A Dream to Die For

After high school, I found myself caught in a monotonous rhythm. Life had no thrill, no sparkle. I didn’t have the luxury of joining college right away, and the financial strains were always hovering over me like a dark cloud. It felt like the dreams I had were too far, too out of reach, lost in a sea of bills, responsibilities, and never-ending work. But that didn’t stop me from dreaming.

I spent my days helping my aunt in her fruit shop. We would wake up at 5 AM, head to the market, and spend the rest of the day selling fruits—mangoes, oranges, pineapples, and avocados. The job was grueling. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion; it was the weight of a life I couldn’t escape. The work didn’t end until 9 PM, and by then, my energy would be drained, but at least I had enough money for a few treats: a new dress, a new hairstyle. For me, those small luxuries were all I had, and they made me feel like I was more than just a girl hustling in the streets.

Then came Allan.

He was like no man I had ever met before. I was sitting by the stall one afternoon, wiping the sweat from my brow, when I noticed him walking past. He was tall, with a distinct pale skin tone that stood out among the locals. His blue eyes looked curious, as though he was taking in the world around him for the first time. He looked at me, paused, and then smiled.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice thick with an unfamiliar accent. “Do you know where I can find the best mangoes around here?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. It was the first time anyone had asked me something like that. I pointed to the crates of mangoes beside me, and we struck up a conversation. He told me his name was Allan, that he was from Europe, and that he was in Kenya for a few weeks on vacation. I’d met plenty of tourists before, but there was something different about him. Maybe it was the way he spoke, or how he seemed genuinely interested in my life. Most men didn’t care about a girl like me—too busy or too wrapped up in their own world.

We exchanged numbers that day. It felt harmless, like any other casual encounter, but little did I know, that single decision would change everything.

In the days that followed, Allan called me often. He wasn’t just asking about fruit anymore—he wanted to know about my life, my dreams, my goals. He said I was beautiful and that I deserved a life of luxury, far from the streets and the fruit stalls. He told me that he lived in a beautiful house abroad, that he could show me the world, and that I could be someone important, someone powerful. I found myself drawn to his promises. He spoke with such conviction, and for the first time in a long while, I dared to imagine a life beyond the endless hustle.

We talked for hours on the phone. Each conversation was more enchanting than the last. He said he wanted me to visit him abroad. He even offered to cover all the expenses, from the flight to the visa. He promised me everything I had ever dreamed of—freedom, security, and most importantly, love. The love he offered was intoxicating. He made me feel seen, like I mattered in a world that had always made me feel small.

One night, after one of our long phone calls, Allan said, “Amisha, you have so much potential. You could have everything you’ve ever wanted if you come with me. I will take care of you. You’ll never have to struggle again.”

What could I do? I was young, desperate to escape the life I had known, and maybe a little naive. I thought of all the things he promised me. I thought of a future free from the daily grind, free from the exhaustion of the market. I thought of love that wasn’t just a fantasy.

I said yes.

Within weeks, Allan arranged everything. My visa, the flight, everything. I remember feeling a strange mix of excitement and fear as I boarded the plane. The moment I stepped off that plane in Europe, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all—the wide streets, the pristine buildings, the abundance. Everything felt surreal. Allan greeted me at the airport, his smile wide, his arms open, as if he was welcoming me to a new life.

We went to his house, a mansion in a quiet neighborhood. The walls were white, gleaming, and the furniture looked like it belonged in a magazine. I had never seen anything like it. I felt like I had stepped into another world, one where I could finally leave behind my struggles, where I could start fresh.

But as time passed, the fairy tale began to unravel.

At first, Allan seemed perfect. He showered me with gifts, took me on trips, and told me how lucky he was to have found me. But the more I settled in, the more I started to notice things that didn’t sit right. He began to grow possessive, controlling. He didn’t like it when I went out without him. He kept asking where I was, who I was with, and he started telling me what I could and couldn’t wear. It was subtle at first—small comments, a slight change in tone. But then it escalated.

The first time he hit me, I thought I had done something wrong. He was drunk, angry, and I had said something that triggered him. He slapped me across the face, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I thought it was a mistake, that it was just a one-time thing. But the violence didn’t stop. It became more frequent, more intense. He would grab my arms, shove me against walls, and yell at me. And every time, he would apologize. He would tell me it was my fault, that I made him angry.

Then, I found out I was pregnant.

At first, I was overjoyed. I thought this was a sign that everything would be alright, that this child would be the one good thing to come out of this chaotic relationship. But Allan’s anger grew. The fights became more intense, and the abuse more frequent. I started to fear for my unborn child, but I didn’t know how to leave.

Then one night, things took a turn for the worse.

We fought again, and this time, Allan’s rage was uncontrollable. He beat me so badly that I lost the baby. The pain was unbearable, both physical and emotional. He threw me out of the house, and I was left to wander the streets, alone, bleeding, broken.

I don’t know how I made it back to Kenya, but somehow, I did. My body was bruised, my heart shattered, but I was alive. I couldn’t believe how far I had fallen, how foolish I had been. I had believed in a dream, in a man who promised me everything, only to take it all away.

Coming back home was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it was also the beginning of my healing. I found comfort in the familiar. I went back to the fruit stall, working long hours again, but this time with a different sense of purpose. I started to rebuild myself. It wasn’t easy. There were days I felt like I couldn’t go on, but I did. Slowly, I began to regain my strength, to find my voice again.

I no longer sought a fairy tale. The only story I wanted was my own, one where I controlled my destiny, where I was the hero, not the victim.

And here I am, Amisha, standing tall once again. The scars of my past will never disappear, but they’ve made me who I am. I no longer need anyone to save me. I am my own hero.