His name was Dhaidan. I saw him twice every two weeks in the first few months that I worked at a business next to an eatery he frequented. The eatery was popular among many truck drivers. I counted the minutes to home time as soon as I arrived at my workplace. I detested it with everything in me, and my lack of motivation to do more than the bare minimum was proof enough.
I was there because someone owed my uncle a favour, and my mother wanted me out of the house. “You need to know how the world works,” she had said. It was a response to her ongoing fights with my father, who was her ex-husband by then. She claimed that he coddled me too much and that I would turn out like him.
She had my indecision on what to do with my life after university as her evidence. So she put out a ‘job needed’ alert to her relatives. That was how I found myself in Mombasa. Tired of the fights with my mother and those between her and my father, I decided to keep my head down. I showed up to work daily on time and did nothing more than what was asked of me. It wasn’t much because the prices were fixed, and I just had to track what had been sold.
I loved it when truck drivers flocked to the eatery next door because I would overhear their stories. At first, that was all I looked forward to until Dhaidan happened. He didn’t talk as loudly as the others but had this cool air. He wore stylish sneakers and used this intense oud perfume that announced his arrival.
Dhaidan was the most interesting thing that had happened since I got to Mombasa. Suddenly, I enjoyed going to work. He would get me lunch from the eatery and purchase a few items from my workplace to justify my spending more time with him.
It started with light conversations, a little bit of him flirting with me and gifts before and after his trips. My co-workers warned me against falling for Dhaidan.
“His family will never accept you,” they said.
Like the deeply in love young girl I was, I ran to my prince in shining armour with my concerns. He cupped my face with his hands, looked into my eyes and swore he would find a way to make them understand that we loved each other. We even had Simi’s Love Don’t Care as our mantra.
Guided by our intense love and the promise to stay together forever, our relationship intensified. We became inseparable. Dhaidan would pick me up after work almost daily when he hadn’t travelled. We’d do all sorts of activities together, from fun dates to mundane things like running errands. It didn’t matter what we were doing as long as we were together.
I was grateful that my mother had sent me to Mombasa. Listening to Dhaidan’s stories, I began to gravitate towards venturing into business. My mother was pleased to hear I had thoughts on my career path. She, however, attributed the inspiration to the job.
Dhaidan was in his late twenties, and his family had begun pressuring him to settle down. In our minds, it was a no-brainer. We had been dating for over a year. He was Muslim, but he didn’t pressure me into converting, although I was open to the idea. That wasn’t going to be a hindrance.
His family asked regularly about the matter. He mentioned that he was dating someone. They were excited until the sisters discovered who it was. Dhaidan introduced me to his three sisters over lunch. They were nice to me when he was around, but once he left to take a call, they made sure to mention that Dhaidan could only marry a girl from their culture and religion.
“He’s dad’s favourite son. He has to follow traditions,” said one of the sisters in a matter-of-fact tone.
I didn’t want to stir up trouble, so I didn’t respond. Luckily, Dhaidan came back and asked to take me home. I told him what had transpired, but he reassured me that he would fight for us. Things started going south soon after that lunch with the sisters.
Dhaidan started acting cagey and going on more trips than he typically did. He was more than just a truck driver because he was the boss’s son, and he had more leeway to choose the number of trips he wanted to take on, so it didn’t make sense why his work schedule had changed.
A few weeks later, a colleague of mine sent me a photo of Dhaidan and another woman on what appeared to be a date. I confronted him about the matter.
“Babe, I didn’t want to go on the date, but my family forced me,” he said.
“How can your family force you to go on a date?” I asked him.
“You wouldn’t get it. My parents know her family and think she’d make a good wife,” said Dhaidan.
“Wife?” I asked.
“I tried telling them I already have someone, but they were adamant that they wouldn’t bless our union,” said Dhaidan.
“So you gave up on us? When were you planning on telling me?” I asked him.
“It’s not that easy. You know family is everything to me. They are a part of my job too. I can’t win this no matter how much I love you,” said Dhaidan.
Those words replayed in my head a thousand times, and each time, it felt like someone was making a million cuts in my heart. I cried in private and was visibly sad in public. I looked so miserable that I was given a few leave days at work.
I couldn’t even go to my usual eateries without someone reminding me of my breakup or whispering that Dhaidan had been seen with another woman. While dealing with the breakup, Dhaidan still called and texted me, professing his love and apologising.
My saving grace was getting a job offer in a different town. I didn’t hesitate when my mother told me about it. I was also glad that I hadn’t told my family that I had been dating someone because I had been waiting for Dhaidan’s family’s approval. The biggest hurdle would have been telling my mother that I was changing religions, and I was ready to fight about it.
It took a while to get over Dhaidan. Even with how things ended, I missed so many things about him. The chance to form new routines in a different town helped since the reminders of our relationship were mostly in my head. He got married to a woman his family approved of, but he tried to reach out to me on multiple occasions, including his wedding day. I eventually had to cut all communication with him.
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