For seven years, she believed love would lead to marriage. Instead, she found herself confronting how much of herself she had given away trying to make it work.
By Oduor Rosequillet Nabwire
Seven years into their relationship, Nia was still waiting to be chosen. When she finally asked Ethan to decide — propose or let her go — he reached into a wardrobe and produced a KSh50 ring.
It was nothing like the proposal she had imagined: flowers, soft music, an honest conversation about their future. Instead, the gesture felt driven by pressure rather than love.
“It felt completely coerced,” she says. “He didn’t truly want to commit to me, yet he didn’t want to lose me as an option. It felt more like an obligation than an expression of love.”
Her disappointment was never about the ring’s price.
“I simply wanted to feel special — to discuss our future and understand what I meant to him. After seven years, I wanted to feel seen without having to beg for it.”
Valentine’s Day offered its own measure of the imbalance. One year, Ethan gave her a Predator energy drink worth roughly KSh80. The following year, grapes worth KSh60 from a street vendor, handed over in a polythene bag. She remembers noticing his shoes, worth around KSh5,000. Still, she made excuses.
“I told myself that maybe he had grown up without seeing romance, so he didn’t know how to express it. I kept making excuses because I wanted to believe that, in his own way, he loved me.”
Her birthday brought another disappointment. Ethan made no effort to mark it, dismissing birthdays as unimportant. Weeks later, he posted another woman’s photograph on his WhatsApp status with the caption: “A queen was born today.” He explained she was a friend who had asked him to acknowledge her birthday. Nia was left wondering why he could publicly celebrate another woman but could not do the same for her.
The relationship continued despite everything. When Nia discovered she was pregnant — roughly two months along — Ethan’s response was immediate. Continuing the pregnancy, he argued, would jeopardise their studies at Jomo Kenyatta University of Agriculture and Technology and they could not afford a child. “I’m just a comrade. I can’t be a father. Terminating this pregnancy is our best option,” he told her.
Nia was reluctant, but Ethan made clear that keeping the baby meant raising the child alone. She agreed. Her isolation shaped the decision as much as his pressure did. She had gradually drifted from friends because Ethan considered them bad company, and she found it difficult to confide in her family. Without a support network, she faced it alone.
“I felt like I had no one to turn to. I was facing one of the most difficult decisions of my life without the support I needed,” she recalls.
Unable to afford a reputable clinic, they first tried abortion pills Ethan obtained from a pharmacy. When these failed, Nia experienced severe abdominal pain and continued pregnancy symptoms. They eventually sought a suction procedure at a backstreet clinic in Nairobi’s central business district. An ultrasound revealed she was approximately four months pregnant — further along than either had realised.
“When I saw the tiny hands and legs on the screen and heard the heartbeat, it wasn’t just a pregnancy anymore. It was my baby. That image stayed locked in my mind, making the weight of the decision almost impossible to carry,” she recalls.
Ethan paid half the procedure’s cost. Nia borrowed the remainder from friends. He declined to accompany her, saying the decision weighed on his conscience — then left for his hometown in Bomet. On the journey back to Juja, her pain intensified. By the time she arrived, Ethan had gone and his phone was switched off. Overwhelmed by pain and his absence, she suffered a panic attack and lost consciousness. She woke the following morning on the floor, feverish, in severe pain, and soaked in blood.
Her neighbour helped her reach Juja Modern Hospital in Kalimoni. Doctors diagnosed uterine atony — a condition in which the uterus fails to contract adequately to control bleeding. She required a repeat suction procedure, intravenous fluids, and a blood transfusion. A week passed before Ethan made contact. He did not ask about her recovery. When she raised the subject, he dismissed it. “It’s all in the past. Dwelling on it is only hurting you,” he said.
The months that followed brought fresh humiliations. After a contraceptive implant caused weight gain, fatigue, hormonal acne, and unpredictable periods, Ethan criticised her appearance — including, during an intimate moment, telling her she was “too bulky.” At dinner on another occasion, he remarked in Swahili that she had an ugly face. She was already struggling with acne and the scarring it had left behind.
“Body shaming hurts, especially when it comes from someone you love and whose opinion you value,” she says.
As the relationship deteriorated, Ethan grew increasingly distant. Evening walks ended. Affection disappeared. Around his friends, he referred to Nia as “yule dame” rather than introducing her as his partner. On one occasion, he stepped off a matatu late at night and left her behind without paying her fare, alone on a route known for assault and robbery.
“The hardest part was watching the person who claimed to love me act as though he was embarrassed to be seen with me,” she says.
The repeated rejection, humiliation, and isolation steadily eroded her sense of self. The confident woman she had once been became withdrawn, struggling with depression and finding basic self-care difficult. The guilt of a decision made under duress compounded her distress. Eventually, she reached a crisis point and attempted suicide.
Her parents intervened and helped her access psychiatric care. She was admitted to Chiromo Hospital, where she received treatment over several months. During this period, Ethan attributed her difficulties to being “too sensitive” and “overthinking.” While she was still in hospital, he ended the relationship by text message: “We are nothing. I don’t love you anymore. I don’t want to ever see you. You ain’t worthy of my love.”
The message ended the future she had imagined. After years of hoping, she was left processing an abrupt ending while still fighting to recover.
Rebuilding has been slow. Her family — particularly her mother — became a lifeline. Therapy through Akili, a Kenyan online counselling platform, helped her work through the relationship’s emotional toll. Faith provided another source of strength. Gradually, she established routines, reconnected with friends, explored new interests, and redirected her attention towards her career.
Recovery, she is clear, has not been straightforward.
“I’m giving myself grace because healing doesn’t happen overnight. Some days, I feel like I’m making progress; other days, the pain comes rushing back in waves. I understand that having difficult days doesn’t mean I’m failing. I’m allowed to heal at my own pace,” she says.
What the relationship ultimately cost her is something she has had to face directly.
“It was a love I had to earn every day just to keep it, and a person I had to persuade to choose me and commit to me,” she reflects.
Nia’s message to women in similar situations is straightforward: when you realise you are on a train heading in the wrong direction, alight at the nearest stop rather than risk a longer, costlier journey back. For years, she tried to become enough for someone else. Now, she is reclaiming the parts of herself she lost along the way.
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