Our love didn’t die with the grandeur of a tragic romance.

It faded.

Slowly.

Our love, like the colors of a once vibrant kitenge left out too long in the sun, lost its seams, barely held on, until one day we realized it was… just… gone.

We tried to fight for it, latched on even when our hands were blistered from the effort, but deep down, we knew.

It was time. 

I think about it now and wonder how I made it this far, how I didn’t break…unravel. The weight of that one decision still bears heavily on my chest.

I once had a life, you see. A life I was proud of—or so I thought. I had a partner who felt like home, a rhythm we had perfected, a certainty in a world that offered so little of it. We built dreams together, our ambitions entwined like the roots of a Mugumo tree, reaching deep into the soil we thought was fertile enough to sustain us through seasons of drought and plenty.

I told myself we were solid. Indestructible.

Until the cracks started to show—hairline fractures that widened with each unspoken word, each night spent on opposite sides of the bed, each forced smile at gatherings where we played the perfect couple. Love wasn’t supposed to feel like a performance, yet I had become an actress in my own life, rehearsing lines of reassurance even when the truth gnawed at me from the inside, hollowing me out word by silent word.

I fought it. Oh, how I fought.

I clung to what we had like a drowning woman clutching driftwood, convincing myself that history was enough to hold us together. But history wasn’t love. And love—at least the kind we once had—was slipping through my fingers faster than dust caught in the evening wind.

One day, I woke up and knew.

It was time.

It wasn’t a loud realization, not the kind that crashes through your mind like a rogue wave. It was quiet, a final flicker of a candle before it surrendered to the dark. I could either keep pretending, keep patching up the holes in a sinking ship, or I could choose myself.

So, with a heart heavier than I knew was possible, I chose.

The day we ended things, it wasn’t just heartbreak; it was the unraveling…of things painful, yet familiar. I sat on my favorite bench, that day, in the beautiful home we built. I remember stirring something, a cappuccino I had no intention of drinking, while distractedly taking in the distant sounds of matatus hooting and street vendors calling out their wares in Kilimani. It was the sound, the unnerving loudness common with the local women that we heated that grounded me, kept me from screaming at the deafening silence between us. The coffee’s aroma, once comforting, now seemed to mock the bitterness rising in my throat. He looked at me, eyes heavy with an exhaustion that mirrored my own.

“Gheche,” he said, voice laced with finality. “It’s not working.”

I wanted to argue, to scream that love was supposed to be fought for. But what was left to fight for when even our silences had become unbearable? When the space between us at night felt wider than the ocean I was about to cross?

So, I chose the hardest thing—I let go.

And then, I got on a plane.

The Aftermath

I arrived in Atlanta with two suitcases, a bruised heart, and a vow: no dating for a year. The first few months had me free-falling, the silence in my apartment deafening, the absence of familiar laughter present like a phantom limb that ached most when I reached for comfort. But slowly, I stitched my life back together. I poured myself into work, letting ambition fill the empty spaces where love once lived. I learned to enjoy solo brunches—once unimaginable, now a ritual of quiet indulgence.

The first time I walked into a café alone, I hesitated at the door, feeling eyes on me, but none of them carried the weight of judgment I had once feared. Instead, I found freedom in anonymity, in the quiet pleasure of a book and a pastry, in conversations with strangers that demanded nothing but the moment we shared.

And then there were the long walks through Piedmont Park, where I let the crisp air wash over me, each step centering me in this new life, this new self I was learning to love. I watched seasons change—leaves burning orange and gold before surrendering to winter, then spring bursting forth with a resilience that mirrored my own. In those moments of solitude, I found pieces of myself I hadn’t known were missing.

But then, year two came knocking, and with it, a whisper in my head:

“Okay, surely, it’s time to rejoin the living?”

Welcome to the Hunger Games of The Atlanta Dating Scene

Kenya opened me to the straightforwardness of dating. You met someone through family, friends, or church, and before you could say “chapati,” aunties were sleuthing, investigating their lineage, and setting dates. There was a community invested in your happiness, a network that held both you and your potential partner accountable.

Here? Dating was a capitalist dystopia.

It was a market, and I was the naive newcomer who had no idea how to haggle. Dating apps were the local currency and my God, the economy was a mess. I downloaded Tinder, Hinge, and Bumble, expecting, at the very least, interesting conversations. What I got instead were bios that read like badly written classified ads:

• – “6’3” (since that seems to matter)”—Okay, Goliath, but do you have emotional intelligence that reaches such heights?

• – “Not looking for anything serious but open to vibes.” Ah yes, the universal anthem of commitment-phobes, humming beneath the surface of every third profile.

• – “Just a God-fearing man looking for his Proverbs 31 woman.” Right. None of the sisters in your regular Sunday service fit that profile, I see.

