Chege from Naivasha bewitched me.
I repeat again — Chege from Naivasha bewitched me.
Because tell me, what is a sane woman, with two functioning brain cells, doing with Chege? What am I doing with that man? My parents raised me well, I am a whole investment — my people spent money on me — but here I am, shamelessly and comfortably wasting my years with Chege. You can’t tell me anything. This is witchcraft.
Last weekend, I cried a river because of Chege. This weekend? SAME storyline. SAME tears. SAME foolishness. At this point, it’s giving generational curse.
Chege has been half–heartedly apologizing the whole week.
Not even a genuine apology — just that apology that has no remorse, no shame, no emotion… the one men give when they’re tired of being reminded they are wrong.
He says he doesn’t understand why he washed the dishes and I still don’t see him as a gift.
Even you — can you see Chege as a gift?? Let’s be serious.
So Saturday, we met because he promised he has changed and would get me a gift. Like a real one. A respectable one.
I dressed up in a long flowing green dress. I looked like a woman who is going to meet her destiny.
Little did I know that destiny was plotting against me.
His compound? Same.
Inside? Same.
I toured the entire house like KEBS doing inspection.
Bedroom? Same.
Living room? Same.
Kitchen? Same.
Balcony? Same.
So I put on my serious face and said,
“I’ve not seen any gift. Hand me what you’re to hand me.”
He smiled — the kind of smile that belongs to people who don’t fear God — and pulled out something flat but nicely wrapped from the sofa.
For a moment, I smiled.
Because it looked like a real gift.
I unwrapped it…
Guess what it was and I give you 5M shillings — just guess??
You’re WRONG.
Imagine Chege handed me HIS PHOTO.
Yes.
You read correctly.
His. Framed. Photo.
The apology gift was Chege’s face — captured professionally — printed — framed — sealed — approved — matte finish.
I stared at Chege. No words. Because sometimes English fails.
“You like it? I remembered you have no framed photo of me,” he said. Smiling proudly, like he just bought land.
“Chege, what am I supposed to do with this? You apologized the whole week to give me a framed photo?” I asked, already crying.
“Yes. You’ll be smiling while looking at it. I make you happy…” he insisted.
“You don’t make me happy. Who told you that? I cried last weekend, and I’m crying now. If you make me happy, why am I always WET — and not romantically — but TEARS??” I whispered.
“You love crying over funny things. I make you happy and I know it. If not — why are you with me?” he smiled, confidently.
I returned his photo and went to get water — because I needed hydration to continue suffering.
Then I saw it — madness in 4D — Chege had done HALF the dishes.
“CHEGE!!!”
“Yes?”
“Why did you wash HALF the dishes?? What exactly is wrong with you?”
“Because you always complain. If I wash them, you complain. If I don’t wash them, you complain. I thought doing half would neutralize you.”
Neutralize who? Which chemical experiment is this?
I had no strength left. I sat on the floor and cried again — the way widows cry in Nollywood before chaos starts.
At this point, can DCI arrest Chege? Because where we are heading, one of you will have to get me a therapist. I’ve seen strange men, but Chege is the STRANGEST. My spirit is tired.