Welcome to This Thing Called Love, where Black Love shines in all its raw, real, and unforgettable glory. Each week, we share deeply personal stories of heartbreak, joy, and the lessons learned from relationships that shape who we are and who we become.
Today: Part Two of last week’s story continues…
Have a love story worth sharing? Email us at emilycottontop@gmail.com or tessnimo3@gmail.com, and we’ll feature it on This Thing Called Love every Friday. Because your love story deserves the spotlight, don’t you think?
Now, let’s get into it, shall we?
P.S. Names in this story have been changed to respect privacy.
So, I got back to my place, and for a minute, things were fine. But his controlling, abusive side didn’t stay hidden for long. Suddenly, I couldn’t even grab a coffee at my favorite spot without his say-so. I had to ask permission to enjoy a latte and that heavenly slice of salted caramel cake.
Can you believe that? Me, a grown woman, begging for a coffee run.
And if I dared to go without his approval—because hello, I’m an adult—the fallout was terrifying. I’m talking witness-protection-level fear. He would yell for hours, make me feel like I’d committed a hate crime and like I should apologize for merely existing.
Now, if you know me, you know I don’t save contacts by nicknames or titles. My mom’s saved by her name. My dad? His middle name. My bestie? Lauren. My man? His actual name.
It’s a habit I picked up after hearing how thieves or scammers can use your contacts to call your people, pretending you’ve been kidnapped. So yeah, I play it safe.
But Ali? Oh, he wasn’t having it. His name had to be “babe.” Never mind that everyone already knew he was my boyfriend. When he saw I’d saved him as Ali, he lost it.
And not to make him sound like a monster, but I’ve never seen a man so furious over something so trivial. I mean, it’s not like someone was going to snatch my phone and scroll through my contacts just to confirm our love.
But I changed it. Again, I hate conflict, and I was determined to make it work. I’d walked away from past relationships too easily, too quickly, so this was my chance to prove I could stick it out. Maybe love really was about patience, tolerance, and compromise.
Then there were my parents, constantly on my case about not having a family yet. And as much as I like to pretend their pressure didn’t get to me, it did.
So, with Ali, I was going to do whatever it took to get to Marriageville—even if it meant twisting myself into a pretzel to keep the peace or silencing the little voice in my head that kept asking, “Sussy, is this really it?”
I convinced myself that love shouldn’t be so effortless, and if it were, it wouldn’t last. I thought fighting for love meant swallowing my pride, ignoring my boundaries, and shrinking myself down to make room for him. And Ali? Well, he gave me plenty of opportunities to prove just how much I could endure.
I was banned from talking to my male friends. He didn’t want me near my cousins, childhood friends, or anyone else with an Adam’s apple. In his book, that was a sin.
There was actually this one time we were leaving Nairobi after a weekend at my sister’s. We were traveling late at night, so I called my cab guy to ask him to wait for us since we’d be getting back to my place past midnight.
On the way, he kept calling to check on us, making sure he’d be at the meet-up point on time. And sure enough, there he was at 2 a.m., right on time.
He greeted us, helped with our bags, and after we were all settled, I struck up a light conversation. “How’ve you been? How’s work? Sorry we kept you waiting,” you know, nothing out of the ordinary.
We got to my place; I paid him, said goodbye, and Ali and I headed up the stairs.
But the second I unlocked my door, Ali erupted. The vein in his neck was popping, and he started hurling accusations—that I was sleeping with the cab guy, that I was too friendly with men, that I’d crossed some invisible line.
He belittled me, yelled at me for over two hours, and while he never laid a hand on me (he never did), the emotional toll of his outbursts was insurmountable. But I didn’t even realize it until my sister pointed it out. She said I was becoming a shell of a person, and my conversations with people were becoming very shallow and almost non-existent.
I didn’t even talk to my best friend as much anymore, and when we had a chat, it was never about my relationship. I avoided that topic completely because I didn’t want anyone to know I was struggling. That maybe dating him wasn’t the best choice I’d made in years. He was forcing his way of life down my throat, and I was feeling suffocated.
But, of course, I did nothing about it. I stayed in that relationship like it was a lifeline. Like breaking up with him would be the end of me. There were so many times I came close to saying, “I’m done,” but the words always got stuck in my throat.
So, he continued his reign of control and emotional abuse. He flat-out forbade me from seeing Lauren, and as much as I protested and told him he wouldn’t come between me and my friends (because I’d always choose them in a heartbeat), at the end of the day, I didn’t go.
