2025-09-28 18:13:43Ntalami woke to the soft chime of her phone buzzing against the nightstand. For once, it wasn’t Duke’s name on the screen, pulling her into the same spiral she had fought for years. Instead, it was a message from her friend Aisha.
“Congratulations, love! They featured your crochet bags on the Nairobi Creatives page! Over 10,000 followers!”
Ntalami blinked at the message, then unlocked her phone to check. Sure enough, her photo—smiling in a sunflower-yellow shawl she had made herself—was pinned at the top of the page. The caption read: ‘Meet Ntalami, the young woman weaving healing into every stitch.’
Her breath caught in her chest. This wasn’t just about art. It was about being seen—truly seen—for something beyond her pain.
She closed her eyes and whispered to herself, “I’m becoming someone new.”
Duke, meanwhile, stared at the ceiling of his apartment, the morning sun slicing through the blinds like knives. His head throbbed from last night’s drinking, and the ashtray on the table overflowed with cigarette butts. Chloe’s perfume still lingered faintly on the pillows, though she had left weeks ago.
He reached for his phone. No messages. Not from Chloe. Not from Ntalami. Not even from his friends, who had grown tired of babysitting his self-destruction.
For years, Duke had been the man with a presence—charming at clubs, confident in the gym, loud with his jokes. Now, stripped of Ntalami’s forgiving love and Chloe’s flirtatious comfort, he felt like a shell.
His mind drifted, unwillingly, to his mother. The day she walked out, her perfume sharp in the air as she carried her suitcase past him. He remembered clinging to her leg, begging her to stay, his small fingers slipping from her dress as she told him to “be strong for your sister.”
She never came back.
That wound, buried deep, now oozed in his silence. Every woman he had ever touched was an echo of that departure—something to hold until they inevitably left.
Duke clenched his jaw and pushed the thought away, but it refused to leave him.
Ntalami’s days began to stretch wide with possibility. She poured her energy into her crochet brand, posting reels of her work, engaging with her growing community, and even teaching beginner classes online.
One evening, she received an email invitation: “We would love for you to showcase your designs at the Nairobi Handmade Fashion Expo.”
Her heart skipped. A year ago, she had been begging Duke to see her, to validate her existence with scraps of affection. Now, she was being invited to step into the light on her own.
When she told Aisha, her friend squealed over the phone. “Girl, do you realize what this means? You’re not just surviving—you’re thriving.”
Ntalami smiled, though tears prickled her eyes. Thriving. It felt foreign, but she was beginning to believe it.
She bought a simple but elegant dress for the expo, something flowy and pastel, that made her feel like the woman she was becoming—soft yet strong, rooted yet blooming.
On the day of the event, she stood backstage, her creations displayed on mannequins. Bags with sunflower motifs, shawls dyed in ocean hues, scarves that seemed to hold whispers of warmth. Each piece carried a fragment of her story, stitched in resilience.
As the crowd wandered through the exhibition hall, murmuring admiration, Ntalami felt a quiet pride swell in her chest.
For the first time, she wasn’t defined by scars unseen. She was defined by what she had created from them.
Duke was losing grip.
His work at the press company had started to suffer. Deadlines slipped past him, his cartoons grew sloppy, and his boss had pulled him aside more than once. “Duke, you’re talented. But if you keep this up, we can’t keep you.”
Still, he couldn’t summon the focus. His nights bled into mornings at the bottom of bottles, his laughter at bars more hollow each time.
One evening, he stumbled home after a fight with a stranger at the club. His lip was split, his shirt torn. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he barely recognized the man staring back. His dreadlocks, once his pride, hung unkempt. His abs, once carved from discipline, had softened. His eyes—bloodshot, empty—spoke louder than words.
For a flicker of a moment, he thought of calling Ntalami. She had always patched him up, always reminded him he was more than his chaos. But the thought quickly soured. She wasn’t coming back.
He smashed the glass against the sink. Blood pooled along his knuckles, but he didn’t flinch. The pain felt almost like relief.
Ntalami’s healing wasn’t linear. Some nights, loneliness crept in, whispering Duke’s name. But she had tools now: her journal, her therapy sessions, her community. She learned to sit with the ache without letting it consume her.
One evening, while journaling, she wrote: “I chased his love because it mirrored what I knew as a child—instability, shouting, the storm before the silence. But love doesn’t need storms. Love can be steady. I choose steady.”
Writing those words felt like closing a door she had kept ajar for too long.
That weekend, at the expo, she met a man named Leo—a soft-spoken photographer with kind eyes and an easy laugh. He admired her work, asking thoughtful questions about her process. Unlike Duke, he didn’t dominate the conversation. He listened.
Ntalami felt a spark, subtle but present. She wasn’t ready for romance, not fully. But she realized something important: she could be desired and respected at the same time.
It was enough to know healthier love existed in the world, even if she wasn’t ready to step into it yet.
