The Ghost of Facebook Girl

Back in high school, you simply didn’t live until you went for an inter-school competition. A funky, they called it. Most of these funkys were sports-oriented, and I wasn’t into sports.

Whenever I tell my friends that I never went to any funky they laugh their hearts out. They laugh even harder when I say that that’s not completely true, that I had indeed gone for one. An academic one. But, because the Computer Science congress neither had the sweaty hormonal charge nor the grass-smelling air of a sports funky, it doesn’t really count.

So on funky weekends, when the school was quiet, everyone else either flocked to the entertainment hall or did their laundry. Me? I napped all afternoon to rid myself of homesickness and catch a break from obsessing about a girl I met from Facebook.

She was a year ahead of me, in a school far from mine and in a league further away. (I was in a boarding school in Murang’a, it was tucked somewhere in the deep thread of Maragua.) I scoured her timeline figuring this girl out. I wanted to know her past, what she does and who she hang out with. Everything. And as far as I could tell, she belonged to some rich family and went to swanky schools with fancy names and yellow school buses. Her life seemed like a ball of activity. Over school holidays, whenever we’d text and I asked her how her day was like, she would say she had gone out to eat, or to ice skate at Panari, or to her friend’s place to dance.

I never joined her on these outings because I was broke as hell. And I didn’t see myself borrowing money from my folks. What would I say it’s for? Skating? Ha! My Ol’Man would find that absurd and giggle back to his newspaper.

Meantime I was just glad to be texting a beautiful girl at 1AM.

When our Facebook thread was long enough, we decided it was time to take things to the next level. She sent me her phone number and I immediately dialed it, she picked up after three rings.


She sounded like a child. It was like something from a harp and I was mighty struck. I quickly hung up because I had nothing to say. I called her again the next morning. I remember racking my brain trying to come up with an interesting topic – we ended up having a lengthy conversation about the weather. I didn’t know what she thought of me after.

We let our love brew for two more years before we actually met.

The first time I saw her, she was waiting for me by a street in the City. I hid behind some strangers as I took her in. Her head was bent and she had her hands crossed in front of her; the moving crowd seemed to make her uneasy, she also seemed shy. Her short sleeves exposed flawless brown skin, her necklace disappeared into the cleavage of her beautiful breasts. I swallowed hard. She wore tight jeans and her hips were built with curves, like the hull of a racing yacht. I wondered if anyone else was looking at her, seeing what I was seeing – surely, one of God’s finest works.

I felt like the luckiest bloke on Facebook.

I wasn’t the charmer back then that I am today, heehe, girls unsettled me. I was slim and pimply-faced. My hair was cut close to my scalp and my kisogo was so pronounced that my head looked like a groundnut. My fingernails were jagged because I chewed them idly and constantly; I hadn’t discovered masturbation back then. I used to wear this cologne called Brut. It belonged to my Ol’Man. I wore it because I didn’t have one of my own.

I started walking towards her. She hadn’t seen me yet and I passed right in front of her to see if she’d recognize me. She did. And as soon as we embraced and I could smell her skin, scented with warmth and vanilla, I had half the mind to ask her to marry me right there.

We made our way to KICC. I had heard that the view of the City from the helipad was breathtaking, and as we walked there she wrapped her arm around mine. She held on to my bicep and made me feel big and strong, never mind that I had the upper body strength of a wood plank.

Soon we were on the 28th floor of KICC, on the yellow-marked helipad. She held onto the metal railing with both hands, like she was afraid she’d fall. I put an arm around her shoulder. Being so close to her made me hunger to kiss her glossy lips. I got lost thinking about them: What would they taste like, those lips? What if I lightly grabbed her and went in for a quick sensual kiss? Would she think it too soon? What if I sat her on the railing and put my hand under her shirt? Would she think me cute or uncanny? I wondered if she had noticed my hard-on.

She told me she didn’t know the City much. So we left KICC and I showed her the general direction of places and things. We took selfies. We joked and laughed about. She told me about her family, and I mine. At some point she saw the bits of skin peeling off my palms and scraped them out with a fingernail.

I was sold.

At dusk, when I was about to see her off, she threw her hands behind my neck and we wildly kissed for what seemed like an eternity. That night, as I went to bed, I could still feel her lingering lips.

The lines of our relationship blurred once she cleared high school, I had one more year to go. I was in boarding school and she was doing whatever it was that people who had finished high school did.

Was she going to wait for me?

By the time I was done with my final papers she had moved on. Told me she got tired of waiting. I didn’t blame her. Or myself. I never heard from her again.

And then, a few months ago, last May, I saw her in my campus. Atleast I think I did.

