Toxic Love

There is this story that was trending on Twitter in the morning. Apparently, this girl has been in an on and off relationship with her baby daddy for 8 good years. What is shocking is the fact that despite all the violence that she claims was meted on her, she still found a reason to go back. You be the judge:

"This is a true story. The person has wished to remain anonymous. After you read it you will understand why. As she narrated the events I had a mixture of emotions. I felt angry, most of the time I wanted to cry, and other times I felt like screaming. I tip my hat to her for keeping her composure throughout the three hours or so we spoke. I hope this serves as a teacher and a mirror to the readers here.
I ignored the first red flag. My boyfriend loved to party but I loved the indoors. Night clubs in their nature are cold and noisy and I preferred the warmth of my bed. This one time we were out, I protested that I wanted to go back and sleep. He held me and shook me. “Stop embarrassing me in front of my friends,” he barked. “Just try and have a good time, eh?” He mellowed after his friends calmed him down. I never protested again in fear of flaring his anger. Little did I know that I was only at the beginning of a rabbit hole of terror and pain that would leave me scarred physically and emotionally.
I met my boyfriend in 2012 during my first year at The University of Nairobi. A naïve 19-year-old girl from Kisii feeling the freedom of the city for the first time. I was set to do anthropology but law was the course after my heart. I spoke to my dad and enrolled to take law on a parallel program while living in a private hostel off-campus. I got introduced to my boyfriend by a friend during this time. He was a 24-year-old hunk in his third year, doing design. He was tall, dark, handsome and charming, and I took to him immediately. To this day, I tell people what he’s capable of and they stare unbelieving. “Him? But he’s such a charming guy.”
You see, I didn’t know how to cook. When I visited him at his third-floor hostel, he would do most of the cooking. He made mostly ugali, sukuma and scrambled eggs in that tiny hostel of his that felt like a shoe but that didn’t matter because we were in love. After eating we would crank the music to drown the moaning and groaning voices of our love making. We continued with the fling for about three months before making things official. I would often find myself in his hostel and that’s when his true colors started to show.
This one night, he decided to leave me behind when he went partying. When he came back in the dark of night, he asked why I had not cooked. I told him he should have said something because I had already sorted myself with fries, and besides, he knew I did not know how to cook. He locked the door, put the keys in his pocket and cranked the music. “Today you will understand who is the man in this house,” he roared. What followed was a beating like I had never seen before. He rained blows on me with both his fists and his feet. I’m tiny—40kgs, 5’3”—and he’s 80kgs, 6’. I felt like a bag of feathers being bounced off the walls.
“I want to leave,” I screamed, my voice drowned in music. “You want to leave, eh?” He opened the window. “Then leave.” The weird thing is that I climbed onto the window ready to jump and take my chances with gravity than take my chances with him but before I could, he got back to his senses. “Come down, you want people to say I killed you?”
“If you want to leave, all you have to do is give me a blowjob and I will give you the key and you can go.” He had just beaten me to a pulp and his manhood was as hard as stone. Fearing another beating, I got on my knees, fumbled with his belt and took him in my mouth. Afterwards, he had his way with me. I realized five years later that it was rape because there was no consent. He later cuddled me, all the while crying. “I’m sorry. It will never happen again,” he said mid hiccups. Little did I know this was just a simple orientation of things to come.
I got pregnant at the beginning of 2013. When I told him, he got into a fit. “I am still young and I want to enjoy myself. Are you trying to trap me?” At this time, he was also sleeping around with three different women. I had seen the suggestive texts on his phone.
‘The other night was great.’
‘Babe, when can I see you again?’
‘I miss you.’
The conversations revolved around sex and when I asked he didn’t even deny it. “I’m a man. I need to sow my seed. I need to do these things before we get married, and at the end of the day, I am coming home to you, not to any of those other girls,” he said without remorse. It’s weird because not even once did I think of leaving him; not even after he told me to get rid of the baby.
There are these pills called Cytotec, Misoprostol. You swallow two and insert two up your vagina and as long as you are not three months pregnant, the abortion is a success. The pills went for around two thousand bob. He did not have the money and he told me to come up with a story for my parents.
I was with my friend when I took the pills. The pain was excruciating, lasting a full hour. I felt as if someone was dragging a knife through my insides. “You should leave him now,” my friend cried to deaf ears. My boyfriend came later and gave me a sideways hug and I ended up giving him two hundred bob for fare back to town.
Around the time I had the abortion, his anger flared again. He had told me to cook ugali and I had done a terrible job. This time I was not up for a beating. I slipped out the door, ran, and hid in the hostel bathrooms. I could hear him knocking on doors, asking students if they had seen me. He went all the way to the gate to ask the watchman. When he finally found me, his anger had ebbed and he told me he would teach me how to cook and clean. “Hutakua unanipikia ugali mbichi. Lazima ujue kupika na kufanya kazi.” He wanted his meals hot and his clothes and duvets cleaned once a week. So there I was, both his maid and his sex toy, and in my mind, all of it was love.
After that, he cleaned up his act. Most of 2013 was good. He started this tradition of throwing parties for me on my birthday. He would have his friends and my friends surprise me and then he would get me a gift. It was always a dress. He did not know how much I disliked dresses. I would smile and pretend to love it even though deep down I didn’t.
He never wanted to use protection. “Why would I use protection and you are my woman?” he would ask. “Si it’s only me you’re fucking? Why are you even suggesting that we use protection?” He didn’t want me to take contraceptives either. His argument was that they would make me fat and he loved me the way I was. I didn’t dare use them even though, thinking about it now, if I had he probably wouldn’t have had a clue.
Towards the end of 2013, right before he finished school, I got pregnant again. We were on a long holiday. I was in my second year at Law School and I was in first year in my newly enrolled second major in Political Science and Philosophy. When I told him about it, he was still not ready. “I’m just getting out of campus,” he said. “We are going to do the same thing we did with the first one.” This time he was around for the abortion. He bought the pills and helped me go through it and he finally adjusted to the idea of contraceptives. “We’re having too many scares,” was how he put it.
Just before he cleared campus he told me he had a friend living at the staff quarters who happened to be moving out. He suggested I move in. The rent was six thousand a month, which was the same as my private hostel but the staff quarters were bigger, had more privacy and after I was done with school I could rent it out for a bit of money on the side. He suggested I move in with a friend and share the cost with her. He must have talked to my friend and told her not to take my offer because she bailed out after we had made extensive plans to move in and my dad had already sent the rent."