Duke’s breaking point came on a Sunday evening. He had been drinking since morning, the apartment littered with empty bottles. His father called, asking why he hadn’t visited his sister in weeks. Duke snapped, shouting into the phone, “You don’t know what I’ve been through! You don’t know what it’s like to be left!”
His father was silent for a long moment before replying quietly, “I do know. She left me too.”
The line went dead, but the words rang in Duke’s ears like a bell he couldn’t unhear.
That night, for the first time in years, Duke let himself cry. Not the angry tears he had shed in fights, not the manipulative ones he had used to win Ntalami back. But raw, guttural sobs that came from the boy who had watched his mother walk away.
It was ugly and unsteady, but it was real.
He curled on the floor, clutching his stomach, as though trying to hold himself together. For once, he didn’t reach for the bottle.
Ntalami, under the same sky that night, sat on her balcony with her crochet hook in hand. The moonlight painted her face as she worked on a new shawl, this one in shades of lavender and cream.
She wasn’t thinking of Duke. She was thinking of herself—the woman who had survived, who had learned, who was slowly stitching herself whole.
As the stitches grew, so did her certainty: she was never going back.
The road ahead was hers alone, and for the first time, that didn’t scare her. It thrilled her.
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Full Circle
The morning light spilled softly through Ntalami’s window, warming her face as the city slowly awakened. The sound of distant traffic mixed with birdsong, creating a rhythm that reminded her of how far she had come — from chaos to calm, from heartbreak to wholeness. It had been months since the art exhibition — months since she last saw Duke. Life had taken on a new rhythm, not perfect but peaceful. She had finished several new crochet collections, expanded her women’s collective, and started mentoring young girls who had survived abuse and neglect. Every time she taught them to stitch colors together, she felt like she was mending tiny pieces of her own past. Healing, she had learned, was not a destination but a daily decision. This morning was special — her collective had been invited to a community event in Kibera, a healing and art festival aimed at supporting survivors through creative expression. The event was open to everyone, and Ntalami had agreed to lead a short workshop
Crossing Paths
The sun hung low over Nairobi, painting the city in streaks of orange and gold. Ntalami walked briskly along the avenue toward the annual art exhibition she had been invited to speak at. The air was crisp with the promise of evening, and her chest hummed with a quiet excitement. Leo had promised to meet her afterward, but for now, she was alone—focused on the women she represented, the stories she wanted to share, and the vision she had been nurturing since stepping fully into her independence. The exhibition hall buzzed with creativity, laughter, and clinking glasses. Walls adorned with bold murals and delicate sketches told the stories of struggle, resilience, and triumph. Ntalami’s heart swelled as she walked past pieces created by women from her artisan collective—each painting, each stitch, a testimony to healing and reclamation. She stopped near a large canvas, a sweeping depiction of two hands reaching through darkness toward light. The piece struck a familiar chord in her c
Safe Haven
The evening air in Nairobi carried a faint scent of rain and jacaranda. Ntalami stood at her window, fingers tracing the fog on the glass as she watched the city lights flicker like tiny fireflies below. Her phone buzzed softly. Leo: “Still up for the art walk tomorrow?” She smiled. He had a way of asking without expectation—just presence, a calm she hadn’t known before. It had been months since she last saw Duke, months since she finally stopped replaying his voice in her head. But the scars were still there—quiet, healed over, yet tender. Sometimes, at night, she would wake with her heart racing, expecting chaos. Then she would breathe, remind herself: You are safe now. The next day, Leo waited for her by the riverside path where murals painted by local artists covered the walls in wild bursts of colour. He wore a simple white shirt and carried a sketchbook. “You’re early,” she said, smiling shyly. “I like the quiet before the crowd,” he replied. “It’s easier to notice the sma
Reflection Exercise 1
1. The Father wound The “father wound” often comes from absence, neglect, criticism, or conditional love. It can create patterns of: >Seeking validation through achievement or approval. >Struggling with self-worth or confidence. >Difficulty trusting men (for women) or difficulty embodying healthy masculinity (for men).Reflection questions: > How did your father (or father figure) show love when you were growing up? > Did you feel safe, protected, and seen by him? >In what ways do you still seek approval or validation today? > How do you react to authority or men in your life now?Take a few moments to journal your answers honestly, without judgment.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rising Light Chapter 9
The dawn broke over Nairobi with a quiet brilliance, the city streets bathed in the soft glow of morning light. Ntalami stood on her balcony, sipping her coffee, her crochet bag resting nearby, still warm from the night before. The city hummed below her, a blend of traffic, chatter, and the distant calls of street vendors; but she felt a profound peace, as if the world had slowed just for her to breathe and take stock of how far she had come.Her journey from the pain of toxic love to the freedom she now experienced had been long and winding, marked by tears, reflection, and growth. Each stitch she wove in her creations had become more than craft; it was ritual, meditation, and affirmation all at once. And now, she was not only creating for herself, she was creating for others, guiding, mentoring, and inspiring.Today, she was attending the first meeting of a women’s artisan collective she had helped establish. The group was meant to provide a platform for female creatives from across
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
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