Inherited Scars.

New Horizons Chapter 7

The sun had just begun to rise over Nairobi, casting a golden glow across the streets and rooftops. Ntalami stood at the edge of her balcony, her eyes scanning the city below, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. The morning air smelled faintly of rain and blooming flowers, and for the first time in years, she felt a lightness in her chest that wasn’t borrowed from anyone else.

Her life had begun to shift in ways she hadn’t imagined possible. The handmade fashion expo had been a success, her I*******m following had grown into a small community of admirers, and she had even received an offer to collaborate with a local boutique. Every stitch she made now carried the weight of her resilience, the beauty of her reclaimed self, and the freedom of choosing her path.

She tied back her hair and grabbed her tote bag. Today was special; her first day running a beginner’s crochet workshop for women in her neighborhood. She had advertised it online, offering both a safe space and a practical skill. Teaching had always been a dream, one she had set aside in the past because life felt like survival rather than creation.

As she entered the small community center, the chatter of women filled the room. Some were shy, hesitant, holding their yarn like a shield. Others laughed freely, already connecting with strangers as if they had known each other for years. Ntalami smiled warmly, welcoming everyone and introducing herself.

“This is more than just crochet,” she began, holding up a partially finished scarf. “It’s about weaving your story, your emotions, your strength into something tangible. Each stitch is a choice, and each choice shapes the life you want to build.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of her words settling in. Then hands began to move, yarn was untangled, and laughter and chatter filled the space again. Ntalami circulated, offering guidance, encouragement, and gentle corrections. For the first time, she wasn’t seeking validation from a lover; she was receiving it from herself and the women around her.

Meanwhile, across town, Duke was waking up on a cold, empty floor. The apartment was cluttered, the aftermath of his nightly drinking and loneliness. His head throbbed, but something inside him was different today. He didn’t reach for the whiskey. Instead, he reached for his phone and searched for the therapist he had called weeks ago but hadn’t visited.

After a deep breath, he dialed. The line rang once, twice… and then a calm, steady voice answered.

“Hello, this is Dr. Mwangi.”

Duke swallowed the lump in his throat. “I… I want to start sessions. I need help.”

Dr. Mwangi’s voice was gentle but firm. “That’s the first step, Duke. It’s not easy, but it’s courageous. Let’s start by understanding your story, and then we’ll work on healing it.”

As Duke hung up, he felt a flicker of something he hadn’t in years, hope. For the first time, he realized that healing wasn’t just for women or for people who had been abandoned; it was for him too. He wasn’t beyond repair. He just had to face the boy inside, the child who had watched his mother walk away and never returned.

Ntalami returned home that evening exhausted but exhilarated. She had laughed, encouraged, and seen growth in the women she had taught. Each story they shared reminded her of her own journey; the struggles, the setbacks, and the victories. She curled up on her balcony with a crochet bag she had been working on, the city lights twinkling below.

Her phone buzzed, a message from Leo, the photographer she had met at the expo.

“Hey, would you like to grab coffee tomorrow? I’d love to hear more about your process and your vision.”

Ntalami smiled, feeling no rush, no desperation, only curiosity and excitement. She typed back a simple: “I’d love that. See you tomorrow.”

It wasn’t about seeking love or validation, it was about connection, mutual respect, and the joy of exploring new possibilities.

Duke’s first therapy session was a revelation. Dr. Mwangi guided him gently through his childhood memories, helping him identify the root of his pain.

“You’ve been carrying your mother wound for decades,” the therapist said. “It’s influencing your relationships, your work, and your sense of self. The first step is acknowledging it, then learning to respond rather than react.”

Duke listened, silent and tense. Then, for the first time, he allowed himself to cry in front of another person, not out of anger or frustration, but out of grief and recognition.

“I… I just want to be able to love without hurting,” he admitted.

“That’s possible,” Dr. Mwangi said. “But it begins with learning to love and forgive yourself first.”

Duke nodded, the weight in his chest slowly beginning to shift. He realized that his journey would be long, painful, and humbling, but at least now it had a direction.

Back in her apartment, Ntalami’s life continued to expand. She had begun collaborating with other local artists, hosting pop-up events, and even selling her designs online internationally. But beyond the success, the most important growth was internal.

One evening, she reflected in her journal:

“I used to measure love by chaos, excitement, and the fear of abandonment. Now I measure it by how safe, seen, and free I feel in my own life. I am learning that the world doesn’t have to break me for me to feel alive. And that is enough.”

She added a final note: “I am choosing my path, and I will walk it fully, with courage and joy.”

The words felt like a promise to herself, a declaration that no one could take away her newfound strength.

Duke, in contrast, began to confront uncomfortable truths. His drinking decreased, though the cravings remained. He started journaling after sessions, documenting memories he had buried and patterns he had repeated. The anger, guilt, and grief were raw, but they were becoming tools rather than chains.

One evening, he drove to his father’s house. The visit was tense at first, words clipped and hesitant. But as they spoke, Duke realized that understanding his father’s absence didn’t erase his pain, it contextualized it. For the first time, he saw a path to release the cycles of anger and abandonment that had haunted him since childhood.

When he left that night, he felt lighter. Not whole, not yet, but lighter. And for Duke, that was progress.

Ntalami and Duke’s lives were moving on parallel but separate paths. She was rising, building, and exploring; he was confronting, reflecting, and beginning to repair. They no longer orbited the same world. Their love, once a toxic binding force, had become a mirror, reflecting what each needed to see in themselves.

Ntalami paused on her balcony one night, the city lights glowing like scattered stars. She felt a deep peace, knowing she had let go, and that she was walking toward a horizon of possibility, not chaos.

Duke, across the city, stared out at the rain streaking his window. He had lost Ntalami, yes, but he had gained something more elusive: awareness of himself, the courage to confront the wounds he had carried silently for decades.

Two people, shaped by similar scars, choosing very different paths; one rising from them, one learning how to stand amidst them.

And somewhere between their separate journeys, the truth became clear: sometimes love is not about possession, not about return, not about who wins or loses. Sometimes love is about learning, growing, and allowing both yourself and the other person to move forward.

Ntalami whispered to herself, a quiet affirmation:

“I am enough. I am free. I am becoming.”

And for Duke, the first step had been taken:

“I will face the wounds I have hidden. I will learn to love, starting with myself.”

The city breathed around them, indifferent yet witness to their separate journeys. Life was moving forward, and they were both moving with it, one in full bloom, the other learning to grow in the storm.