Dreams Begin to Fade

The lights in the servants’ quarters had gone off. My two stewards had retired to bed, unaware of the storm that had just shattered our little paradise. The maid had prepared dinner and was waiting for me to join her at the table. She, too, had no idea what had happened and couldn’t understand my melancholy.

“Don’t wait for me. Just eat,” I told her and walked to the bedroom. I slipped into bed and drew the duvet over my body. Yet I couldn’t sleep. My world had crumbled.

It hadn’t been wise marrying a rich man like Tom. It hadn’t even been my idea — it was my mother’s. I should never have listened. I should have stood my ground.

“At this age, you need your own man and a home,” my mother had insisted.

“But Mother, doesn’t it concern you that I don’t even know these people?” I had argued.

“A man is a man,” she had dismissed my protest. “You will get to meet him. And trust me, he’s very good-looking. I’m sure you’ll love him. He’s their only child.”

“That’s another reason to reject him. He’s spoilt,” I had countered.

“Don’t fool yourself,” my mother had shot back. “He’s the heir to one hundred percent of his father’s estate. And he already has businesses of his own. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Yaba Beach Hotel in Nyali? He owns it. They’ll pay the bride price generously, and we’ll finally say goodbye to poverty. My daughter, your win will be our win. You won’t know hunger in his house.”

Despite my protests and tears, by the end of our mother-and-daughter talk, Mom had convinced me she wouldn’t have pushed so hard unless she truly believed it was right. So I silenced my doubts and let myself be led like a lamb to the altar.

I had believed my mother’s words — believed her assurances, believed that wealth would smooth the rough edges of life.

Look at me now,, turning restlessly, cuddling the pillow as though it were Tom. An empty house, a cold bed, a runaway husband; the legacy of my mother’s prayers. Perhaps the greatest betrayal hadn’t come from Tom, but from the very woman who had ushered me into this world of sorrow.

And yet, somewhere deep down, I couldn’t blame her entirely. She had only wanted to see me safe, never knowing that safety could also mean a gilded cage.

As I stared into the darkness, another memory intruded — my first meeting with Tom.

It was barely a week after that talk with my mother. I had just finished helping her prepare a special meal. She had said she was expecting guests.

From the kitchen window, I watched as a black Mercedes pulled into the backyard. My mother hurried to receive them, ushering them into the big house. When she returned, a smile spread across her face.

“Your man is here,” she announced. “You’ll help me serve them,” she added, grabbing the hot pot of chicken and another of ugali, setting them carefully on a tray. Curious about the man she had spoken so highly of, I smoothed my dress and lifted the tray.

The father and son sat on the same couch facing the door. My eyes found the young man — then quickly retreated, fixing instead on the table where I was about to set down my load.

With a graceful motion, I set the food on the table and took turns shaking the guests' hands. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tom watching me intently — weighing me, measuring my worth. With a soft “welcome,” I slipped out of the room.

From that brief interaction, my feelings toward him began to change. I couldn’t deny that Mother had been right about one thing — the man was striking. Even seated, his tall frame and masculine build were unmistakable.

Something in his eyes unsettled me — not unkindness, but a quiet authority, the sort that made you feel seen and judged all at once.

I wanted to stay in the kitchen, but my mother came for me. “We must give them company. They can’t eat by themselves.”

I braced myself, picked up the cutlery, and walked back to the house. I sat at the table as my mother served the food onto plates.

“This is my eldest daughter, Sharon,” she said proudly. “You met Eliud the last time he was here. Now, this is their son, Tom.”

Tom smiled politely.

Dinner unfolded with conversation mostly between the parents — about land, business, and the future. I spoke little. So did he. Yet I could feel his eyes drifting toward me from time to time, with a quiet interest that both frightened and thrilled me.

By the time the plates were cleared, my resistance had begun to crumble. Against my will, I felt myself falling for him.

A few weeks later, our families began planning the wedding. Tom and I spoke occasionally on the phone. He was polite, sometimes distant, yet attentive enough to make me feel chosen.

Then one afternoon, about a month before the wedding, he invited me to a private dinner at a quiet restaurant in Kilimani.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said as I sat across from him. His voice was calm.

We spoke about the wedding, about our plans for the honeymoon, about how lucky we were to have met. Then, almost casually, he pulled an envelope from his jacket and placed it on the table.

“There’s something I need us to agree on before we marry,” he said.

I looked at the envelope, confused. “What’s that?”

“It’s a simple document,” he said. “A prenuptial agreement. It’s not about money — it’s just clarity. We agree to stay together for three years. After that, if either of us feels it’s not working, we part ways peacefully. No blame. No drama.”

I frowned. “Three years? Why would we do that. It’s supposed to be forever.”

He leaned closer. “I know. But we’re still young. We hardly know each other. I just want us both to be free — not trapped by expectations. It’s only a precaution.”

I hesitated. My heart raced. Something about it didn’t sit right, but he took my hand gently.

“Trust me,” he said, his voice smooth. “It’s only a formality. We’ll probably laugh about it someday.”

And I — foolish, desperate to prove I trusted him — signed it that night. We both did. We agreed never to tell anyone, not even our parents.

We married six months later in a colorful wedding, and our first year together brimmed with joy. But then, almost imperceptibly, we began to grow apart. Tom no longer found time for me. The petting, the laughter, the long conversations — they all vanished.

It dawned on me that I hadn’t found what I had always dreamed of in a husband — a man who would truly cherish me.

There was nothing I could do but embrace my vows, surrendering to a new rhythm of life: loving and honoring, in health and in sickness, for better or worse.

And in the silence of that empty house, destiny was preparing to knock once again at my door.