The door slammed behind me with a finality that rattled the cheap wooden frame, the sound echoing through the hallway like a gunshot. Kendi’s screams followed me—high-pitched, frantic, the kind of noise that would’ve made me flinch if I hadn’t been so damn pissed. “You can’t just leave! We can fix this!” Yeah, right. Like I hadn’t heard that one before. Like I hadn’t spent the last six months pretending not to notice the way her phone buzzed at 2 AM with messages from “Work”—capital W, like it was a fucking title. My fists clenched as I stormed down the stairs, each step vibrating with the kind of rage that could either fuel a revolution or get me arrested. Tonight, I wasn’t sure which one I was aiming for.

The neon glow of Mama Njeri’s Bar & Butchery—because nothing says “classy” like drinking next to hanging goat carcasses—beckoned me like a siren. The stench of fried nyama choma and stale beer hit me before I even pushed the door open, but at this point, I’d have crawled into a sewer if it meant drowning out the sound of Kendi’s voice. The place was packed, bodies pressed together like sardines in a can, the air thick with laughter, smoke, and the kind of desperation that only comes from a Tuesday night in Nairobi. I squeezed through the crowd, elbowing some poor sap in the ribs when he didn’t move fast enough. “Pole, bana,” I muttered, not meaning a word of it.

That’s when I saw her.

Perched at the bar like she owned the place, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of something amber and expensive in her hand. She had that look—sharp cheekbones, darker than sin, and eyes that cut through the bullshit like a machete through overripe fruit. Her lips curled into a smile when she caught me staring, slow and deliberate, like she’d been waiting for me to show up. “You look like a man who’s either about to start a war or needs a very stiff drink,” she said, her voice smooth as honey laced with arsenic. “Lucky for you, I specialize in both.”

I should’ve walked away. I knew I should’ve walked away. But the way her fingers traced the rim of her glass, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip—it was like she’d hooked a live wire straight to my dick. “Fine,” I growled, sliding onto the stool beside her. “But if this is a setup, I swear to God—”

She laughed, deep and throaty, leaning in close enough that I could smell her perfume—something spicy, like cloves and danger. “Oh, habibi, if I wanted to set you up, you’d already be in handcuffs. Or out of them.” Her hand landed on my thigh, fingers inching dangerously close to the bulge straining against my jeans. “Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

That got my attention. “Help how?”

She flagged down the bartender, ordered two whiskies—neat—and turned to me with a grin that could’ve melted steel. “Let’s just say you and I have a mutual enemy. Kasongo.” The name hit me like a punch to the gut. She leaned in, her breath hot against my ear. “I know about the affair. I know about the money. And I know you’ve got the proof to bury him.” Her fingers tightened on my thigh. “But I need something from you first.”

My brain short-circuited. “You want me to fuck you for blackmail material?”

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound rich and dark, like she’d heard that one before. “Oh, baby, if that’s all I wanted, I’d have dragged you into the alley by now.” Her hand slid higher, nails grazing the outline of my cock through my jeans. “No, I want something much more interesting.” She whispered the rest, her lips brushing my earlobe, and holy shit—if I hadn’t been sitting, my knees would’ve buckled.

Five minutes later, we were in the back room—because of course Mama Njeri had a back room, and of course it smelled like bleach and bad decisions. She pushed me against the wall, her body pressing into mine, all curves and heat. “You talk a big game, msee,” she murmured, biting my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “Let’s see if you can back it up.” Her hands were everywhere—ripping at my shirt, clawing at my belt, her nails leaving red trails down my chest. “I want you to fuck me like you hate me,” she gasped, shoving my jeans down just enough to free my cock. “Like you’re punishing her.”

And fuck if that didn’t flip a switch.

I spun her around, slamming her against the wall, my hand tangling in her hair as I yanked her head back. “You want it rough, mama?” I snarled, my free hand ripping her dress up to her waist. “You’re gonna get it.” She wasn’t wearing panties. Of course she wasn’t. Her ass was round, smooth, begging for it. I spat on my fingers, rubbed them against her slit—fuck, she was dripping—then drove two inside her without warning. She cried out, her body clenching around me, her nails digging into the wall. “Just like that, you bastard—”

I didn’t let her finish. I pulled my fingers out, lined my cock up, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust. She screamed, the sound half pain, half pleasure, her pussy squeezing me so tight I saw stars. “You like that?” I grunted, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, my balls already drawing up. “You like being a dirty little whore for revenge?”

