Christine was at her kibanda in Kangemi, preparing to start cooking the chapatis that paid her rent. Her beefy fist pounded into the wheat flour dough. Then her strong fingers dug into the dough, twisted it, rolled it and squeezed it.
Although she was gazing intently at the dough, her mind was elsewhere. It was back in her one-room house, twirling around the Tanzanian man she had left there, sleeping.
What kind of man wakes up later than his woman, every single day. What kind of man stays with his woman jobless and penniless? Her fist pounded into the dough with extra force.
Worst of all, he had no ambition! What kind of man lives without ambition?!
“Nimechoka!” I am tired! She muttered under her breath.
“I am tired of living with this man.”
That night, she waited for him to do the only thing he was good at, then before he turned over to start snoring like the pig he was, she told him softly, “go back to Tanzania.”