Insight of a Kenyan Girl

Another one of those evenings—thoughts crowded her mind, yet not a single one felt clear. It was as if she was both present and absent, caught in an endless loop of emotions she couldn’t quite name. Her house, once a sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage, suffocating in its familiarity. She needed an escape.

A quick shower, a dash of makeup, and a spritz of her favorite perfume transformed her mood, if only slightly. She barely glanced in the mirror, but she knew—she looked heavenly. She was born that way, a mirror image of her mother, with the kind of beauty that made people pause. Her alluring eyes, dark and knowing, had the uncanny ability to see through souls.

If home no longer gave her peace, then the city’s nightlife would. A short drive later, she arrived at a newly opened club—the name shimmered in neon blue, edged with gold.

Mystique.

The name alone felt seductive, an unspoken promise of thrill and mystery.

The line outside was intimidatingly long, eager patrons shifting impatiently under the buzzing glow of streetlights. But she walked past them effortlessly, her heels clicking against the pavement. The bouncers barely spared her a second glance before letting her through. Beauty did have its perks—some things never changed.

Inside, Mystique was a masterpiece. Exquisite lighting, velvet-draped walls, and a pulse of music that vibrated through her skin. Whoever owned this place had impeccable taste, a designer’s dream come to life. She let her eyes roam, taking it all in—the sleek bar, the sprawling dance floor, the dimly lit VIP section where whispers were exchanged over glinting glasses of champagne.

She made her way to the bar, gracefully hopping onto a stool. A silent curse crossed her mind—why did they always make these stools so tall?

The bartender caught her eye—a tattooed masterpiece himself. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing inked stories along his arms. A clever marketing strategy, she mused. Women always flocked to bars with attractive bartenders, and tonight was no exception.

“A dirty martini, please,” she requested, offering him a small smile. He nodded, swiftly crafting her drink.

She continued her silent observation of the club, admiring its artistry. Every detail spoke of elegance and indulgence.

“Here’s your dirty martini, ma’am,” the bartender said, sliding the drink toward her with a polite nod.

She took a slow sip, the crisp taste spreading through her mouth as she bobbed her head lightly to the hypnotic beat of the music. She wasn’t here for conversation. She wasn’t here for company. Just a drink, some music, and the promise of a fleeting escape.

But she was being watched.

Had she been paying attention, she would’ve noticed the envious gazes of women sizing her up, or the predatory glances of men waiting for an opening. But most of all, she would have noticed the intense green eyes locked onto her from the VIP section.

By the time she was on her second drink, the music had taken hold of her body. Resistance was futile. With effortless grace, she slipped off the barstool and made her way to the dance floor, where the bass pulsed like a second heartbeat.

She moved with abandon—hips swaying, eyes closed, surrendering herself to the rhythm. It felt freeing, exhilarating. Her earlier restlessness melted away with each step, each turn of her body.

Then, she felt it.

A warm presence behind her. Close. Very close. A breath ghosted over her skin.

She turned, expecting to find an eager man. Instead, she was met with a pair of striking eyes and a playful smirk—another woman. Stunning, confident, completely at ease as she swayed to the music.

A silent understanding passed between them. A shared rhythm, a shared moment. The woman’s arms slid around her waist, pulling her closer. But to her, it was just a dance. Nothing more.

They danced until exhaustion took hold, and she untangled herself from the stranger’s grip. With a small smile, she slipped away, making her way back to the bar, her breath heavy, her skin damp with sweat. The bartender handed her another martini and a hand towel. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d needed both.

Glancing toward the dance floor, she searched for her mysterious partner, but the woman had vanished, as if she’d never been there at all.

Oh well, she thought. It wasn’t as if it mattered.

Her gaze flickered to the VIP corner. Two figures sat there in silence, exuding an aura of untouchable authority. Their eyes were on her, unblinking, watchful. Something about them felt different. Unsettling.

She downed the rest of her drink in one swift motion, pushing the feeling aside.

“How much do I owe?” she asked, reaching for her wallet.

The bartender gave her a knowing look before sliding her card back across the counter. “Your tab has been taken care of. Thank you for visiting Mystique. We hope to see you again soon.”

She blinked.

“Who paid for it?”

The bartender merely smirked. “Have a good night.”

Confusion flickered in her chest. She wasn’t the kind of woman who received free things—nor did she seek them.

Uncomfortable, she fished out some cash from her purse and placed it in front of him. “This is for you. Thanks for the service.”

Slipping off her heels, she carried them in her hands as she headed toward the exit. The night air was a welcome relief, cool against her heated skin.

As she reached her car, a strange sensation crawled over her—a feeling of being watched. She turned sharply, scanning the dimly lit street. But there was nothing. No one.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

Shaking off the unease, she slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. She had come here to forget her worries, and for the most part, she had. But what she didn’t know was that tonight had set something in motion.

Something she couldn’t stop.

Mystique wasn’t just another club.

And tonight wasn’t just another night.

A story had begun.

One that could either save her—or swallow her whole.