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A Morning in Nairobi

David woke at 7:31 AM to the bite of Nairobi's cold morning air. The bed's warmth clung to him like a jealous lover, but life demanded movement. With a groan, he swung his legs over the side, his feet meeting the chilled concrete floor.

Few things defined David like his obsession with exercise. Months earlier, he'd turned down a lucrative job offer—one that would’ve doubled his salary—because it threatened his workout routine. To him, no paycheck outweighed the rhythm of his disciplined mornings.

The Ritual

Bare-chested and in shorts, he cleared a space in the cramped room. Reverse lunges first—two hundred of them. Then push-ups, squats, burpees. Sweat beaded on his forehead within minutes.

"This is how a body stays alive," he thought, relishing the burn in his thighs.

At thirty-eight, his lean frame defied the potbellied fate of most African men his age. A girl at a bar weeks ago had guessed he was twenty-eight. The memory still made him grin.

An hour and a half later, dripping and spent, he stepped into the bathroom. Water scarcity had turned showers into a luxury, so he half-filled the basin, reverting to the "Maranda Method"—five cups’ worth of water, just like they did at Maranda Boys boarding school.

Soap stung his eyes, but he endured it. Benedict, his colleague, had once teased, "You’re too clean to need a wife."

David had only shrugged, "Marriage? That ship had sailed."

He emerged, toweled off, and reached for the T-shirt on the sofa—the one with Grandma Alfreda’s face printed across the chest. He’d worn it to her funeral, the last time he’d allowed himself to cry. Now, it soaked up the water from his skin, her faded smile pressed against his ribs.

Dressed, he sat on the sofa. The room was empty—Willy had rushed to his shop, Donna to a client.

David exhaled, "Tomorrow, I must leave." No more guest privileges. No more borrowed time.

Life, relentless as ever, was waiting for him

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