143. Therapy, Not HopeNova

The chair in Dr. Wamae’s office is the same one I’ve sat in for years now. Or maybe it's new and she just bought a similar one. I can't tell.

Soft grey fabric. Low arms. Firm enough to hold me upright when my body wants to fold inward and long enough for me to lie on when things get heavy in my head. I notice these things the way someone notices landmarks on a long road; small assurances that I have been here before and survived it.

Outside, Nairobi hums. Matatus. ...