Secretly living with my man

Sheila remarked the other day at work that I appear suspiciously happy. I privately took her accusation as a compliment to my new life with George but lied to her smiling sweetly 'it’s the way I’ve always been', and then made a point to be rude to her at least twice that day. I know women have a sixth sense that's sharper than a serpent’s tooth. I still can’t let people get too close as my secret has now become bigger and more expensive.

My gay life is going very well at the moment, thanks for asking. George returned back to work on Monday. He leaves the compound at the ungodly hour of 6:15 to hitch a lift from the security company’s van that patrols our estate to the main road; I find it odd when he gets out of bed one hour before I do to get ready for the day. Strange how quickly the habit of a lover’s warm embrace is easily formed; it’s as if we always lived together. I think he’s also fallen in love with Imelda, my keeper of secrets and a house. Lying in bed I jealously strain to hear the pair of them laughing and talking in the dining room downstairs as George has his breakfast. Imelda told me the house now feels alive with good spirits.

I caught my reflection in the glass doors to the building where I work, a noticeable lightness to my step; surely life before George was so predictable. It’s wonderful to have someone to think about and care for; we share at least three telephone calls during the day to plan with George what to have for dinner and which movie to watch. I’m the guy singing in the car and merrily letting you go through amidst the chaotic Nairobi traffic! Life can be so sweet indeed; take my word for it also on the undivulgable details. Nothing beats going home to a man that you love and who loves you back.