A Story I Didn’t Think I Would Write

The other day, in a cosy coffee shop where the aroma of roasted beans wrapped around me like a familiar hug, I ran into someone I never thought I would sit across from again, my ex, Wakiuru’s son.

We had not spoken in years, yet in that moment, with steaming cups between us and his familiar mischievous grin, it felt like time had folded in on itself. He teased me about journaling, about whether I was still chasing books, and then leaned back with that smirk that once got him into trouble and in a-concluding -kind -of’ remarks said, “Why not journal about us?”

At first, I laughed. Us? Were we ever really an us? Back in Form Four to Six, we did not even know what a serious relationship was. We stumbled through feelings we could not quite name, played at love without knowing its weight, and mistook sparks for certainty. We were young, raw, and mostly unaware. But maybe that is the point. Even those uncertain chapters deserve to be written.

Lessons From Long Ago

When I think about journaling, I cannot separate it from the chaos that shaped me. I still remember standing in Mr. Kimongo’s office, heart pounding, after the Thika Town fiasco. He knew everything: that Wakiuru’s son, our village mate from Kenya Mafuta Firm, had been with us, that the three of us had delayed the school bus for hours. My grades were shaky, whispers floated in the corridors, and under his stern gaze, I confessed the harmless truth, that all we had done was eat bread, chips, and sodas. Nothing more.

But he was unmoved. My punishment was an A4-page apology, written on behalf of everyone else. I left his office crushed, carrying more than I should have. That night, I poured it all into my journal, fear, anger, shame, and felt a relief no punishment could take away. Writing had given me back my voice.

Years later, sitting across from you, it struck me how our relationship sometimes felt the same. I was carrying more blame than I should have, writing apologies I did not owe, trying to fix things that were not mine to fix. Journaling helped me make sense of it all, then and now.

The Day My Life Rolled Away

Then there was my school box, packed with everything I owned, disappearing on a matatu without me. I had left it at the stage in Othaya town, thinking I had a few minutes to stroll. By the time I returned, the matatu had rolled away, my box on its way to Murang’a.

No mobile phone. No way to track it. For three long days, I lived in panic, borrowing from roommates while I silently feared the worst. Then, miraculously, the box reappeared at school. Relief washed over me, but so did a vow: never again would I let my guard down.

And yes, I still blame you. You delayed me that day, and while I was tangled up in your presence, my whole life rolled away without me. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe it was timing, but in my mind, the two remain tied together.

Hours Waiting in Nyeri

Then there was the time we agreed to meet at a telephone booth in Nyeri, a simple word-of-mouth plan. I got there right on time, standing like it was my job, eyes scanning every direction, refusing a snack or a drink because I wanted to be fully ready. Hours ticked by. Three p.m. came and went, and still, no sign of you. I remembered my mum’s words, “I have to behave,” and realized the truth: your sense of time had failed miserably. You lost a friend that day. A timid, hopeful girl waited faithfully, only to return home and report to her mother about your absence, Wakiuru’s son, of all people. Imagine standing there, heart full of expectation, and realizing you would not show. That memory still makes me shake my head, equal parts frustrated and amused now, but it taught me patience and resilience in ways I did not appreciate at the time.

Moments Between the Chaos

Despite the weight of those memories, there were lighter, stolen fragments too. During school holidays, we would find excuses to meet in town. Half the time it was not planned, just small-town serendipity. You, taller and two years ahead, always seemed older, wiser, more grown-up, and I secretly admired that even as I pretended not to notice.

Whenever you were back from school, the shortest walks felt like stolen time. We did not talk about anything profound, just music, family, or teasing each other, and yet those talks felt monumental. You never let me forget I was younger, poking fun at my exams or my naive view of school life, and I rolled my eyes, but secretly, I liked how you made me feel cared for.

There were matatu rides [face-me-and-create-space ones] squeezed shoulder to shoulder, pretending it was not a big deal, and quiet conversations about the future, ambitions, and life after school. You spoke like a philosopher, though you were barely two years ahead of me, and at the time I laughed. Now I realize you were not entirely wrong. Those fleeting, innocent moments were precious.

Why We Drifted

Looking back, it is clear why we drifted apart. We were in different schools, at different stages, learning about life and love in our own ways. We lacked the maturity, the understanding, and the timing needed to hold onto something serious. There were miscommunications, missed meetings, and the natural pull of growing up apart. We never argued dramatically, we never betrayed each other. We simply grew in different directions, each of us discovering who we were meant to become. I was madly ambitious! And maybe that was the right thing. Sometimes young love is not about holding on, but about learning to let go gracefully.

Why I Write This Now

Those memories, the shame of Mr. Kimongo’s office, the panic of a runaway school box, the hours waiting in Nyeri, the ache of growing apart, have stayed with me. They live in my journal, reminders of how writing has carried me through, teaching patience, honesty, and clarity.

So yes, this is me finally taking up your cheeky challenge to journal about us. Not as a polished romance, not as a tragedy, but as part of my journey. You were there in my life when I was still figuring out who I was, learning that writing was not just scribbles but a lifeline.

And maybe that is what I want to leave here for whoever reads this. Write your story. Even if you do not fully understand it yet. Even if you are too young to know what it all means. One day, you will look back and see how the pages you filled in the chaos are the very ones that carried you into clarity.

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