In the cold, misty July mornings of Gitithia, traders set up their stalls with chapped hands and layered clothing. Woolen hats, scarves, and heavy jackets were not optional but necessary armor against the piercing chill that blanketed the village. Smoke from early morning fires curled into the foggy sky, and the sound of bustling feet on the wet, uneven market pathways filled the air. It was in this setting, beneath the pale Gitithia sun, that Kamau—a man from Ng’arua in Laikipia County—arrived with bales of second-hand clothes, dreams stitched into every item he hoped to sell.
Kamau had not come to Gitithia out of mere curiosity or adventure. His journey was rooted in necessity and sacrifice. Back in Ng’arua, life had been hard. The dry land made maize farming a gamble with nature, and the family’s small livestock often became targets of cattle rustlers. Yet, even in the face of hardship, Kamau had a rock—Mama Njuguna, his wife. A jovial, hardworking woman, Mama Njuguna had stood by him through it all. It was her idea to start a side business, to supplement their meager farming income. She suggested selling clothes, and together they began saving.
Mama Njuguna made sacrifices few would notice but many would struggle to bear. She stopped buying new clothes for herself. Her once stylish braided hair was now kept natural, practical, and free. She walked rather than paid for bodaboda transport. She lived simply—driven by the hope that one day, her family would rise. Every shilling saved brought them closer to that dream, and when Kamau finally left for Gitithia to start their business, it was not just his journey—it was theirs.
Gitithia greeted Kamau with cold air and colder strangers. But his charm, his persistence, and the quality of his clothes soon won him regular customers. And then, there was Nyathira. Nyathira, a native of Murang’a, had made Gitithia her home. She was bold, outspoken, and striking in appearance. Unlike the other women in the market, she wore bright shawls and had a voice that could rise above the chatter of a hundred vendors. She noticed Kamau, the new man, quickly. He was different—polite, hardworking, and unlike the others, he didn’t flirt easily. That challenge intrigued her. Over time, small conversations turned into shared tea. Shared tea became shared laughter. And eventually, Nyathira became Kamau’s secret.
She was more than a mistress—she became possessive, territorial, and dangerously loyal. In the cold alleys behind the market stalls, she warmed Kamau’s loneliness, but it came at a cost. Other women who tried to talk to Kamau found themselves on the receiving end of her wrath. Some were slapped, others threatened, and many backed off after receiving the infamous glare—Nyathira’s warning that Kamau was hers. Traders whispered about it, some amused, others disgusted, but none dared interfere. Gitithia’s cold air could not match the heat of Nyathira’s jealousy. But while Gitithia was busy watching the side story unfold, trouble brewed back in Ng’arua.
One night, cattle rustlers descended on Kamau’s homestead. They took everything—the cows, the goats. And a week later, Pokot herders, in search of greener pasture, trampled through their maize farm. Mama Njuguna, left with nothing, could no longer justify staying. With her children and her pain, she packed a small bag and left for Gitithia, seeking both her husband and a future.
When she arrived, wrapped in old coats and shivering from Gitithia’s biting cold, it was not the reunion she had imagined. Kamau was shocked, ashamed, and silent. He had not told Nyathira that his wife might ever come. Nyathira, on the other hand, was livid. To her, Mama Njuguna was an intruder, not a wife. She demanded Kamau send her back to Ng’arua. “This is not her place,” she argued. “She’ll bring problems.” But Kamau, though lost for a moment, was not entirely gone. Seeing Mama Njuguna in that market—shivering, yet smiling; broken, yet hopeful—brought him back to himself. He remembered her sacrifices. He remembered how she helped him rise from nothing. He remembered who gave him the very idea that now put food on their table.
Nyathira, watching this silent reconciliation, realized her place in the story. She had never truly belonged. She had entered a bond she had no part in building. Her heartbreak was raw—like a teenage girl losing her first love—but it did not change the truth. She was a chapter, not the whole book. She caused a scene in the market that week. Threw insults. Threw Kamau’s things. Threatened to curse him. But it was too late. The thorn had been removed.
In the days that followed, the Gitithia market resumed its rhythm. The cold remained, as did the rumors. But Kamau and Mama Njuguna, now reunited, stood together behind their stall. Mama Njuguna, with her calm smile and layered shawls, began to get new customers. Her laughter returned. Kamau, now more watchful, more grounded, began to expand the business—adding shoes, then children’s clothes.
