story by paul upendo
I
n the heart of Nairobi, 28-year-old Wanjiru was known as the tech whisperer. Her job as a UX designer kept her surrounded by screens, coding interfaces to make digital interactions feel human.
But she felt lonelier than ever.
Her phone buzzed constantly—work emails, calendar reminders, group chats filled with stickers and memes. Her social media sparkled with curated moments, yet her apartment echoed with silence.
Then one day, her 70-year-old father, Mzee Kamau, came to stay. His phone was ancient, barely functioning. He didn’t understand why people “liked” things without saying a word.
At breakfast, Wanjiru live-streamed her cooking, thinking it would bring her closer to her followers. Kamau chuckled, “Who are you feeding—us or them?”
That night, power went out. No Wi-Fi, no mobile data. Just the crackle of candlelight. Father and daughter talked. Not texts. Words. Laughs. Stories. Regrets. Dreams.
The next morning, Wanjiru didn’t reach for her phone. She brewed tea and handed it to Kamau. “No hashtags today,” she said with a smile.
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