There are things I never talk about.
Not with therapists.
Not even fully with Ms. Ama.
Like the way Mum collapsed in the kitchen —
and died after a night out with friends who ended up poisoning her.
Or how I still send emails to her account,
like it's some portal,
somewhere she might still be.
Packing for Eastshore Law School is supposed to be this big turning point.
A new Zuri.
With volume.
With colour.
A Zuri with something more than grief.
But even now, I can't meet a stranger's gaze without tightening inside.
I don't know how I'll deal with new people who don't know I send texts to a dead mother.
People who might laugh at it.
People who might poison my drink too.
I already dodged a whole year.
But somehow, I still feel like I'm not ready.
Sometimes I wonder why I never told Ms. Ama how much I was drowning —
before she packed her life into two suitcases and left for France.
It's strange, how silence becomes a habit.
Even with someone who's always stayed.
But again, I better hold onto emails to Mum.
It's the only space that doesn't expect me to explain anything.
The house is half-packed, half-forgotten.
I've folded and unfolded the same pair of jeans four times.
At some point, I found myself staring at the tag like it might explain something:
98% cotton. 2% elastane. Made in Kenya.
Nothing useful.
Just a detail to hold onto while everything else slips.
After too long standing, sitting, doing nothing that helps,
I do the only thing that steadies me.
I write to Mum:
Hey Mum,
I'm packing for college today.
If you're listening, stay close.
Just for today. I need you.
Love,
Zuri.
I hit send, knowing full well it's going nowhere — but still, something in my chest loosens.
I take a deep breath and keep moving.
Ms. Ama calls after a short while to say the driver is on the way.
I feel like running. Screaming. Maybe even pleading with her to let me stay — but I know I need this too.
I check on the most important things to take, and leave the rest for Hilda, her house manager, to handle.
The driver arrives a few minutes later — all charm and sunlight — but I can't meet light right now.
I nod quietly, just to avoid being pushed. Words feel too heavy.
He helps me load my bags as I mumble a quick goodbye to Hilda, who even gives a pity I don't want to carry with me.
The school is ten hours away.
Apparently, that's where grief should end and ambition should begin — but grief doesn't follow roadmaps.
Trees blur past — tall, green brushstrokes smeared by motion.
I keep my eyes fixed on the road, staring at nothing.
He plays music that feels too wild for the quiet I'm clinging to. At one point, I want to ask him to turn it off — but I don't.
Instead, I slide in my earphones and turn up my own music until it drowns his out. And sleep.
The town Is hushed when we arrive.
From afar, the beach shimmers like it doesn't know how to mourn.
Shops are shuttered, and only a few boda bodas idle in the shade.
Ms. Ama and I chose this weekend and arranged a house off-campus on purpose —
So I wouldn't have to bump into the campus girlies. Not yet.
Imagining if they would be too loud or even too soft created a certain kind of unease in me.
The gate clicks shut behind us, like it's been waiting for me to land.
Instantly, the loneliness creeps back in.
I'm not sure I'll like the new house with no Hilda or Ms. Ama — but I have to.
It's school that brought me here, after all.
I walk beside the driver, my hand brushing the cream wall as we head to the door.
The house is bigger than I expected.
The driver switches on the lights and I see the welcoming masterpiece:
A photo of Mum and me in the kitchen, caught mid-laugh.
Another — me and Ms. Ama, wind tugging at our hair by the sea.
And one more: just me. Graduation cap too big. Smile uncertain, but trying.
She placed them here on purpose.
A quiet kind of welcome.
Like she knew I'd need to hold onto something soft.
The driver helps me unpack, then leaves with a nod of reassurance.
I stare towards the beach,
A view I'm grateful I'll have,
And waters I'll run to when the world feels too loud.
Then I take my phone.
I consider texting Ms. Ama, but my fingers hesitate, then fall away.
The thought of meeting new people won't let my fingers move.
Eventually, I fill the kettle and set it to boil.
The sound barely soothes me.
I reach for the coffee, then stop.
Maybe I just needed the motion —
The small act of pretending things are normal.
I set the coffee packet down, zip my hoodie halfway, slip the key into my pocket, and step outside.
I need something more than the silence pressing against my ribs.
The air is thick with the hush of early dusk.
Faint vendor calls drift over the low hum of traffic.
I walk slowly, hoodie sleeves tugged over my hands, each step landing too softly and too loudly on the uneven pavement.
A gust of wind lifts the corner of my scarf like it's testing my patience.
I press it down, steadying myself.
Just a few blocks away, I spot a café.
Its golden glow spills through the windows like warmth waiting to be found.
I decide to go in for coffee — even if I couldn't bring myself to drink it earlier.
As I cross the street, a cyclist rushes past, forcing me to halt.
My breath catches.
Everything today moves faster than I can.
I pause outside the café door.
My fingers hover over the handle.
I'm stuck between ache and craving.
I'm just relieved it's not too loud inside —
but when I step in, there's no empty seat in sight.
I falter, almost turn around —
But then the smell of espresso pulls me in.
I scan the room one more time — and spot an empty seat, tucked into a quiet corner, half in shadow.
Next to a man with warm brown skin and a practiced stillness.
