A romantic evening for a Thika-based mason, whose skills had earned him contracts in several towns, became an expensive lesson in modern dating when Tash, whom he had courted online, failed to show up after receiving fare in advance.

Fred met Tash on social media three weeks earlier. Their daily conversations blossomed until he could barely concentrate on mixing cement. They finally agreed to take their online romance offline.

In his newly revamped kamatangi self-contained room, Fred prepared as if expecting a state visit. He skipped his usual Nzomo kiosk and made his first supermarket trip, buying maize flour, half a kienyeji chicken, two Hass avocados, a hydration kit and two Mission Impossible packs for dinner. His Bluetooth speaker was set to play slow jams.

At 3pm, Tash texted, “Babe pliz tuma fare aki.” Fred sent KSh 1,500. Soon after, she called again, saying she was still stranded. Excited for their rendezvous, Fred sent another transport token.

By 6pm, Tash was still on her way, insisting, “Aki babe na come.” By 7pm, Fred had become a transport coordinator; by 8pm, he was tracking a passenger on Google Maps without a tracking number. By 9pm, he had sent 17 messages, made 23 calls and received 26 versions of “Bona una doubt babe.”

Fred reheated the ugali twice—so unKenyan—and kept checking his phone and the Thirsty Quencher kit. The avocados sat untouched as the speaker switched from slow jams to Zilizopendwa.

Ghafla bin vuu! Tash’s WhatsApp profile picture disappeared. Fred had been ghosted. But during their three weeks of chats, Tash had casually shared her Makongeni location and house number. Fred wasn’t about to let the relationship end without a physical closing meeting.

After hours of waiting, he rode his newly acquired Pararira nduthi to the estate. At the gate, he explained their relationship and the cancelled date, but the security guard refused to let him in.

Fred pleaded, “Huoni hii kazi ni ngumu sana kwangu?” The guard remained unmoved. The argument escalated, and Fred forced his way inside, breaking the apartment door.

“Tash! Tash wa wazimu!!!!” he shouted. But the person who appeared was not the Tash he expected. A man in a torn Manisiti vest stood before him, with Tash behind him, shocked.

Fred froze. Apparently, goshodo was somebody’s wife!

Before he could explain the 2gee investment and dinner shopping, the husband charged. Fred raced down the stairs, breathing like a Mulembe bull imenusa matawi haramu.

Neighbours joined the commotion, and “Shindwe pepo!” became the soundtrack of an unplanned Viu Once production.