Insight of a Kenyan Girl

In remembrance of a fallen character Callum.
A man I lived alongside long enough for love and hate to wrap themselves around each other until neither made sense anymore. A character shaped by closeness, sustained by illusion, and undone eventually by truth. The past does not disappear, It echoes and when it does, it carries disgust, pain, and the quiet devastation only another human being can inflict. This is not grief. It’s recognition.

There is a particular kind of harm that does not announce itself loudly. It is intellectual, slow, and methodical. It disguises itself as reason. As logic. As concern. He was a narcissistic intellectual sharp enough to wound without raising his voice. A man with the heart of a snake and the adaptive nature of a chameleon, always shifting to suit the moment, always surviving the damage he left behind. He perfected the art of appearing decent.

There are memories I wish did not exist. Broken wombs. Lost babies. Futures that never arrived. Things that were reduced to silence so he could continue uninterrupted, untouched, and unaccountable. He walked away from devastation as though it were an inconvenience tragic, perhaps, but never his responsibility.

And still, he stood tall. Declaring himself the man. Confident in his own narrative. Certain of his superiority. Even when it was clear to anyone who looked closely that his character was fragile, rehearsed, and dependent on being believed rather than being true. Surely time has a way of changing perspective.

When I look back now, the past involving him feels almost ridiculous. The pedestal I once placed him on feels embarrassing in hindsight. What once felt powerful now looks small. The confidence he wore so convincingly reveals itself as posturing. The brilliance he claimed dissolves into manipulation dressed up as intellect. False gods do not age well.

What remains of him in memory is not impressive. It is oddly hollow. A man so intent on preserving himself that he left nothing intact behind him. A man who confused survival with greatness, control with depth, and attention with love. I do not mourn him, but I do believe in consequences. I hope he is haunted not by me, but by what was lost. By the child who never arrived. By the life that never took a breath because accountability was too inconvenient and empathy too costly. I hope that loss follows him into quiet moments, into sleep, into the spaces where performance fails. Not as punishment but as truth.

May it visit him where there is no audience, no argument to win, no version of events to edit. Where charm is useless, where logic cannot erase what simply is. As for me, I move forward lighter. The past no longer magnifies him it exposes him. This remembrance is not a tribute, nor is it forgiveness. It is the final act of naming, of releasing, of closing a chapter that demanded far too much of me.

A villain acknowledged. A story concluded. A future reclaimed.