant and the waiter smiled at me, that was a problem. He believed male waiters should serve me with a straight face. Nightclubs were worse. I wasn’t allowed to say more than “hi” to his friends, not even to his younger brother. Any interaction beyond that was forbidden.
Despite all this, I was his WhatsApp profile picture. His status was all about me. He made our relationship public—loud and proud—but it was toxic beneath the surface.
Then came the ultimate line-crossing. He began contacting my friends and even my ex. I happened to share a professional field with my ex, and occasionally he would help me out when I was stuck. Our chats were strictly work-related. Still, my boyfriend sent him warning messages filled with insults. My ex never replied—he was mature like that.
He didn’t spare my friends either. Every time we argued or I ignored his calls, he would text them, ranting, demanding intervention. They got tired. They tried reasoning with him, but he wouldn’t stop.
When I finally broke up with him, he unleashed one last tantrum. He begged my friends to talk to me. When they all sided with me, he insulted every single one of them—plus my ex. My ex, who had nothing to do with our drama, received the worst of it. I responded in kind, dragging the man for three months straight until he gave up.
And how could I forget Naivasha?
He once planned a trip for us and told me not to pack clothes—he’d bought something special. I arrived only to find a flimsy, oversized kitenge blouse and skirt, size XL. I wear a medium. He beamed with pride. When I asked why he got such a loose fit, he said it was intentional—he didn’t want me looking “attractive” around his male friends.
On another occasion, I was meeting his sister and he chose my entire outfit, including the scarf on my head. After we broke up, he told me I was ungrateful—for an outfit he bought for Ksh 1,800. Imagine, calling me ungrateful over a skirt!
Looking back, I wasn’t dating a man. I was dating an insecure, controlling boy hiding behind the title of “boyfriend.”