His name isn’t important. His calls are.
When he rings, you answer. Everyone does.
He deals in weekends — the kind you borrow from a life you can’t afford, sold at a price your middle-class wallet can’t refuse. He lives parte after parte, and for two days, so can you.
This time, the call was Naivasha. A BNB with a balcony overlooking nothing in particular, stocked with whatever fruits our middro class salaries could bear. Drinks, laughter, weekend games on a flatscreen, strangers who felt like long-lost friends by sundown.It was a good weekend.
Then Monday came.
I dragged myself into the office, my head pounding in time with HR’s footsteps down the hall. They’ve been watching me lately — my output has been thin. Distracted. Inconsistent.
And then, between sips of bitter office coffee, it hit me.
Not the headache.
The memory.
That babe. From the balcony. The one who laughed a little too easily at everyone’s jokes, who touched shoulders like she was sharing secrets with the whole world. The kind of friendly that feels fun at night and terrifying at 10 AM under fluorescent lights.
Panic, cold and clear, washed right through the hangover.
My screen blurred. My heart hammered against my ribs like it wanted out.
I didn’t think — I just moved.
Pushed back from my desk, mumbled something about something, and ran.
Not home.
To the nearest clinic. Ndio nijue hali yangu.
The wait was short. The silence was long.
When the nurse came back, her face gave nothing away.
“It’s negative,” she said, like she was announcing the weather.
Relief came, but it was thin. Hollow.
“But,” she added, handing me a slip, “you start PEP today. For the next 30 days. Don’t miss a dose.”
I walked out with a paper bag of pills and a new rhythm to my life.
The party wasn’t over. It had just changed shape.
Now, every morning and every night, I swallow a small, white reminder.
The taste is bitter.
The lesson, even more so.
Parte after parte, he said.
He didn’t mention the mornings after.