At the start of every new semester, we get gathered around for a prayer meeting in the auditorium. It’s here the administration tells us that sex is still not allowed and that drugs are evil and we should work hard so we can graduate and make our parents proud. They also have a thing where all the new international students are asked to stand up so we can welcome them with a round of applause, Kenyan style. It was during one of these events that I happened to see her.

My jaw dropped the moment I saw that face – she looked strikingly like the girl that had gutted me and ran away with my heart. She had her hands crossed in front of her, just like Facebook girl. Her eyes were as big. She seemed to have lost her hips since, and her lips were certainly smaller.

As I stared at her, wide eyed, I was only dimly aware of my cold feet.

I turned to the person next to me and asked, “Ati where is that one from?”


I immediately got onto Facebook to check if our girl – my girl – had family in Burundi. Her profile didn’t seem to have changed much but I could see that she was now training to be a pilot.

As everyone in the auditorium stood up to chant the freshmen in, I wondered if Facebook Girl’s career choice had anything to do with me, if her love for heights was cultivated that day we stood on that helipad and died in each other’s arms.


The Red Stereo
A Bike, a Sack and an Ugly leather jacket

Comments (6)

  1. Mike

    I’ve been waiting for this one.. Great job.

  2. Mildred Akoth

    Still wondering how your head looks like. I picture a groundnut then you, the groundnut again. Hehe.

    • Mike

      My head still looks like a groundnut. Just with a bit more hair on top😅

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Florence Bett-Kinyatti


Columnist Saturday Nation Writer Craft It Author of best-selling ‘SHOULD I?’ and ‘HOW MUCH?’ ~ Guiding word: Overdrive Subscribe to our Newsletter👇🏾 eepurl.com/igmN8P
  • Dear God, 
It’s me again.

I don’t pray as often as I need to, You know that. I don’t kneel by my bed in child-like humility, as Muna does. I don’t whisper a prayer in the morning. Or at noon. Perhaps just in the evening. 

This going-to-church habit is a constant false start. So is reading the Word. 

I’m often guilty but I also know: You and I have a language only we can understand. 

I speak to You through this gift You bestowed upon my Kale shoulders, this gift to write in colour. It’s a gift that sometimes feels like a curse, a burden I have no choice but to pursue. 

Yet other times – most times, actually – it’s the very breath of my essence. Everyday I sit to write, when the words flow from my head and heart through my fingers to the page, I feel You next to me. 

You are here, Lord. Hovering. Lingering. Swooshing about in Your regal robes, like a character from Bridgerton.

Sometimes You get so close I can feel You breathing on my neck and I’m like, ‘Err, God, do You mind, personal space?’

And You chuckle uncomfortably. ‘He-he, of course. Of course.’

I’m here to tell You, Thanks!

I hosted my first in-person event last March, Lord, thank You to all the lovely ladies who granted me their time and full attention. 

I’ve carried them in my heart since and every day, my prayer is that You bring them closer to the life of abundance they each seek. To their own version of wealth. 

I always call them by their name: Becky. Purity. Lindsay. Wangui. Naomi. Shiqow. Mercy. Liz. Winnie. Polly. Nduta. Lynet. 

And Mike. 

Dear Lord, I’m prepping for my next in-person event in June, Inshallah. 

Walk with me as I get there. 

Love always,

  • Highlights from our first-ever in person event hosted by Craft It and @financialfitbit 
Thanks to all the lovely ladies — and gent, hehe — who honoured us with the privilege of their time and attention. And colourful energy. It’s been weeks since and it’s only now that I’m coming down from the high. 

Thank YOU!

🎥 @mikemuthaka 

#craftit #author #MakeYourMoneyMatter #personalfinance #money
  • I am a woman.

I’m strong. I’m brilliant. I’m like a comet shooting across the sky, I’m so bright you have to put on shades to see me.

I’m almost 40, I’m almost fully realising myself as a woman and the power of womanhood I possess.

I’m so powerful that if KPLC connected me to the national grid, I’d power up this country and we’d never have another blackout.

Ho! Ho! Ho!


To recognize and celebrate International Women’s Day today, I’d like to recognize and celebrate eight women.

I have eight things to give away to each of these women:
a) Two tickets to my upcoming event on March 18 with @financialfitbit Theme is ‘Make your money matter’
b) Three autographed copies of my book ‘Should I?’
c) Three autographed copies of my other book ‘How Much?’

To participate:
1. Like this post
2. Tag women who deserve a win of either event ticket or book (tag as many women as you like)
3. Tell us what you’d like her to win and why she deserves the win
4. Make sure your tagged women follow @_craftit and @financialfitbit 

Here are the rules for the giveaway:
— One woman, one win
— Winners will be contacted via DM
— Giveaway closes at the end of this week, Inshallah, on Sunday 12 March
— Only open to people living in Kenya

All the best!

