"How did you break up with him and you're still alive?"
It is a question Wanjiru still remembers hearing after she left a relationship that many people admired from the outside. To friends and colleagues, her partner seemed loving, attentive and devoted.
What they did not see was the relentless monitoring, the isolation, the threats and the gradual erosion of her independence. Like many emotionally abusive relationships, the warning signs were there from the beginning. They were simply disguised as love.
“It was beautiful and promising at the beginning. I thought he was overly loving and caring, only to realise later that it was control. He used to pick me up from my attachment at Telkom Kenya,” the 46-year-old recalls. “My colleagues thought I was lucky.”
The two met in 1998, dated on and off for about three years, and eventually settled down together in 2003. At the time, Wanjiru was building a career in telecommunications. She had just finished college and was optimistic about the future.
The biggest triggers in the relationship was any discussion that touched on her personal growth, education or career.
“He did not like anything that involved my development,” she says.
Three incidents remain vivid in her memory. One afternoon, they were walking back from lunch together when a fellow male student from her industrial attachment greeted her from across the street.
"He almost slapped me," she recalls.
On another occasion, she bumped into some village mates who were selling cabbages from a pick-up truck at a local market.
"You know that excitement when you unexpectedly meet people from home. He literally pulled me away and lectured me."
"He simply said hello to me across the fence while I was hanging clothes." Even that became a problem.
As time went by, the monitoring intensified. If she did not answer his calls immediately, the phone would ring endlessly.
"One weekend, I missed 163 calls. The messages were more than 90!"
The messages swung between declarations of love and expressions of anger. If she informed him that she was attending a job interview, she would later discover that he had positioned himself nearby to watch her without her knowledge.
If she missed his calls while at her industrial attachment, he would drive there and wait outside until she finished.
"In his mind, the only reason a woman would miss his call, want space, or go out with friends was because of another man," Wanjiru says. "He accompanied me everywhere. He would attend my chama meetings and sit a few tables away just watching."
Although she had trained in telecommunications, she eventually lost her footing in the industry after he refused to allow her to return to work following the birth of their child.
"Technology was changing very fast at the time. New software was constantly being developed. If you didn't keep updating your skills, you got left behind."
Years later, after leaving the relationship, she retrained as a teacher and built a new career.
"He threatened to kill me many times," she says.
Relentless monitoring, isolation and threats from one partner can gradually erode the other partner's independence.
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Twice, he threatened to pump bullets into her body. The threats were particularly frightening because he was a licensed gun holder.
"If he wasn't threatening to kill me, he would threaten to kill himself and leave a note blaming me."
In 2006, Wanjiru left when their son was about two years old and she was one month pregnant. Her partner was aware of the pregnancy. One morning, she waited until he left for his usual run and quietly packed up and went to her parents’ home. At first, he assumed she had gone to her brother's house, which was nearby.
Later, her sister-in-law told her what happened when he realised she was gone.
Construction workers who happened to be in the compound were eventually called to remove him. The following morning, he appeared at her parents' home at 6.30am. This time, he was calm.
For four consecutive days he returned. On the fourth day, Wanjiru left her parents' home and went into hiding at her aunt's house.
When he returned again, her father told him she was not there and that they did not know where she was.
By then, Wanjiru had already warned him that if he came again she would scream and alert the entire village.
"They didn't know the gravity of the issues then. I only shared some details years later," she adds.
"I remember them asking me, 'How did you break up with him and you're still alive?'"
Soon after the separation, two years later, her young son became ill with blood cancer and died.
Just nine days after burying her son, she reported to college to finish her studies. Despite everything she endured, Wanjiru says the experience taught her lessons she carries to this day.
"My advice is, never ignore red flags simply because you love someone or because you hope they will change," she says.
The warning signs, she says, were there all along. Extreme jealousy, constant monitoring, controlling behaviour, threats and a refusal to respect boundaries. She encourages anyone experiencing similar circumstances to speak to someone they trust.
"Abuse often thrives in secrecy. Those around you may think all is well because they only see the public version of the relationship."
"Love cannot exist where there is fear," she says. "If someone makes you feel constantly anxious, guilty, isolated, or responsible for their emotional stability, something is wrong."
Healing took time. She had to unlearn many of the things she had mistaken for love and remind herself that one person's unhealthy behaviour does not define all relationships.
"There was a time when I genuinely wondered whether I would ever trust enough to love again," she says. "I am in a different space with my husband now. I am trusted. I am respected. I do not have to live in fear of missing a call, spending time with friends, or simply being myself."
"I learned that intensity is not the same as love. Someone constantly wanting to know where you are, who you are with, or demanding all of your attention is often mistaken for deep affection. Sometimes it is insecurity and control disguised as love."