The cold in Gitithia still howled through the market lanes, and the mist still covered the town like a blanket. But between the coats and scarves, between the customers and the clothes, stood a couple that had weathered betrayal and survived. Their love, though bruised, had not been broken. And as for Nyathira—she moved to another market, another town. Some say she found another man. Others say she never loved again. But all agree on one thing: she was a thorn—a painful, temporary interruption in a story that was meant to bloom.
Kamau had not come to Gitithia out of mere curiosity or adventure. His journey was rooted in necessity and sacrifice. Back in Ng’arua, life had been hard. The dry land made maize farming a gamble with nature, and the family’s small livestock often became targets of cattle rustlers. Yet, even in the face of hardship, Kamau had a rock—Mama Njuguna, his wife. A jovial, hardworking woman, Mama Njuguna had stood by him through it all. It was her idea to start a side business, to supplement their meager farming income. She suggested selling clothes, and together they began saving.
Mama Njuguna made sacrifices few would notice but many would struggle to bear. She stopped buying new clothes for herself. Her once stylish braided hair was now kept natural, practical, and free. She walked rather than paid for bodaboda transport. She lived simply—driven by the hope that one day, her family would rise. Every shilling saved brought them closer to that dream, and when Kamau finally left for Gitithia to start their business, it was not just his journey—it was theirs.
Gitithia greeted Kamau with cold air and colder strangers. But his charm, his persistence, and the quality of his clothes soon won him regular customers. And then, there was Nyathira. Nyathira, a native of Murang’a, had made Gitithia her home. She was bold, outspoken, and striking in appearance. Unlike the other women in the market, she wore bright shawls and had a voice that could rise above the chatter of a hundred vendors. She noticed Kamau, the new man, quickly. He was different—polite, hardworking, and unlike the others, he didn’t flirt easily. That challenge intrigued her. Over time, small conversations turned into shared tea. Shared tea became shared laughter. And eventually, Nyathira became Kamau’s secret.
She was more than a mistress—she became possessive, territorial, and dangerously loyal. In the cold alleys behind the market stalls, she warmed Kamau’s loneliness, but it came at a cost. Other women who tried to talk to Kamau found themselves on the receiving end of her wrath. Some were slapped, others threatened, and many backed off after receiving the infamous glare—Nyathira’s warning that Kamau was hers. Traders whispered about it, some amused, others disgusted, but none dared interfere. Gitithia’s cold air could not match the heat of Nyathira’s jealousy. But while Gitithia was busy watching the side story unfold, trouble brewed back in Ng’arua.
One night, cattle rustlers descended on Kamau’s homestead. They took everything—the cows, the goats. And a week later, Pokot herders, in search of greener pasture, trampled through their maize farm. Mama Njuguna, left with nothing, could no longer justify staying. With her children and her pain, she packed a small bag and left for Gitithia, seeking both her husband and a future.
When she arrived, wrapped in old coats and shivering from Gitithia’s biting cold, it was not the reunion she had imagined. Kamau was shocked, ashamed, and silent. He had not told Nyathira that his wife might ever come. Nyathira, on the other hand, was livid. To her, Mama Njuguna was an intruder, not a wife. She demanded Kamau send her back to Ng’arua. “This is not her place,” she argued. “She’ll bring problems.” But Kamau, though lost for a moment, was not entirely gone. Seeing Mama Njuguna in that market—shivering, yet smiling; broken, yet hopeful—brought him back to himself. He remembered her sacrifices. He remembered how she helped him rise from nothing. He remembered who gave him the very idea that now put food on their table.
Nyathira, watching this silent reconciliation, realized her place in the story. She had never truly belonged. She had entered a bond she had no part in building. Her heartbreak was raw—like a teenage girl losing her first love—but it did not change the truth. She was a chapter, not the whole book. She caused a scene in the market that week. Threw insults. Threw Kamau’s things. Threatened to curse him. But it was too late. The thorn had been removed.
In the days that followed, the Gitithia market resumed its rhythm. The cold remained, as did the rumors. But Kamau and Mama Njuguna, now reunited, stood together behind their stall. Mama Njuguna, with her calm smile and layered shawls, began to get new customers. Her laughter returned. Kamau, now more watchful, more grounded, began to expand the business—adding shoes, then children’s clothes.
The cold in Gitithia still howled through the market lanes, and the mist still covered the town like a blanket. But between the coats and scarves, between the customers and the clothes, stood a couple that had weathered betrayal and survived. Their love, though bruised, had not been broken. And as for Nyathira—she moved to another market, another town. Some say she found another man. Others say she never loved again. But all agree on one thing: she was a thorn—a painful, temporary interruption in a story that was meant to bloom.