(Swipe right to see the women I’m celebrating.)

#craftit #internationalwomensday
  • My 2022 word of the year was Wholesome. 

Wholesome meant engaging in moderation and in pursuits that didn’t leave me feeling yucky.

An example: there’re weekend nights I’d go out then have too much to drink. On the drive home, I’d tell GB to stop the car every half mile so I could throw up on the side of the road. Then I’d take three working days recovering. 


No more of that nonsense.

Now I have only two doubles of Singleton whiskey and chase it with water. I eat less food and I eat better. I take my supplements. I treat myself to an early bedtime and arise with my body clock, no alarm.

I spend a lot more time hanging with my kids, Muna and Njeeh. 

I buy fewer things. 

I play the piano. 

I created a disciplined routine for my work and take Thursdays off. 

You catch my drift…

Wholesome has become my lifestyle. 

(By the way, I was asked, ‘Where does this word-of-the-year come from, Bett?’ I don’t know about other people but for me, the words present themselves when I’m journaling. My spirit tells me what it needs; I must be still enough to listen and brave enough to obey.)

My word for 2023 is Overdrive.

My two books have unlocked new opportunities for me as a writer and creative. As an urban brand. I’d honestly not foreseen them. 

I know that if I adjust my sails to where the wind is blowing, these opportunities will translate to wealth.

Last Friday, I listed all the work I’m already doing and all the new opportunities – potential and realised – knocking at my door.

I asked myself, ‘What am I taking up here and what am I dropping?’

The response, ‘None – we go into overdrive and smartly pursue them all.’

#craftit #urbanguide
  • Years ago, my best friend said to me, ‘Bett, we’re almost 40 – forget makeup, let’s take care of our skin instead.’

I had to laugh because this was coming from Terry. Terry my Kisii pal, this fine gyal with skin the colour of honey, the only practising SDA in my circle. 

Terry had spent her 20s and early 30s sleek with Arimis. That’s right, the milking jelly with a lactating cow on its logo. 

Arimis addressed all her skin pickles back then. It was her problem fixer. Her Olivia Pope. It’s the one thing that always said, It’s handled.

Now here she was preaching to us about a consistent skincare regimen in the AM and PM.


It wasn’t until Terry shared her selfies on our girls WhatsApp group that I stopped laughing. It wasn’t until we stood next her – and took these selfies – that I reeally stopped laughing: Terry’s skin was youthful and toned, plump. Hydrated. Moistured but not shiny. 

It looked like it had been kissed by the Greek goddess of radiance. 

So we gathered around her feet and said, ‘Forgive us, master. We are ready now. Teach us everything you know.’

She did. 

Terry and I now spend plenty of time before work and before bed squeezing out little portions of expensive skincare products from expensive tubes, we layer them on our face in a calculated measure.

This serum here is for the circles under my eyes and the fine lines around my mouth.

Turns out I’ve been giving away too much of my face: I’ve been looking too hard, laughing too easily.

I’ll have to spend the next year into my 40s with my eyes half shut and laughing little. I'll have a resting bitch face.

Don’t blame me, blame the retinol.

And age.

#craftit #urbanguide #urbangirl
  • I’m Bett. I’m the author of your favourite books about money. I’m hosting an in-person event in March, Inshallah: This is my personal invite to you.

#craftit #moneymaker #moneyinkenya
  • I am hosting my first money event this March, Inhsallah. It’s the first of quarterly events I have planned for the year. 

(Give me a moment here so I pull myself together long enough to write this. I’m smiling very hard right now, ha-ha, I look like a donkey.)


The event will be in-person. On a Saturday morning, a loose three hours which, I am certain, you’d have burned on some other pursuit you couldn’t account for later. (I’d probably be oiling the hinges of a squeaky door or decluttering my sock drawer.)

My guest host for this edition is Lynet Kyalo. 

Lynet is a personal finance coach under her brand @financialfitbit She also hosts @getyourbagrightpodcast 

Buy your tickets from our Market.

Early bird tickets are discounted until the end of this month.

Limited slots available. 

#craftit #millenialmoney #moneyevent #moneymaker
  • Sometimes I sit down and read my own book. 

Odd, huh?

Reading my own stories is like an out-of-body experience. Or getting introduced to myself again. An outward journey inward.

It’s fascinating.

I also read because I need to improve my writing for my next project.

We call them the Elements of Craft: things like sentence structure and punctuation, word placement, story length etc, they all inform your reading experience.

This is what makes the book easy to read, and has you turning the pages.

Cop your autographed copy and #betteryourmoney 

#craftit #howmuch #millenialmoney #moneymaker

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