When Dorin Maore looks back at her first marriage, she remembers a relationship that at first felt deeply caring, almost protective. Now 31, Dorin is remarried and a mother of two children, one from her first marriage and another with her current husband.
She was only 24 when she met her former husband. Fresh from university with a degree in public health, she was optimistic about the future and eager to begin her career.
"He was very supportive, and I involved him in everything in my life," she recalls. "At that age, I thought it was a good thing to have someone who cared about my decisions and wanted to be part of my future."
What initially attracted her to him was his confidence and willingness to guide her. Having just graduated, she appreciated having someone she believed had more life experience.
"There was almost nothing I could do without consulting him. At the time, I thought that's how relationships worked."
One of the earliest incidents Dorin shares involved a job opportunity at a hospital in Machakos town. She had applied and secured an interview. Her then-husband accompanied her to the interview and appeared supportive throughout the process.
When she later received a positive response, she was excited. "I thought my career was finally starting," she says. Instead, her husband discouraged her from taking the position.
"He told me the job was too far from where we lived in Thika. He said he would help me find something better."
Trusting him, she declined the opportunity. A few months later, he secured a position for her through a friend who owned an insurance company.
If Dorin failed to answer a phone call immediately, her husband would contact her colleagues. Sometimes he would call multiple times until someone picked up.
"He always needed to know where I was," she adds.
Dropping her off at work every morning and picking her up every evening became routine. At first it seemed thoughtful. Later, it felt suffocating.
What begins as devotion in a relationship can slowly become control.
Photo credit: Shutterstock
"He would call my colleagues, neighbours and even other people around me if I didn't answer my phone. It wasn't because there was an emergency. It happened regularly."
She rarely saw her friends. Most of her time was spent either at home, in church, or with her husband.
“I became isolated without realising it. Most of the time, it was just him and me," she shares.
One of the biggest warning signs came after the birth of their daughter. As a first-time mother, she longed to visit her mother, but every attempt was met with resistance.
"There was always an excuse," she says.
Sometimes her ex would argue that the baby was too young to travel. Other times, he claimed he would be busy during the weekend and suggested postponing the visit.
Eventually, she realised that months had passed without seeing her family.
Looking back, Dorin says there were warning signs from the beginning, but she interpreted them as affection.
“When someone is constantly checking on you, always wants to know where you are and wants to be involved in every decision, it can feel like love. Especially when you're young."
“I remember feeling exhausted, not just from that argument but from years of feeling like I couldn't make decisions for myself.” She left and returned to her mother's home
Unlike Wanjiru, Dorin says her former husband never threatened suicide or self-harm when she left. Instead, his control had taken a different form: Emotional dependence, monitoring and isolation.
"There were moments when I wanted to walk away earlier, but I stayed because I kept believing things would change. I also worried about breaking up my family."
"I would mention some things to my family members, including my mum, but I don't think I realised how unhealthy the situation had become. If I knew then what I know now, I would have spoken to someone much earlier," she says.
Today, one of her biggest lessons is that control rarely appears all at once.
"It starts with small things that seem harmless. Then gradually you lose your independence without even noticing."
Years after leaving, Dorin remarried. She describes her current marriage as opposite of what she had before.
"The difference is that I don't have to ask for permission to live my life," she says. "I used to think love meant someone wanting to be involved in everything you do. Now I know real love allows you to remain yourself."
For other women who may find themselves in similar situations, her advice is simple – pay attention to the small signs.
"If someone constantly controls your decisions, isolates you from people you love, or makes you feel guilty for wanting independence, don't ignore it. Those things don't usually get better on their own."
While threats of suicide or violence during breakups appear to be attracting more attention today, Dr Elizabeth Waithanji, a gender and social inclusion specialist, believes there is more than one factor at play.
"There is a spike in self-centred personalities, and they have become more audacious, but the world has also become more conscious and attentive about relationships."
How people respond to rejection, she notes, is often shaped by both culture and individual circumstances. In cultures where women are expected to maintain and sustain the marriage and home, the end of a relationship can have very different consequences for men and women.
A woman who experiences rejection may face condemnation from her community, losing not only a relationship but also a sense of identity, confidence and self-esteem.
"The man receives sympathy and is encouraged to move on swiftly to another relationship, probably by the women close to him, and he often does," she says.
In such situations, resentment can linger long after the relationship has ended. Both partners may carry emotional wounds for years and, in some cases, may even wish to hurt one another. In more liberal cultures, separation is often approached differently.
Rather than assigning blame, both partners may accept that they have irreconcilable differences and move on.