Then there was the bracelet incident. He bought me what he claimed was a 24-karat gold bracelet worth $200.And when I called him out on it – because that thing was worth $3 at best (real gold sinks in water and glows under a flame; this one floated, turned black, and came with a dent)—he gaslit me.
He told me I wouldn’t know gold if it stared me in the face and even went as far as digging up fake receipts and calling the “jeweler” he bought it from to prove he actually bought it at the said price and from a luxury boutique for that fact.
And he didn’t stop there. Ali got to the point of attacking my womanhood. He was furious that I wasn’t having an orgasm, “squirting” like other women, or interested in having sex as regularly as he wanted.
And when I gave him a scientific rundown of why 60% of women don’t orgasm as easily as men and why I think sex is overrated, he took it as an insult. Instead of listening to me, he used it as an excuse to unleash his venom.
This man raped me. And I still stayed.
And I wish I could explain why I didn’t leave him then. I wish I could say I fought back, that I ran, that I told someone—even Lauren. But the truth is, I was ashamed. He made me believe it was my fault for not having a substantial sex drive, for always saying no because I didn’t feel like having sex. And so, I stayed.
I need a minute…
Ali always bragged about having a fleet of cars—a Subaru, a Land Cruiser, five lorries, and a double-cabin pickup. But since we started dating, I never saw him drive anything except the white Subaru he had when we met—and even that disappeared.
He’d always use public transport when he came to my place, and when I asked him about it, he said he loved the convenience of public transportation. Honestly, which car owner in Kenya prefers javving over driving their own fleet of cars?
When we met, Ali told me he was an engineer working on a $100,000 contract with the former president’s son, Jomo. But that never materialized. In fact, I can’t remember a single day I saw or heard him say he was going to work. Ali was always at home, watching Al-Jazeera, munching on miraa, driving his relatives around Nairobi, or telling me about his plans to buy another car to rent out to Uber.
His South African dual citizenship? That was the biggest hoax since Manti Te’o’s romance with Lennay Kekua (from Netflix’s Untold: The Girlfriend Who Didn’t Exist). To this day, I’m still convinced he didn’t even have a child.
There were no pictures of his son, and he rarely talked about him or called his mom to check up on him. And let’s be real, what father heavily invested in his son’s upbringing goes two weeks without checking in on him?
But even with all the red flags waving frantically in my face, I stayed. I was high on the “understanding girlfriend” Kool-Aid and wasn’t willing to break up with him, even if I was single-handedly bankrolling that relationship like I had a stake in Deepseek.ai or Elon Musk’s Mars mission.
It literally took a 20-minute WhatsApp voicenote from my mom for me to open my eyes.
My mom has always been relentless in her quest to get me married. She believes a woman doesn’t fulfill her purpose on earth until she starts a family, but she also believes in choosing the right person. And from the word go, my mom had a problem with Ali.
Sure, her concerns were partly rooted in his cultural background and religion (Somali and Muslim), but she was mostly worried about the toll the relationship was taking on me.
I hardly slept because of all the yelling, the belittling, and his never-ending reign of control. Did I mention he’d call me at 9 p.m. and refuse to let me end the call, even if I was dead tired? I had to stay on the line until he was done munching his miraa or watching whatever was on Al-Jazeera, and dare I mute his video call.
According to my mom, my spirit was troubled. I hardly smiled or laughed anymore, and that’s just not me. My sunshine energy had dwindled to a flicker, and I had become the prophet of doom. Wednesday Addams had nothing on me during those six months of terror.
But what really drew the line for my dear mother was the fact that I couldn’t go to church anymore. One, I was always tired, and Ali was against it. He claimed he didn’t want his “vision” of me getting into an accident on the way to come true, as if God himself had deputized him to be my personal prophet of peril.
I had also sent her a recording of one of Ali’s calls, where he was yelling profanities and channeling his usual draconian self, which finally prompted her to send the monumental voicenote.
“Sussy, let me ask you something,” my mom began, her voice a mix of concern and frustration. “Why are you letting this man stress you out? You’re not married to him. He adds nothing to your life but eats away at your peace and happiness. Why are you giving him so much power over your life?”
She continued: “What have you become, huh? Have you changed? My daughter, you’re 30 now. You need to make the right decisions. Don’t let him control your life anymore. Honestly, what kind of support is he giving you that you can’t break up with him? He’s controlling you like a remote.”
