Insight of a Kenyan Girl

I was going to see him again — Patty.

We’d made plans to meet at the food festival. I could already imagine the swirl of scents, the colors, the music, the laughter that would’ve made our second meeting even better than the first. My stomach fluttered just thinking about it. There was something so oddly comforting about him — the way he teased without being cruel, how he looked at me like he knew I was more than what I let the world see.

I was finally starting to feel okay again. Like the real me — not the shattered version I’d learned to patch up and carry. I wasn’t all the way there yet, but I was close. Closer than I’d been in days. And that hope, that light? It scared me a little… but I wanted it. I wanted him — or at least the chance to know what we could be.

Then my body betrayed me.

The pain had started as a dull throb near my surgical scar. By late morning, it had sharpened into something deeper — hotter. My body felt heavy, sluggish. I broke out into a cold sweat, barely able to stand. My head pulsed and my skin was burning. I knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

I called a tuk-tuk. I couldn’t think clearly. I just mumbled “hospital” and leaned against the side as the world spun past me. I don’t remember arriving. I don’t remember collapsing. Just bright lights, hands on my arms, voices I couldn’t understand — then nothing.

I woke up in the ICU, disoriented, weak, and surrounded by beeping machines. I had been unconscious for three days. The infection had taken over fast. My immune system had barely kept up. The doctors called it “a close call.”

But all I could think was: He’s going to think I stood him up.

No calls, no message, no explanation. Just silence. Like I vanished.

When I finally got my phone, my fingers hovered over the screen. What could I even say? Patty didn’t know my real name. He didn’t know my past. He only knew the pieces I let him see. I wasn’t ready to unravel all of it yet. But I also couldn’t just disappear — not when he’d been kind. Not when he’d made me laugh like that.

So I sent the message. Short. Careful.
“Hey. I’m really sorry I missed the food festival. I had an unexpected medical situation and couldn’t reach out. I hope you understand.”

Then I waited.

Shamsher POV.

She didn’t show.

I waited by the sugarcane cart for over an hour, pretending not to care, pretending not to scan every face in the crowd hoping it was hers. The girl with the half-smile and guarded eyes. The one who called herself Minnie but clearly had layers under that name, like I did.

I didn’t want to assume anything. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she ghosted. It wouldn’t be the first time someone vanished just when things started to feel real. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

We’d only met once, but I remembered the way she had laughed with her head tilted back, like it surprised her. Like joy wasn’t something she trusted easily. And somehow, I’d made her laugh.

Then three days later — just when I had nearly decided to let it go — her message came in.
“Hey. I’m really sorry I missed the food festival. I had an unexpected medical situation and couldn’t reach out. I hope you understand.”

I read it twice. Then a third time.

She didn’t owe me an explanation — we were just strangers with fake names. But she sent one anyway. That mattered.

So I replied.
I get it. Hope you’re okay now. Just glad you reached out. Let me know when you’re back on your feet — we still have unfinished food business, Minnie.”

It wasn’t a demand. Just a door left slightly open.

She didn’t say much. But something about her silence before — and her return now — told me she was fighting something far bigger than she let on.

And I wasn’t about to push.

Not yet.