Insight of a Kenyan Girl

I smiled—not because what I saw brought me joy, but because I was frustrated. She had forgotten how adept I was at catching lies. Yet, there she sat, watching me believe her deception, mistaking my silence for ignorance. I laughed along, not out of amusement, but because the absurdity of it all stung. It hurt—not just the lie itself, but the realization that I had let her in, pulled her into my circle, and, against my better judgment, had started to care.

I have never been one for drama, so I kept quiet, wondering how long she planned to keep up the act. Was I unworthy of honesty, or was she simply too ashamed to face the truth? I had given her the benefit of the doubt, but doubt had a way of creeping in, poisoning even the best of intentions.

Lies have always been my undoing. The moment deception seeps into a friendship, I turn indifferent. It’s not out of malice, but out of self-preservation. And yet, standing there, I found myself wondering—were we ever truly friends? Or had I simply stepped on a thorn and been too numb to feel the prick until now?

People say the good are often treated the worst, and in this moment, I felt the weight of that truth. She was the bearer of falsehoods, the distributor of sorrow, and I—foolishly—had been her willing recipient. But no more.

So, I walked away. Not in anger, not in sadness, but with the clarity that comes when illusions shatter. She was no longer my person. In fact, she never had been.