In speaking and owning your truth, here’s mine: I am almost exclusively attracted to Black men. And in Atlanta, they’re in abundance. They’re a comforting presence, a promise that I wouldn’t have to explain the nuances of my existence, the delicate balance of honoring tradition while forging new paths. One would think this would make dating easier, but no, it only made the game more intricate, a complex maze where attraction was only the beginning of an elaborate dance of expectations, cultural clashes, and unspoken rules.

There were the “bougie and busy” corporate types who had Google Calendars tighter than their budgets, scheduling dates three weeks out like business meetings, complete with rescheduling and the occasional cancellation email that felt more formal than my work correspondences. Their time was currency, each minute meticulously accounted for, and I often wondered where love fit into spreadsheets so precisely calculated.

There were the “conscious” brothers who could discuss systemic oppression for hours but disappeared when it was time to commit to dinner plans, let alone a relationship. They spoke of liberation while keeping their hearts locked in cages, quoting Malcolm and Martin but forgetting the revolutionary act of vulnerability.

And then, there were the Nigerians.

Ah, Nigerian men in Atlanta. Where do I even begin?

First of all, you will know a Nigerian man is in the room before you see him. The cologne? Loud. The confidence? Louder. The audacity? On maximum volume, shattering windows and expectations with equal abandon. They will charm you effortlessly, talk about how “you’re different,” and in the same breath, casually mention that they have a wife back in Lagos as if this were a minor detail easily overlooked in the grand scheme of their affections.

One particularly bold one asked me out, then sent me a CashApp request the next morning because “he forgot his wallet at home.” Sir, are you not the same person who wore a designer suit to dinner that cost more than my monthly rent? The same one who boasted about business ventures and international connections over appetizers you clearly had no intention of paying for?

Another actually told me, “I’m not looking for anything serious, but I really like you.” Ah, the classic bait-and-switch. He wanted all the perks of intimacy without the responsibility of commitment, dangling affection like a carrot while keeping one foot out the door. His messages arrived with the inconsistency of Atlanta weather—sometimes a flood, sometimes a drought, never the steady rain needed to nurture anything real.

Splitting Bills

Is this conversation necessary?

Where I come from, a man pays. No discussion, no debate—just an unspoken rule woven into the fabric of courtship, as essential as greetings to elders or removing shoes at the doorway. So, when a guy casually slid the check to my side after an evening of him ordering the most expensive items on the menu, I froze. Was this a test? A joke? A hidden camera experiment? My fingers hovered over my purse, my heart pounding as if reaching for my wallet might set off an alarm. The silence stretched, his expectant gaze unwavering. I swallowed my shock, and paid the bill, but blocked his number way before the ink on the receipt dried.

Then there was the therapy jargon. 

I love that people are embracing therapy and prioritizing mental health instead of treating it as an afterthought. However, when and how did therapy become a weapon? It’s excruciating to watch individuals hide behind therapy speak, using it as a shield. Some men wield psychological jargon to evade accountability, creating a sophisticated form of gaslighting decoratively packaged in what they fondly called progressive language.

I once confronted a guy about his blatant inconsistency—vanishing for days, then reappearing with a charming smile and no explanation, as if time had stood still in his absence—and instead of an explanation, I got a smug, “I think you’re projecting. Have you unpacked your attachment issues yet?” Ah, yes, because the real issue here isn’t his disappearing act, but my supposed unresolved childhood trauma. The audacity wrapped in pseudo-intellectual insights was enough to make me question whether Freud was rolling in his grave or nodding in approval at how far his theories had traveled.

A Cautious Hope

Despite the emotional gymnastics, the endless swipes, and the unexpected Venmo requests post-date (yes, that happened, a detailed invoice breaking down the cost of my company as if affection could be quantified in dollars and cents), I remain cautiously optimistic.

It’s funny now, but love has indeed tested me, stretched me, and at times, made me question my own resilience. But just like a slow-cooked stew, the best things take time. Maybe love isn’t about instant gratification but about savoring the process, the simmering anticipation, the careful balance of flavors. 

And so, I wait—not passively, but with hope, with humor, and with the quiet belief that somewhere, in this wild dating landscape, there’s someone who understands that the best things in life, like nyama choma, are worth the patience, the right seasoning, and just the right amount of heat.

Someone who knows that love isn’t just about the grand gestures but about the quiet understanding that flows between two people who have fought their way back to wholeness and chosen to share that journey.

Maybe, just maybe, my person is one awkward “Hey, how’s your day?” text away. Or maybe I’ll just adopt a cat and call it a day. Either way, the adventure continues, and I’m learning to embrace each twist in the road, each unexpected turn, as part of a story that’s still being written—one date, one laugh, one heartbreak at a time.