Becky plucked the last shirt from the clothesline. The air had warmed. The sun, now high up the sky, had driven away the mist that ruled the early morning hours.
Inside her room, she dropped the bundle of laundry onto the bed and began folding one by one, carefully pressing flat every crease with the palm of her hand.
When she pulled open one of the drawers at the bottom of her wardrobe, looking for storage space, the corner of a packet of sanitary pads caught her eye.
Her fingers stilled.
Three days.
Her cycle was never irregular and certainly never late.
A thin thread of unease slid through her. But no. It was too soon to panic. Perhaps the move, the unfamiliar rhythm of the campus life coupled with the cold weather of Kericho town — her body was adjusting. Yes. That was all.
She shut the drawer too quickly finding a different storage space for her clothes in a suitcase.
And just as quickly, she pushed her worries away.
But a week later she stood in the same spot, the same drawer open, the same packet untouched.
Still nothing.
The worries returned. This time there was no wishing them away. Something was off.
She had to be certain. She picked a jacket, put it on and left her room.
At the clinic, the sharp scent of disinfectant made her stomach tighten. She watched as the clinical officer disappeared to a make-shift lab behind a curtain with her sample. Each small sound of his movement behind the fabric felt amplified and every second he spent in there was a torturous delay.
Finally, he returned, his face wore an easy smile.
"Be happy," he said gently extending the test kit towards her
She took it nervously.
"A new life is forming inside you." The clinical officer added.
Becky darted another look at his face. His words did not echo. They settled.
Her gaze returned to the kit she was holding and at the two lines that affirmed the results.
Pregnant.
For one brief, disorienting moment, the faculties of her mind became a battlefield for the conflicting emotions within her.
Life. Inside her; tiny little thing at the onset of a long journey.
Then guilt crashed over the joy of a second chance at motherhood.
She was still a married woman. The discovery just made was evidence of infidelity in separation.
Tesot's face rose in her mind, stern and distant. The fragile hope she had secretly nurtured — that one day he might return — crumbled quietly. How would he take her back now, with another man's child growing in her womb?
"How much?" She inquired of her medical bill.
"Two hundred?"
"Can I pay with Mpesa?"
"Yeah," the clinical officer said his eyes shifting to a printed piece of paper posted on the wall near the door. " The till number is over there.
Later, in her room, she sat on the edge of the bed, hands pressed between her knees reflecting on her new situation.
Another child.
Kiplimo's absence lived inside her like an unhealed wound. Some nights she could almost hear his breathing in the dark.
Maybe this child was Godsend, a replacement for Kiplimo
Yet she was terrified.
And what of the kids father?
Should she tell him? Would that draw him closer. Would he claim rights, claim her? But as who? Accepting him would make her a woman with two husbands.
No.
The word formed slowly and as quietly as had the little life inside her.
This child would be hers. Entirely hers. No strings attached. No negotiations. No debts to its father.
And thinking of the devil, Keoch's calls began. She only leaned forward to look at the screen and let the phone vibrate itself into silence. Once. Twice. Then countless times.
Each missed call tightened something in her chest.
She knew he would soon come looking for her. And the next day, without waiting to be refunded the rental deposit she relocated to a new apartment. She even bought a new sim card.
By the time Koech began asking mutual friends about her, she had folded her life inward — shrinking her world to avoid him like a plaque.
And for six months, she heard nothing from him.
One evening, as Becky prepared to go to bed, her phone rang. She could almost guess who the caller was. Apart from a few classmates, only members of her immediate family had her new number.
She took the phone and stared at the screen.
"Hello, Mum!"
"Hello!" Her mother's tone lacked its usual cheer.
"How is home?"
"Your dad is sick!"
"What?" she said shakily.
"We are at Tenwek Hospital right now."
"What happened?"
"We don't know. He just fainted after dinner. We called an ambulance and brought him here."
That was sad news for her, and she didn't know what to say further.
"Who are you with?"
"The ambulance could only take one person with him, so I came. But your brother, Jephthah, is on the way."
"I am coming in the morning too," she told her mother.
She didn't want to meet her family now. She wouldn't bear the embarrassment of her obvious pregnancy. But then her father needed her.
She woke up early the next day. On board a matatu, her journey to Bomet started.
The matatu jerked to a halt. Becky kept her eyes on the horizon, one hand resting protectively over her stomach.
"Mtu moja, mtu moja! Nairobi direct!" the conductor shouted outside, slapping the side of the vehicle.
A man in a red cap climbed in, paid quickly, and took the only empty seat—beside her.
Becky barely turned.
Until she saw the phone in his hand.
On the screen—a photo.
Him.
Her breath caught.
Koech.
He shifted, sensing her movement, and turned.
His eyes widened.
"Becky?"
Her name sounded like disbelief.
She forced herself to look at him properly now.
"Hello."
"What are you doing here?" he asked, scanning her face as if confirming she was real.
"Travelling to Tenwek. And you?"
"I'm returning to school. The midterm holiday just ended."
"Hmm." Becky nodded, her fingers tightening around her shawl.
"You disappeared," he said, his voice lowering as the van pulled back onto the highway. "No calls. Nothing."
"I needed to."
"I don't understand."
She shifted in her seat.
He stopped mid-sentence. His gaze dropped briefly to her stomach, then returned to her face.
"Are you okay?"
The baby moved—slow, deliberate.
She swallowed.
"I'm pregnant." The words barely rose above the hum of the engine.
He froze.
"What?"
She turned slightly toward him. There was no accusation in her eyes. Just exhaustion.
"It's yours."
The matatu hit a pothole. Someone cursed in the back.
"How far?" he asked quietly.
"Six months."
His jaw tightened. "Six months… and you didn't tell me?"
"I wasn't going to."
"Why?"
"I'm still married, you know. And I hope to still get back to him."
His expression flickered—hurt, disbelief, something heavier.
"I'm alighting at Chebole, and we are almost there," Koech said, rising from his seat as the matatu slowed. "Call me when you get back. We can't ignore this."
The conductor slid the door open. Dust swirled in. Koech stepped down onto the roadside at Chebole, then turned once as if to say more—but didn't..
The door banged shut.
Becky remained in her seat, her palm resting over her stomach as the matatu lurched forward again.
Seeing him had unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. He was still as striking as ever, and the gentleness in his eyes had not hardened. That was the problem.
As much as she had tried to avoid him, life kept circling him back into her path. Now he knows everything, she thought.
A tightness gripped her chest. She regretted telling him.
He wanted a conversation — to decide, to plan, to take responsibility. But she did not want that conversation. She did not want to be drawn into another arrangement, another attachment.
She was afraid — not just of losing this baby, but of losing control.
This child was the one thing that felt unquestionably hers.
Outside, the hills rolled past in muted green. Inside, the engine hummed, indifferent.
"Fine," she whispered, though he was no longer there to hear it.