A Tale of Unexpected Love and Dangerous Secrets
✨ Written by Aziza Mohamed
Some stories begin with flowers.
Mine began with a theft.
It was a crowded Friday in Nairobi. The kind of heat that makes you irritated for no reason. I had just entered a packed matatu, earbuds in, eyes on the road. I didn’t notice him. Not until I realized my phone was gone.
Then I saw him—tall, hoodie on, eyes calm.
And my phone in his hand.
“Give it back,” I snapped.
He didn’t run. Just smirked and held it out.
“You don’t even have a password,” he said casually.
Then, as he passed it to me, he added, “Imani.”
I froze.
“How do you know my name?”
“I read your texts,” he said, walking away.
Two Weeks Later
I saw him again.
Not in a matatu. In a library.
Not stealing.
Reading poetry.
He looked up, smiled, like we’d planned this.
“You again,” I said.
“You again,” he replied.
Then after a pause: “Kian.”
I should’ve left it there. But I didn’t.
There was something about him — reckless but quiet, broken but honest. He wasn’t like other guys.
We didn’t fall in love instantly.
But slowly. Dangerously. Deeply.
But Kian Wasn’t Who I Thought He Was
Then one day, he vanished. No call. No goodbye.
Weeks later, his sister found me.
“He’s hiding,” she said. “He steals because he owes dangerous people. He didn’t want you involved.”
I felt everything crumble.
My heart, my trust, my foolish hope.
But love is strange.
Because months later, as I locked my gate one night, a voice whispered behind me:
“You still don’t use a password.”
It was him.
Bruised. Changed. Real.
“I kept your poems,” he said softly.
I didn’t run. I didn’t speak.
I just let him hold me — not because I forgot what he did.
But because I remembered everything else.
💔 The End – Or Maybe, Just the Beginning
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