His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing lean forearms, and he's so focused on the book in his hands, he doesn't even blink.
His fingers drift slowly across the cover —
not to flip the page, not to fidget —
just tracing it, like he's reading it with his skin.
I move toward him, breath held, palms sweating —
but strangely, I feel calm.
When I reach the table, I glance at his face — composed, unreadable — then at the book.
And I freeze.
He's reading
The Art of War.
My favorite.
The first copy I read had a torn spine and notes in the margins — my mum's handwriting.
I don't know if it's recognition or loneliness that makes me speak —
But the words fall out like a breath I've been holding for years:
"Is that... Sun Tzu?"
He looks up — unhurried, steady like someone who isn't used to being interrupted.
His gaze meets mine, holding just long enough to stir something unspoken.
Then a smile forms.
The kind that isn't trying to impress you — just exists, quiet and sure of itself.
A dimple appears. Brief. Unassuming.
"Yeah," he says, voice smooth like late-night radio. "You a fan?"
I press my hands together, hoping to still the nervous twitch in my fingers.
My reply slips out, a little shaky but still mine.
"Kind of. Read it when I was sixteen."
That catches him off guard.
His smile deepens warmer now, a little softer.
"That's unexpected."
I shift, the weight of his attention making me fidget.
I can already feel the shape of a deeper conversation curling in the air one I'm not ready to have.
So I pivot.
"Mind if I sit?"
He studies me for a moment not with suspicion, just thoughtfulness.
Like he's measuring the question, not t
he person.
Then he gives a small nod, barely a movement.
"It's a free country."
I look at him for a second — annoyed or amused, I'm not sure.
Then I slide into the seat.
A barista approaches, but I speak before he can open his mouth.
"Americano. No sugar, please."
The words come out like habit.
Like armor.
Which, honestly, they are.
When the barista brings my order he's already turned back to his reading,
but I feel his glance slide toward me.
Not obvious. Not heavy.
Just... there.
I take the first sip.
It burns my tongue exactly the way I wanted it.
It tastes different from Nairobi's —
but maybe the water here has a longer memory.
Silence stretches between us,
and I pray it stays.
Words might ruin what little is left of this night.
But eventually,
he closes the book and looks at me —
a look that's part brief, part curious.
"I'm Haim."
"Zuri," I say, quietly.
His eyes drop to my coffee. Then to me.
"Black Americano. No sugar? At this hour?"
I should ignore him.
I should let the silence hold.
But the question pokes me.
I meet his gaze, frustration flickering across my face.
"Some things are better bitter."
The words land like a period.
And I almost hate myself for saying them.
But he just nods — slow, like he gets it.
"Respect," he says, softer now.
Then lets his eyes fall back to the book.
The moment feels unsettled —
like I threw down a stone and expected silence,
but heard an echo I wasn't ready for.
I wrap my fingers tighter around the cup.
The bitterness sits on my tongue,
but it's not the coffee I'm reacting to.
Why did I say it like that?
Why does my voice always cut
when all I meant to do was protect?
Time passes.
I watch my half-drunk coffee grow cold.
I wonder why I always choose solitude,
even when something warm sits right across from me.
I glance at him. Then at the table.
My mouth opens — unsure.
"I should go."
It comes out soft.
Like my voice doesn't belong to me.
I begin to rise —
but his hand touches mine.
His pinky rests lightly on my knuckles —
like a thought he isn't sure he's allowed to have.
It sends a warm curl through me.
Our eyes meet.
He doesn't speak.
Just looks like maybe he would say something if he trusted the words not to ruin the moment.
And then, slowly…
he lets me go.
I pull away, eyes stinging with tears and confusion.
Outside, the night is colder — but not empty.
I hear waves in the distance, shops closing,
and sounds I don't have names for.
The silence greets me at the doorway
like it's been waiting all along.
I pause by the door, staring at the pictures —
Mum, Ms. Ama, and me.
Snapshots of happiness
that makes the floor feel too unstable to stand on.
I drop the keys.
Boil the same water I already boiled earlier —
like I'm trying to replay comfort
and hope it hits different.
My phone buzzes inside my hoodie.
I check.
Just a low battery warning.
I plug it in.
The kettle hums behind me
that soft, lonely melody I suddenly need.
I scroll through noise I don't want.
Then, without thinking, I open my call log.
Ms. Ama.
Last seen: 2:03 AM — France time.
I try a video call.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Then: Unavailable.
The black screen reflects me —
eyes rimmed with tears,
hoodie drawn tight,
grief too loud to name.
I record a voice note.
"Hey… I made it.
The house is too quiet.
I know it won't be easy the first few days,
but maybe I'll catch up.
Maybe after I look into this world through the lights.
Anyway…
I was just checking on you.
Hope France is being kind."
I hover over delete… but instead, I hit send.
Almost immediately, I open the voice note —
just to hear what I sounded like.
But the voice that plays back feels too sad to be mine.
Small. Hollow.
Like someone who forgot how to hope.
Tears start falling — uninvited,
hot tracks sliding down my cheeks.
I shake.
I sweat.
Like my body's been waiting for permission to break.
I turn off the kettle —
then I walk to bed,
still trembling,
still trying to outrun the sound of my own voice.