Celibacy

 It was 3 p.m. on a Friday. Joan had just arrived from Muhoroni, where she had been visiting her mother, who had recently fallen ill. All that was on her mind was Bravin. She took out her phone from her small handbag—the one she had bought on loan—and dialed his number. He did not pick up. She followed the call with a text: "I am in Kisumu."

 Bravin had intentionally missed her call. He could read the WhatsApp message that followed from the notification section without even opening it. Ignoring messages was harder for him than ignoring calls. He was more of a "chat" person than a call person; he felt safer expressing himself through texts. He replied coldly, "That's great."

 Joan immediately followed up: "Can I come see you? I have missed you. We can watch a movie."

 Bravin simply replied, "No, do not come."

 Bravin had slept late the previous night and woken up around 9 a.m. that Saturday morning. He felt lazy. He powered on his laptop, connected it to his TV, and clicked on YouTube. There it was: the United States and Israel attacking Iran again. He was neither a fan of the United States nor Israel. He felt these countries were hellbent on establishing imperial hegemony over the Arabian Peninsula at a time when the world was more intertwined and equality was more attainable. "Can't they just focus on their own countries, for God's sake?" he murmured.

 He sat down with his phone and logged into his Facebook account. There was a Kenyan praising the attacks on Iran. Bravin commented on the post: "When will the US and Israel ever learn to stop interfering in the internal matters of other nations?" A few seconds later, someone responded: "Ayatollah is a ruthless dictator, and he deserves to be toppled."

 Bravin replied, "Only Iranians have the right to remove their leaders from power, not any other nation. I don't like President Ruto; I bet most Kenyans don't like him either. But nobody should remove him from power except us."

 The other person fired back: "There's no problem if the US removes Ruto from power."

 Calm and composed, Bravin responded, "Currently, most Americans don't like Trump. He has an approval rating of 37%. So should another country gather its forces to topple him?" The other fellow went quiet.

 As he continued watching the news about Iran, someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for a response, Joan entered the room. She hugged Bravin in a warm embrace that he did not reciprocate. She sat down with her warm smile, still unsure of his response. Then she said, "I came to get my hair done by your salonist neighbor. Unfortunately, she's booked. She'll work on my hair after lunch."

 "That's okay. Welcome. Have you eaten anything?"

 "No, I haven't had anything since morning."

 "There's some juice and a doughnut in the kitchen. You can have them."

 Bravin had always asked the Lord to guide him through this precarious relationship with Joan. He always knew he was the problem. How could he make her understand that she wasn't the issue? He could see she was giving everything to hold onto the relationship. But this bruised man felt that ever loving a woman again—devoting himself to her—was impossible. He had simply lost hope in relationships, especially marriage. Starting a relationship was easy, but maintaining one was hard.

 They watched Trump's shenanigans regarding the US invasion of Iran and spent much of that day watching movies.

 On Sunday morning, Joan went to have her hair done. She returned at noon looking gorgeous. Bravin knew she looked beautiful, but he held back from telling her. I need to find a way to courageously let her know I'm no longer interested, he thought.

 He had done laundry a few hours earlier and now rose to clean the house. Often, he felt that Joan was still young and largely concerned with beauty; she still lacked the grit to run a home. I'm the one cleaning, doing all the chores. Whenever she steps up to do anything, she doesn't do it perfectly.

 Joan offered to help with the chores. He refused, telling her he was comfortable doing them while fuming inside. He hated that he had to do everything while a woman sat in his house, scrolling through her phone. She shouldn't wait for me to start working and then act like she wants to help. A woman knows what she's supposed to do.

 He often found it hard to correct her. The emotional burden of correction was heavy. Besides, he never wanted to be considered nagging—especially as a man. There was a grave danger in a man excelling a woman in her roles. For him, this confirmed that settling down would be difficult.

 Over the past few weeks, whenever Joan visited, Bravin had not made love to her. He often drew away from her kisses. She asked innocently, "Don't you miss me?" He could not respond. Lying was not his nature. He simply stared at her blankly, hoping she would sense that there was nothing between them—or at least from his side.

 After finishing the cleaning and bathing, he took his phone from its charging spot on the light brown TV stand. He lay on the bed, leaving Joan alone in the living room. He was eager to read the messages his flirts had sent him.

 A few minutes later, Joan rose and walked into the bedroom. "I'm leaving for Kibos," she said meekly. Then she sat beside his bed and asked one simple, difficult question: "Are we in a relationship?"

 "A-aah," he replied.

 Joan sat there for a moment, deeply disturbed, but no words came out. She simply did not know how to talk to him. She took one last deep breath, rose, and quietly packed her possessions. Her final words: "Goodbye."

 That night—it was still Sunday—Bravin dressed immaculately for the morning church service, as he normally did for school. It was an important day for him; he had spent years, probably a decade, without attending church. Surprisingly, his mother was there too. She was recognized for her strong devotion to the advancement of the church's programs and activities.

 As he walked in, the building was full. However, there was one empty bench where a lonely young woman sat. She was chocolate-skinned, wore spectacles, dressed respectfully, and appeared meek. He walked toward her and sat beside her. They were both quiet through long periods of the service.

 Suddenly, a fight broke out between two women on the opposite side of where they sat. They were so strong and jabbed each other so fiercely that it took several men to separate them. Both women were violently whisked out through opposite entrances. The drama left the church appalled, with many worshippers abandoning the service. Bravin was determined to continue. His mother was too, though she had her palms on her cheeks, showing how disappointed she was by this turn of events.

 The church was now virtually empty. When Bravin turned around, he found that his neighbor—the woman in spectacles—had disappeared. A few minutes later, one of the women who had been fighting walked back into the church, with the man who had carried her out following close behind. She stopped near Bravin and yelled, "Who gave you the audacity to slap me?" The huge, visibly strong man firmly grabbed her hands again and pulled her out.

 Suddenly, Bravin woke up. It was around 4 a.m. on Monday morning, and rain drizzled outside. He took his phone, logged into Facebook, and found that Lucy was awake too. He told her about the dream. She only asked him, "Man of God, which church do you attend?"