Read the whole story here:







Ni hayo to kwa sasa watazamaji. Mi ni wenyu Wawe… muwe na siku njema

UMEFFI saidi … back to you @Mimi Huwa Namwaga Ndanii in the studio

@Conservative dude salimia @Mrs4thletter sana.

“Come down, you want people to say I killed you?”
“If you want to leave, all you have to do is give me a blowjob and I will give you the key and you can go.”


See ladies??? Broke men are the worst, they are complete psychos,poverty will make anyone esp a man a psycho, they beat you up for not cooking , IN A HOSTEL DORM they left you in with no money/food. Instead of taking you out to expensive places to eat. Then ask you for a blow job(no self respecting lady gives any man a blowjob-this is a worse sin than even others) to leave you alone after beating you to a pulp.Then they make you ask your parents for money to abort a child they impregnated you with, and have the nerve to ask you for fare after all you’ve been thru. Then he tells you to cook and clean,mtu hata haja kuoa , did you go to school kusoma ama kukuwa mbotch?
Men can be cruel when you have no standards.

:D:DHamjafanyia elder poa… That’s what we call a successful coup

Fuck. If someone did that to my sister, he’d be dead like a dodo the next day. I’d better fill in the holes of a dead father than see my sister die slowly as i watch. Jesus Christ. That is a fucking physchopath