Her words hit hard, each one landing like a hammer on glass.
“Ali’s arguments are baseless, and a big red flag. He will stay like that forever, and it will only get worse. So, you need to stand your ground and tell him you’re not one to be controlled and yelled at like a toddler. And if he can’t handle that, break up with him. You’re a smart, educated, and beautiful young woman. You’re worthy of someone who makes you happy and uplifts you, not someone who talks down at you and belittles you.”
She paused, and I could hear the anger simmering in her voice.
“I’m so angry right now because you’ve been letting him speak to you like you don’t have parents. What happened to you? You used to be strong and opinionated. If you’re scared to break up with him, come home, and I’ll help you. You can’t wait to move out of your own home to break up with a man. He is not a god.”
PSA: At the time, there was an influx of relationship murder-suicides and femicides in Kenya, so I was terrified that if I broke up with Ali, he’d come and kill me.
“I don’t see a future for you with a man who yells, belittles, and controls you. What if you get married? Won’t he kill you? Yeah, so stop lowering your standards and status level. You’re not a beggar or a slave. You come from a good family that loves and respects you. So, be done and get out, okay?” my mom concluded the voicenote.
I listened to that voicenote over and over again. In all my life, I’d never heard my mom have such a strong opinion about anyone my siblings or I dated. But this time, she couldn’t stand it.
And while I didn’t immediately break up with Ali—I was still trying to gather the courage and convince myself I wasn’t going to be another statistic—listening to my mom again and again really helped. Slowly but surely, I was regaining my power and becoming more assertive.
So, on July 1st, 2024, when Ali called and started yelling asking me why there were two towels placed on my bathroom rack and if I had been cheating on him that weekend, I finally cracked and told him I was done.
I was done with his insecurities, his narcissism, and clear signs of illiteracy.
And in true narcissistic form, he begged me to stay, trying to manipulate me into “fighting for our love,” but I was done. Up to here with his nonsense. I wished him all the best—sincerely, from the bottom of my heart—hung up, blocked his number, and deleted every trace of him from my phone and my life with immediate effect.
Then, I did something I hadn’t done in ages. I cut a slice of the cake I’d bought for myself weeks ago, turned up Lauren Spencer Smith’s Mirror album, and literally danced to it around my living room like I’d just won the lottery. It was the happiest moment of my life.
That night, I slept like a baby. Okay, fine, there were a few paranoid moments where I wondered if he’d show up at my doorstep with a gun in hand, but overall, my spirit, my soul, every part of me was at peace.
Then a few days later, just when I thought I was finally free of Ali’s nonsense, I got a message from a loan collection agency. Turns out, Ali had taken out a $1,000 loan and put me down as the guarantor. Oh, and get this—he listed me as his wife. The audacity. The gumption. This man really had no shame.
I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, finally breathing easy, and this man was still finding ways to disrupt my peace. I immediately rushed to the police and reported the incident. Thankfully, after a few days, the messages stopped, and the whole thing disappeared like smoke. But it was a reminder that some people will do anything to drag you down, even when you’ve already walked away.
Ali taught me a lot of things, but the biggest lesson was this being single is way better than being with a man who sucks the life out of you. Your peace of mind matters. Your happiness matters. And don’t let anyone—not even society—bully you into staying in a toxic situation just because they think you should be married or settled down by a certain age.
Love shouldn’t cost you your sanity. It shouldn’t make you shrink yourself or silence your voice. Real love lifts you up, makes you feel safe, and lets you be unapologetically yourself. If it doesn’t, then it’s not love. It’s a lesson I had to learn the hard way, but one I’ll never forget.
So, to anyone out there who’s feeling stuck in a relationship that drains more than it gives, hear me when I say this. You, my love, deserve better. You deserve someone who respects you, cherishes you, and adds to your life instead of taking away from it.
And if that person hasn’t shown up yet, that’s okay. Being single isn’t a curse. It’s a chance to fall in love with yourself, to rediscover your worth, and to build a life so full and joyful that when the right person comes along, they’ll have to rise to the occasion to deserve a spot in it.
Ali may have tried to dim my light (and he did at some point), but in the end, he only made it shine brighter. And now? I’m living proof that walking away from the wrong person is the first step toward finding the life—and the love—you truly deserve.
Till next time,
XOXO,
Sussy, The Liberated Queen.
