“Trust,” he said, “lose that, and you’re done.” He giggled, then turned muttering, “You’re done…”
Two had whispered about trust broken. “I’m nothing without it,” one said, a guilty party. He scratched his head, and the second said, “That’s why it has to remain hidden.”
A third listened as he busied. He smiled, giggled, and busied. When he couldn’t hold it, the third, he said, “I understand you.”
I looked at him, the third. Doubted if he did. I turned to the two, and the third went on. “Trust,” he said, “lose that, and you’re done.” He giggled, then turned muttering, “You’re done…” He busied on, saying, “Nobody can rely on you anymore. Believe you easily. Your credibility, gone. And trust lost may never be regained.”
He laughed, the third, and the two agreed. “Never!” He added as he busied, then said to my smile. “So, I do… understand… you.” I looked at him, and I believed him, but not the two. “Watch it with that thing, trust.” He finalized, the third.
Benson Langat is a poet, fiction writer, and freelancer. A dreamer, he realizes a world of possibilities through stories and explores life in poetry. Benie is a dad and lives in Nairobi, Kenya.