FEMICIDE cases on the rise in Kenya

"You're overthinking it," she muttered to herself. "He promised it won’t happen again."

Her boyfriend had always been charming at first. He  was the kind of man who could walk into a room and have everyone in stitches within minutes but beneath the charm lurked a darkness she had ignored for too long.

The girl picked up her phone and scrolled through messages for her best friend,

Her Friend: You need to leave him before it’s too late.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. What could she say? That she still loved him? That she believed his apologies? That leaving felt impossible?

Instead, she typed: I’m fine. Let’s meet tomorrow for coffee".

The girl and the boy had met in university where he was a final-year Computer student and she was pursuing Journalism in the second  year at Kenyatta University.Their love had been the envy of many—romantic dates, long walks, and endless laughter.

But love soon turned to control. The boy didn’t like girl going out with her friends. Then came the accusations—flirtations that never happened, outfits that were "too revealing," text messages he insisted on checking. 

The first slap had shocked her, but he cried, said it was a mistake. The second came with blame—you made me do this.

And now, the bruises were frequent, hidden beneath long-sleeved tops and carefully applied foundation.

"These stories will  never end well," her friend warned the girl over coffee at a Java House. "You know what’s happening in this country, right?" Kenya was grappling with a rise in femicide cases—women murdered by men they once trusted.

Every week, a new story made headlines. A young woman stabbed in her house. A university student found in a hotel room, lifeless. A wife killed by a jealous husband. "My boyfriend is not like that," she whispered. Her friend grabbed her hand. "Neither were they, until they were."

The final straw came on a cold Friday night. She had stayed late at work covering a political rally in town. Her phone battery died and by the time she got home, her boyfriend was pacing the living room.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.

"At work,  My phone died."she told her boyfriend. The slap came fast,then another. She tasted blood.

"You’re cheating on me, aren’t you?" he spat.

She  curled into a ball on the floor, shielding her face. Something in her snapped. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t her life.

The next morning, she packed a small bag and left. She ignored his calls, his texts, the desperate voice notes. She went to her friend's place, where she cried herself to sleep.

"You’re safe now,"  her friend whispered. "He can’t hurt you anymore."

Days passed. Then weeks, The girl got a restraining order, changed her number, and moved in with a cousin in Ruiru . She felt free for the first time in years.

But her boyfriend wasn’t done. He sent messages from unknown numbers. "I love you, My love. Let’s talk". Then: If I can’t have you, no one will.

The night before she died, she  called her friend. "He found me," she whispered. "I saw him outside my office."

"Go to the police," her friend urged.

She promised she would. But she never got the chance.

The news broke the next morning. "Journalist found murdered in her apartment." Her friend dropped her phone, hands trembling.

A girl's  body had been discovered with multiple stab wounds. The suspect? Her boyfriend, who had fled. The country is mourning for the girl's justice.