*Love is Like a Game: A Story*Aisha, a 28-year-old graphic designer, had always been cautious with love. After a string of unfulfilling relationships, she'd started to think maybe she was just not cut out for the whole "romance" thing. Growing up in a busy Nairobi household with parents who'd been married for over 30 years, Aisha had seen firsthand how love could be both beautiful and complicated.One evening, while out with friends at a trendy Nairobi café, Aisha met Alex, a charming tech entrepreneur. They bonded over their shared love of Swahili poetry and board games. Alex was intrigued by Aisha's creativity and she was drawn to his adventurous spirit.As they started dating, Aisha found herself approaching love like a game – one she was determined to play well. There were rules to learn, risks to take, and strategies to master. With Alex, every date felt like a new level, full of surprises and laughter. They'd challenge each other, explore Nairobi's hidden corners, and sometimes "lose" in the best possible ways.The game shifted one night when Alex surprised Aisha with a sunset view at Kenyatta University. As they watched the sky turn pink over the city, Aisha realized she'd stopped "playing" and started truly loving. The game became about connection, not competition.

*TO My Destination* _A story for you, Eugene_ ---The Story Eugene didn’t own a suitcase. He owned a backpack with one broken zip and a bus ticket that said _Eldoret – Nairobi, 11:30 p.m._ The ticket was three weeks old. He hadn’t used it. He couldn’t. Three weeks ago, his mother had died at 4:17 a.m. in Ward 2B, Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital. Cancer. Fast and unfair. She’d raised him alone in a single room in Huruma after his father disappeared to “look for work” in 2009 and never looked back. She sold boiled eggs at the stage. She told Eugene every morning, “School first. Then we go _to_ somewhere better.” _To_. That was her word. Not _when_. Not _if_. _To_. Like the place already existed and they were just late. The night she died, the nurse handed him her things: a rosary, a Nokia 3310, and a notebook held together with rubber bands. Inside, in her handwriting: _Fees – Eugene, Form 4. Rent – paid to March. For Eugene: You are not done. You are going TO._ The last two letters were underlined twice. He didn’t cry at the funeral. He helped cook. He swept the church. He shook hands. He said “God knows” because that’s what you say. Then he went back to the room and sat for two days. The eggs went bad. The landlord started knocking. The school called and asked if he would sit for KCSE. He said yes and didn’t go. On day 18, his cousin Moses came from Nairobi. Moses wore cologne and a watch and said, “Come to Nairobi. I have a car wash. You can work. You can’t stay here _to_ rot.” Eugene looked at the backpack. At the bus ticket Moses had already bought. At the notebook. _You are going TO_. Not _to Nairobi_. Not _to a car wash_. Just _TO_. He didn’t get on the bus. *Week 4* He sold the Nokia for 600 shillings. He bought a sack of potatoes and a jiko. He didn’t know why. His mother had sold eggs, not chips. But the stage was full of egg sellers. No one sold chips at 5 a.m. for the watchmen. He set up where she used to sit. The other women laughed. “You’ll burn,” one said. “Chips need skill.” “I have time,” Eugene said. He burned the first batch. And the second. On the third, a watchman named Simiyu bought a paper cone and said, “Salt is less. But it’s hot. Hot is good.” He paid 50 bob and left 20 “for tomorrow.” Eugene kept the 20 in the notebook, under _You are going TO_. *Month 2* The jiko became a clock. 4:00 a.m.: light it. 5:00 a.m.: first oil. 5:30 a.m.: Simiyu. 6:00 a.m.: boda riders. 8:00 a.m.: pack up, wash the sufuria at the tap, go home. Sleep. 3:00 p.m.: wake up, peel potatoes. 4:00 p.m.: start again. He didn’t go back to school. He didn’t go to Nairobi. He went _to_ the stage. Every day. Moses called. “You’re wasting time. A man needs a destination.” “I have one,” Eugene said. “It’s just not on your map.” He started writing in the notebook. Not numbers. Names. _Simiyu – 20 bob credit, paid._ _Mama Njeri – salon – gave me a bucket._ _Boy with no shoes – gave him chips, no pay. He said thanks. That’s pay._ One night it rained. The cardboard roof he’d tied over the jiko collapsed. The oil spilled. It missed his leg by an inch. He sat in the mud and laughed. Not because it was funny. Because he was alive to be wet. He wrote: _Day 41. River came to me. I didn’t go to it._ *Month 4* The county askari came. “Permit,” he said. Eugene had 80 bob. The permit was 200. “Come back Friday,” Eugene said. “Friday you’ll be gone,” the askari said. He wasn’t. On Thursday night, Simiyu showed up with four other watchmen. They each dropped 50 bob in the oil tin. “For the permit,” Simiyu said. “You keep the fire. We keep the night.” Eugene paid the askari. The askari stamped a paper. _Eugene Kariuki – Food Vendor. Location: Stage. Valid: 6 months._ That night, Eugene opened the notebook and wrote under his mother’s words: _Destination: Not arrived. Still going TO._ *Month 6* A girl started coming. School uniform, no bag. She didn’t buy. She stood and watched. On day three, Eugene handed her a cone of chips. “You pay when you can.” “I can’t,” she said. “Then pay with something else,” he said. “What do you have?” “Nothing.” “Everyone has something,” he said. “Can you read?” “Yes.” “Read this.” He handed her the notebook. She sat on the upturned bucket and read. When she got to _You are going TO_, she stopped. “My mum said that,” she whispered. “Before she left.” “Where?” “To,” the girl said. “She just said to.” Her name was Faith. She was 14. She started coming every morning. She didn’t peel potatoes. She kept the notebook. She wrote down who paid, who owed, who said thank you. She started a new page: _People TO Watch For: 1. Simiyu. 2. Mama Njeri. 3. Boy with no shoes – name is Baraka._ Eugene didn’t ask why she wasn’t in school. She didn’t ask why he wasn’t in Nairobi. They had the same answer: _Still going TO_. *Month 8* Moses came back. No cologne. The car wash had closed.

*The Game of Loving*It was a night like any other in Nairobi – stars twinkling over Westlands, street food vendors calling out to passersby, and clubs pulsing with Kenyan beats. For Aisha, a 25-year-old graphic designer, the night held a different promise. She’d agreed to meet friends at a trendy bar in Kilimani, ready to unwind after a tough week designing adverts for a big firm.As she settled into the bar’s chill vibe, her phone buzzed. “It’s Leo,” the text read. Leo was a friend, but lately, he’d been hinting at something more. Aisha wasn’t sure she was ready to play along.In walked Leo, smiling like he owned the place. He was charming, no doubt – tall, funny, and with that Kenyan-coast swagger. They talked design, work, Nairobi life. Aisha laughed, careful to keep things light. She knew the “game” – the one where guys try to score, and you decide if you want to play.The night flowed with banter, Leo’s eyes locking with hers often enough to make her curious. As the bar closed, he asked, “Want to grab coffee with me tomorrow?” Aisha hesitated. Was she ready for this? The “game of loving” was tricky; sometimes you lost your heart.“Coffee sounds fun,” she said finally, smiling.Leo grinned like he’d already won. Maybe he had. Maybe that was the start.*To be continued…