My husband held me close at the departure gate his eyes misty. I promised him, with tears in my eyes, that this sacrifice was for our future family. I was going to the US to work as a nurse, send money home, and eventually get him over.
The day I boarded that flight from Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, my heart was heavy, but my mind was focused on the prize. Maisha ya majuu and better salaries for my family
But America has a way of shifting the ground beneath your feet.
When I arrived in New York, the loneliness hit me like a physical blow. The cold weather, the 12-hour shifts at the care facility, and the empty studio apartment were overwhelming. Jomo and I would video call on WhatsApp every evening, but the five-hour time difference meant we were always catching each other at the wrong moments. He was either waking up for work in Nairobi while I was exhausted, or I was rushing to my shift while he was sleepy.
Slowly, our conversations started feeling like a chore. “Umekula? Kazi ilikuwaje? Huku kuna baridi sana…” The spark was fading, replaced by the mundane routine of distance.
Then enters Marcus. He was an African-American administrator at the facility where I worked. He was charming, smelled of expensive cologne, and noticed how stressed I always looked. One evening, after a brutal shift, he offered to drive me home.
“You look like you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders,” he said, flashing a warm smile.
We started talking. I told him about the struggles of adjusting, the high taxes, and the constant pressure of sending remittances back home. He listened. Unlike my man who was thousands of miles away dealing with his own frustrations in Nairobi, Marcus was here. He could hold my hand when I was stressed.
Within three months, our coffee dates turned into something more. One evening, after a few drinks at his apartment, the line was crossed.
Now, I am living a double life, and the guilt is eating me alive, but the temptation is too strong to resist.
Marcus knows about my family, but he doesn’t care. Just last week, while we were lying in his bed, he looked into my eyes and made me a promise that changed everything.
He promised to marry me, and with the benefits of marriage comes with permanent residency in US, plus access to his wealth (Ako na kakitu, lives a decent life, in a quiet neighbourhood na gari mbili)
A Green Card. Permanent citizenship. The ultimate dream for anyone who leaves Kenya for America. No more fear of deportation, no more endless paperwork. But the price is the man back at home who is waiting for me to change the trajectory of our lives.
Every time Mr Man calls me now, my heart sinks. I have to switch off my phone when I am with Marcus. When I do speak to Jomo, I have to fake the affection. Mapenzi ishaenda. Namhurumia.
“Babe nimechoka, babe niko shift, babe sijafika kwa nyumba, babe niko juu ya Marcus(lies),” I lie to him over the phone, pretending I’m in my bed alone, when in reality, I am sitting in Marcus’s apartment. My man(hata sijui kama he is my man any more), being the trusting man he is, always replies, Sawa babe.
Hearing his voice say “Nakupenda” feels like a dagger to my chest. He is back in Nairobi, working hard, counting down the days until we can be together, completely unaware that his wife is planning a life with another man.
I look at my reflection in the mirror and I don’t recognize the woman I have become. Back in Kenya, I was a faithful, church-going wife. Here in America, I am a liar, hiding a whole relationship, planning to shatter a man’s entire life after 2 years of marriage.
I am caught in a web of my own making. On one hand is this man—the man who loves me genuinely, the man I built a foundation with, but who represents a long, uncertain road to a shared future. On the other hand is Mr M the ticket to my American Dream, the man who can give me security and status sasa hivi, but at the cost of my soul and my marriage.
Nifanye nini? The secret is safe for now, hidden across the Atlantic Ocean, but I know that sooner or later, the truth will come out.