Insight of a Kenyan Girl

By the time the lilies began to droop, I had already replayed our last conversation at least a dozen times.

There was no way he found me through a cousin in admin. I never once used the name Minnie at check-in. I hadn’t given it to any doctors, any nurses, any forms. So how did he know? The thought spun in my mind like smoke — no fire, but the scent of something burning.

I wasn’t scared. Not exactly. Just… alert.

After everything I’d been through — leaving home, carrying pain I didn’t speak of, waking up in a room where no one knew my real name — I’d learned to trust my instincts. And right now, they were telling me that Patty wasn’t just some sweet guy who liked samosas and had charming hospital connections.

So I did what any sensible girl in a strange place would do.

I Googled him.

Except… I didn’t know his real name. Or even what to search. “Tall guy, messy hair, calls himself Patty, frequents Indian music clubs.” Not exactly a winning keyword combo.

Instead, I opened our text thread and stared at it like it might suddenly reveal a clue.

Patty: Don’t forget to drink your water. Hydration is sexy. 😎

I smiled despite myself.

Minnie: That’s the most unsexy way to say that.

Patty: Facts are facts. Your kidneys will thank me.

A beat. Then:

Patty: Also… is it okay if I drop something off later today? Won’t stay long. Promise.

Minnie: Depends. Are you dropping off actual food or just more flowers?

Patty: Both. One for the stomach, one for the soul.

I hesitated before replying. Not because I didn’t want to see him — I did. But part of me still held back. There was still so much I didn’t know.

Minnie: Sure. But you stay by the door. I’m still in a hospital gown and I’m not trying to scar you for life.

Patty: Deal. I’ll be the guy holding biryani and judgment.

I laughed quietly. Then looked at the time. He’d be here in an hour.

I stood slowly, clutching the metal bar on the bed as I stretched. The fever was gone, the stitches healing. I even felt strong enough to pull on the oversized hoodie one of the nurses had lent me. My hair was a mess, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

When the knock came, it was softer than last time.

“Door’s open,” I called.

He entered holding a white paper bag and a takeaway container that smelled like heaven.

“Semi-homemade,” he said. “I can’t cook to save my life, but I know the right people.”

“Tell your right people they’ve earned a star,” I said, taking the container.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Just stood there, one hand in his pocket, watching me with that familiar, unreadable smile.

“Why did you really come looking for me?” I asked suddenly. I didn’t mean to be so direct — but I was tired of swallowing my questions.

He blinked, then tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“You said you asked a cousin about a Minnie. But I didn’t use that name anywhere. Not once.”

His lips curved, but this time it wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re right. You didn’t.”

I froze. He looked down at the floor for a second, then back up at me.

“You mentioned the clinic once. Briefly. I had a guess. And I asked about a girl who matched your description. Not your name.”

“And they just gave that out?”

“Let’s just say I’m persistent. And polite.” He paused. “And lucky.”

A part of me wanted to push more. But another part… the tired part, the quiet part, the part that hadn’t felt seen in weeks — it believed him. Or at least wanted to.

“Still no real names?” I asked after a long beat.

He grinned. “Not yet. Fake names make better stories.”

And maybe he was right. Maybe the truth could wait. Maybe what we had now — the slow build, the shared smiles, the unanswered questions — maybe it was enough.

For now.