Maybe I Don’t Know How to Be a Girlfriend

“He calls me “Babe” , “Sweetheart” , “Darling” , and the other day, he said “Boo bear” in a tone so tender it made my ovaries shake a bit. I laughed, genuinely. But somewhere between my joy and confusion, the thought hit me like a quiet wave: I don’t think I know how to be someone’s girlfriend.

Not really.

My earliest memories of “love” trace back to a Thursday in primary school. A boy gave me ten shillings so I could watch a movie by DJ Afro, a full hour of action cinema and muffled laughter, ulizia tu DJ Afro. In that moment, I thought I had been chosen. He liked me. And in my head, I’d already jumped ahead, soon I’d be the head boy’s girlfriend. The wedding invitations had already been sent.

I told my best friend, expecting fireworks or squeals. Instead, she looked at me like I’d said something ordinary, something forgettable. Days later, that same best friend and the so-called love of my life were spreading rumors. They said I was desperate. That I was hitting on the head boy. My “ten-shilling dream collapsed.” That was my first heartbreak. And perhaps, my first lesson that love, or something like it, could humiliate you.

In Secondary School, I believed salvation lay in a transfer. If I could just score a B+ at the end of every term, maybe my father would move me to a girls-only boarding school. A fresh start and hope that I could enjoy a “real high school life”, you know a boarding school. Far from boys and their confusing kindness, to only see them during “funkie” and hopefully dance to a Konshens song. I also didn’t like “Ka-jane” our cow who was always waiting for me every evening after school to go feed her.

He never did. My dad never managed to transfer me to St. Francis girls.

So I stayed in that mixed day school. And strangely, it didn’t seem so bad. Especially not with “him” around. He liked books. He liked me. We studied together. Shared snacks. Laughed about the future. I had never touched anyone before, not like that, but during a game of Truth or Dare, he let me slip my hand into his boxer shorts. I still remember the electricity of that touch. The thrill. The guilt. The curiosity. I was 15 or 16, and suddenly convinced we were meant for each other. I even set his photo as my phone wallpaper, one he didn’t know I had, I downloaded it from his facebook account. I imagined our life together, two kids, an apartment in Nairobi, movie nights, love. I always liked it when he would touch my breasts and make it seem intentional. One time he put his hand inside my blouse and I had pretend not to like it to protect my dignity as Catholic.

Then, I heard he was dating someone else , a girl from his neighborhood, older but looked younger, employed. News from a not so trusted source claimed that he had even spent the night in her house severally. Another not so trusted source claimed they had been seen kissing somewhere in the bushes.

I didn’t cry. I just started thinking again about transferring schools. This time it became an emergency for a few months.

Years passed, and the pattern repeated. I’d think someone liked me. It would feel promising, almost fated. Then the rug would be pulled out from under me, they had someone else, or they weren’t serious, or maybe I just read the whole thing wrong. My sixth sense around love? Completely broken. Faulty wiring.

Eventually, I stopped trying.

Sure, men were still around. I’d kiss a few, flirt back when I felt like it. Sometimes I let things go further but not so far. The script never changed, most of them just wanted sex, or I was a stop along their journey to someone else. Wait, there was one man, the first to see me fully naked, who said he loved me. And strangely, he meant it. He stuck around. He tried. I still can’t remember how we got to a point where I allowed this kind of situation.

Sadly, I didn’t love him back.

I wanted to. I tried. But I was still busy loving someone else who never made me feel loved in return. Eventually I stopped, I stopped looking and decided to just live, you know kutafuta pesa became my priority.

Now, here I am, turning 34 this year. In a relationship again, after years of emotional self exile and to be honest, I’m stunned.

This man he’s kind. Calm. Intentional. No chaos. He hands me his phone, unlocked and left there not sure what to do with it. He has no hesitation. He gave me keys to his apartment last week. He notices when I shrink. One time, after we shared a shower, I felt a little self-conscious dressing. He turned his back. No fuss. No pressure. Just quiet, respectful presence.

And suddenly, I’m disoriented.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?

Is this how relationships are meant to work? Where someone is kind without needing to be chased or fixed? Where there’s no game, no silent war, no suspicion humming under the surface?

I’m wondering, Do I love this man? Or am I just learning how to? Am I his girlfriend? What does being a girlfriend mean?

Maybe love isn’t the intense heartbreaks of my past, or the chase, rather being chased, or the thrill of almosts. Maybe it’s not found in text messages you reread a hundred times, or in crying on bathroom floors because they didn’t choose you.

Or maybe… it just feels safe. And maybe I don’t yet know how to hold that safety without flinching.

Because if I’m being honest, I don’t know if I’ve ever really loved anyone. I’ve obsessed. I’ve idealized. I’ve chased. I’ve cried. But love, the kind that sits quietly beside you without demanding to be noticed, I don’t know if I’ve ever held that. Hii ndio trauma ama?

Maybe love is in the silence between two people who don’t need to explain themselves. Maybe it’s in the moments where nothing dramatic happens and yet, everything feels right.

Maybe love is a gentle thing. And maybe I’m finally ready to learn how to receive it.”

On Learning to Love Without Trauma

THE END!

This is story shared by one our readers apart from the parts completely made up. Would you like to share yours? email us at stories@persectiveshift.co.ke