Inherited Scars.

Freedom in Bloom Chapter 8

The morning sunlight poured into Ntalami’s apartment, painting the walls with a warm golden hue. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with jasmine from the small planter on her balcony. She stretched, feeling the familiar ache of muscles from yesterday’s long walk through the city streets, a walk she had taken to clear her mind and celebrate small victories.

It had been months since she had let go of Duke, months since she had begun to recognize the patterns that had held her captive. Each day had been a lesson in self-love, self-respect, and conscious choice. She smiled as she recalled the first workshop she had hosted, how nervous she had been, how she had feared judgment, but how alive she had felt witnessing women finding joy in creating their own pieces.

Today was special. Ntalami was traveling outside the city for the first time since launching her crochet brand. She had been invited to a regional artisan market in Mombasa to showcase her creations and meet other emerging African designers. This opportunity was more than exposure; it was a symbolic step into freedom.

She zipped her tote bag closed, making sure each shawl, bag, and accessory was carefully packed. Each item carried her story, her resilience, and her newfound confidence. Today, she wasn’t just presenting her art; she was presenting herself, whole, radiant, and unapologetically alive.

As she stepped into the taxi, she felt a thrill of anticipation. She looked out the window, watching Nairobi recede behind her, and whispered to herself, “This is my life. Mine to shape, mine to own.”

Meanwhile, Duke had just returned from his therapy session, walking slowly through his small apartment. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus from the incense he had started burning to calm his mind. The session had been intense, he had revisited childhood memories, confrontations with his mother’s absence, and the anger he had carried for decades.

Duke sat on the floor, notebook in hand. He wrote down the patterns he had recognized in himself: the need for control, the attraction to chaotic relationships, the way he had sought validation from women to fill a void left by his mother. For the first time, he wrote without judgment, without excuses, only recognition.

His phone buzzed,it  was a message from Dr. Mwangi reminding him of his next session and encouraging him to journal about moments of progress. Duke set the phone aside, exhaling slowly. It was exhausting work, facing years of pain, but for the first time, it felt purposeful.

Ntalami arrived in Mombasa, the salty breeze brushing against her face. The market was alive with colors, music, and chatter. She set up her stall, arranging her creations thoughtfully, each piece a testament to her journey. As the morning passed, people admired her work, asked questions, and even shared their own stories.

A woman stopped, holding a sunflower-patterned bag. “This… this feels like it was made with love. With care. Who taught you?”

Ntalami smiled softly. “I learned from my grandmother. And I’ve added a lot of my own life experiences into it.”

The woman nodded, her eyes glistening. “It’s beautiful. And it feels… healing.”

Ntalami realized that every stitch, every color, every piece she had created wasn’t just a product, it was a vessel of her growth, her strength, and her freedom. For the first time, she understood that her past didn’t define her; her response to it did.

Back in Nairobi, Duke found himself walking to the small park where he often sat alone. The rain had passed, leaving the air crisp and clean. He noticed the children playing, couples walking hand in hand, and vendors closing their stalls. For the first time in a long while, he observed life without judgment, without envy, without resentment.

He thought of Ntalam, not with longing, not with bitterness, but with gratitude. She had been a mirror, showing him the man he needed to become. He smiled faintly to himself. Perhaps someday, they could meet again, but not as they had been. Not as lovers trapped in toxicity. If it happened, it would be as healed, whole individuals. And if not, he would still honor the growth her presence had inspired in him.

Ntalami spent the afternoon walking along the beach near the market, the waves lapping gently at her feet. She thought of all the nights she had cried over Duke, the fights, the pain, and the small victories she had claimed through her work and self-reflection. Each memory now felt like a stepping stone rather than a chain.

She met Leo that evening for coffee, the conversation flowing effortlessly. They spoke about creativity, passion, and the future. She realized that with him, or anyone, she would no longer seek validation, nor would she compromise her boundaries. Her heart was free, her mind clear, and her spirit unburdened.

“Freedom feels different than I imagined,” she said, laughing softly. “It feels light, like breathing without weight.”

Leo smiled, meeting her gaze. “It suits you.”

For the first time, Ntalami didn’t need someone else to define her. She had discovered that her freedom was her own creation, as tangible and delicate as the crochet she wove with her hands.

Duke’s transformation continued, slow but steady. He had started attending group therapy sessions, where he listened and shared, understanding that his experiences weren’t unique, but his responsibility to heal was. He began exercising not to impress anyone, but to honor his body. He journaled daily, confronting uncomfortable emotions and recognizing patterns he could now work to change.

One evening, he stood before the mirror, looking at himself clearly for the first time in years. His eyes, though weary, held determination. The scars from his past, the mother wound, the unresolved anger, the toxic habits were still there, but they no longer dictated his actions. He had begun to reclaim himself.

Ntalami returned to Nairobi a week later, her heart full, her mind calm. She carried souvenirs from Mombasa, not just the items she had purchased, but experiences that reminded her of her resilience and capacity for joy. She arranged her home carefully, creating a sanctuary where she could continue to grow.

That evening, as she sat on her balcony with her crochet hook in hand, she reflected:

“I have let go of the love that hurt me. I have embraced the work that heals me. I have discovered that life is not about waiting for someone to complete you, it’s about choosing yourself, every day.”

She paused, watching the city lights twinkle below. She realized that freedom wasn’t a single moment, it was a journey, a daily practice of courage, joy, and self-love. And she was walking it fully.

Across the city, Duke took a deep breath, standing at a crosswalk as cars passed by. The world felt both overwhelming and full of possibility. He had a long road ahead, but he was no longer trapped by old patterns. He had begun to dismantle the chains of his childhood wounds, learning to respond with compassion instead of aggression, and to seek connection without losing himself.

For Duke, the horizon was uncertain, but for the first time, it was filled with hope. He realized that healing was not linear, and mistakes would be made but the commitment to growth had been set.

And somewhere, unknowingly aligned by fate and distance, both Ntalami and Duke had begun the lives they were meant to live, independently, fully, and consciously.

Ntalami whispered to herself as she finished a delicate stitch:

“I am free. I am whole. I am becoming.”

And Duke, closing his journal that night, wrote:

“I am learning to love myself. I am learning to heal. I am becoming.”

The city slept around them, indifferent yet witnessing their separate journeys. Two souls, once entangled in pain and patterns, now moving forward on paths defined by courage, awareness, and choice.

And in that quiet, something profound shimmered between them, even if unspoken: the beauty of freedom in bloom.