The Price of Longing

I have paid for love in denominations of 500 shillings. Sometimes 250. Sometimes more. Sometimes I lied to Safaricom that it was emergency credit, just so I could sambaza him airtime without looking desperate. But darling, I was desperate. Desperate for a voice. His voice. That soft, late-night molasses that made my thighs twitch and my moral compass spin. I wasn’t buying airtime. I was buying presence. I was paying to not feel abandoned.

Desire, in Nairobi, has a data plan.
Love is measured in minutes.
Intimacy expires with your balance.

They don’t teach you this in school. They teach you biology, but not what it means to have a body that wants — no, needs — to be known through sound. They don’t teach you how a voice note can feel like a tongue against your ear. How digital affection can mimic physical touch. How “I miss you” sent at 11:47 p.m. can feel like a hand under your shirt. They don’t tell you that longing is no longer just a matter of the heart — it’s a logistical nightmare of weak signals, low battery, and insufficient funds.

I have studied desire like a theologian studies scripture — repeating the same verses, praying they mean something new this time. I have poured myself into voice notes that sound like sermons and softcore erotica. I have rerecorded the same message five times just to hit the right cadence of care. I have deleted entire paragraphs because I didn’t want to sound like I was asking for too much, even when I was asking for the bare minimum: “Call me back.”

He never did.

Or he did, but only after I sent airtime.
Like a spell. Like I had to tithe to the temple of his attention.

Do you know what it’s like to be the one who always calls?
The emotional breadwinner of the situationship?
To sambaza your last 50 bob just to receive a “hey” that sounds like a yawn?

Some women bleed from the heart. I bleed from my M-Pesa statement.
I scroll through the receipts of my romantic delusions:
KES1000 here. KES 500 there.
Not for rent. Not for food. Not even for me.
For him.
For the possibility of us.

Sometimes I fantasize that I’m an academic of erotic economics.
My thesis: “The Exchange Rate of Affection in Postcolonial Mobile Romance.”
Chapter One: Airtime as Emotional Currency.
Chapter Two: The Ghost in the Call Log.
Chapter Three: “I Miss You” and Other Financial Liabilities.

I’m not ashamed. Well — maybe a little. But mostly, I’m furious.
Because I have loved in ways that would make the gods weep.
Because I believed that buying him airtime was proof of partnership.
Because I treated the sound of him like sacrament — his voice a ritual I returned to again and again, hoping it would save me from loneliness, from doubt, from myself.

And when the messages slowed, when he stopped replying, when his “good morning” texts went extinct — I thought: maybe I didn’t give enough.
Maybe 200 bob wasn’t love. Maybe I should’ve sent more.

Do you know how sick that is?
To wonder if your worth is pegged to your ability to keep his phone alive?

This is what love looks like now. Not roses. Not poems. Not mixtapes.
Just digital receipts and blue ticks. A call that rings out and goes unanswered.
A silence that feels like punishment for caring.

I’m tired of being the emotional investor in a bankrupt connection.

I want love that doesn’t need airtime to prove itself.
I want desire that doesn’t charge roaming fees.
I want to stop turning my longing into charity.

Still, sometimes I find myself hovering over the sambaza menu.
Thumb trembling. Breath shallow.
Wondering if 50 bob could bring him back.
Wondering if this time, he’ll call just to say my name like a psalm.
No borrowing. No favors. Just breath. Just voice. Just him.

I don’t send it. Not anymore.
But the hunger remains.
And that, my darling, is the most expensive part of all.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.