“Yes!” she sobbed, pushing back against me, her ass slapping against my thighs with every punishing stroke. “Fuck me like you mean it!”

So I did.

I fucked her like she was Kasongo’s career—relentless, brutal, no mercy. I fucked her like she was Kendi’s lies—deep, unforgiving, until she was sobbing and begging and coming so hard her legs shook. And when I finally buried myself to the hilt and blew my load inside her with a groan that sounded like it came from the depths of hell, she collapsed against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Fuck,” she whispered, her voice raw. “That’s… gonna leave a mark.”

I pulled out slowly, my cum dripping down her thighs, and tucked myself back into my jeans. “Good,” I panted. “Now tell me how we’re gonna ruin that motherfucker.”

She smirked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Oh, habibi…” She reached into her bra—because of course—and pulled out a flash drive. “We start with this.”

Twenty minutes later, I was back at the apartment, my body still humming from the adrenaline and the very thorough fucking I’d just received. The place was quiet, the door unlocked—because Kendi was terrible at locking doors, just like she was terrible at not cheating—and the second I stepped inside, I knew something was off. The TV was on, some stupid Nollywood drama playing at full volume, but the living room was empty. Then I heard it—the sniffles. The pathetic, snotty, “I’ve ruined my life” kind of sniffles coming from the bedroom.

Kendi was curled up on the bed, her face buried in a pillow that was probably soaked through with tears and expensive foundation. She looked up when I walked in, her eyes red and puffy, her mascara raccooned out like she’d been crying for hours. “You came back,” she whimpered, sitting up, the sheet slipping to reveal her cleavage—like that was gonna work on me now.

“Only to pack my shit,” I said, yanking open the wardrobe. “Then I’m gone.”

She scrambled off the bed, grabbing my arm. “Please, babe, just listen—”

“Listen to what?” I snapped, shaking her off. “How Kasongo’s dick is smaller than mine but his bank account isn’t? How you’ve been playing me for a fool while I was out here busting my ass?” I grabbed an armful of shirts, shoving them into my duffel bag with enough force to rip the seams. “Save it, Kendi. I’m done.”

She dropped to her knees—actual, dramatic kneeling, like we were in a telenovela. “I swear, it was a mistake! He tricked me! He said he’d—”

“He said?” I barked a laugh. “Oh, so now it’s his fault you spread your legs for him?” I zipped up the bag, heaving it over my shoulder. “Newsflash, mrembo—when a man’s got a tiny dick and a big ego, the only thing he’s tricking is himself into thinking anyone wants him.”

She wailed, full-on ugly crying now, snot bubbles and all. “Where will you go?!”

“Not your problem anymore,” I said, heading for the door. Then I paused, turning back to her. “Oh, and Kendi?” She looked up, hope flashing in her bloodshot eyes. “Your pussy tastes like betrayal now. Enjoy that.”

I slammed the door on her sobs.

Three hours later, I was under the Thika Road footbridge, my duffel bag stuffed under my head like a pillow, the stench of urine and exhaust fumes choking the air. The concrete was cold, the traffic above a constant roar, and somewhere in the distance, a dog was howling like it had just lost its best friend. Mood.

I should’ve been devastated. I should’ve been broken. But all I felt was… lighter. Like I’d shed a skin I didn’t even know was suffocating me. I pulled out my phone—dead, because of course—and tossed it aside. The stars above were blurred by the city’s glow, but I could still make out a few, twinkling like they were laughing at me.

Then it hit me.

I started singing.

At first, it was just a mumble, my voice rough from whiskey and screaming. But then it got louder. Clearer. Angrier.

“Kasongo must go!” I bellowed, my voice echoing under the bridge. “Kasongo must go!”

A homeless guy two meters away groaned, rolling over. “Shut the fuck up, mjinga.”

I grinned, singing louder. “KASONGO MUST GO!”

Somewhere, a car horn blared in agreement. Or maybe it was just traffic. Didn’t matter.

For the first time in months, I was free. And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, that motherfucker was gonna burn.