Of Kitchen Knives, Love, and Other Dangerous Things

Image of a bloodstained kitchen knife.  Photo/Getty images

They say the kitchen knife is the most dangerous weapon in the house. I disagree—it ties neck-and-neck with love. And unfortunately, both can kill. One cuts through flesh, the other, through sanity. In Sheila’s case, I still don’t know which of the two wielded the deadlier blow.

Sheila—oh Sheila. Bubbly, brilliant, a walking burst of joy in this grey thing we call life. She had the kind of smile that could negotiate world peace. You couldn’t not like her. And now, we speak of her in the past tense, which feels like a betrayal in itself.

She was just 24. Young enough to dream, but apparently old enough to die for love.

“If love doesn’t feel safe, it’s not love—it’s emotional hostage-taking with chocolates.”

I met Sheila about a year ago. But like all great souls, she had this habit of fast-tracking friendships. In three days you’d feel like you shared a womb. She listened like a therapist, laughed like a child, and made you believe the world wasn't such a bad place after all.

But then there was the boyfriend. Let’s just call him Mr. Red Flag Factory.

The first time I saw him, they were already in a heated exchange—over nothing, mind you. His anger always seemed just one missed text away. A friend pulled me aside and casually dropped, “Oh don’t worry, they always fight like this. Everyone’s used to it.”

Used to it. As if normalizing public warfare in a relationship is a feature, not a bug.

“Normalize walking away from toxic love, not adjusting to it like a Wi-Fi password.”

Time passed. Sheila and I grew close. She had a way of making you feel heard, not just listened to. She was sunshine disguised as a person.

Then came that cursed night.

We had hung out earlier—laughing, teasing, sipping on cheap soda, making mockery of adulting and rent. She looked happier than usual. Maybe it was her soul’s way of saying goodbye without making it obvious.

Later that night, she and Mr. Red Flag got into it again. Neighbours heard the usual noise. Doors banging, voices rising, furniture being restructured. But no one acted. After all, this was their love language. Toxic, bilingual in drama and denial.

What they didn’t expect was silence.

A blood-chilling, soul-emptying silence.

Turns out, in a moment of rage (or what he might call “passion”), the boyfriend allegedly stabbed Sheila in the stomach with a kitchen knife. Yes, the same one meant for onions and tomatoes. Then, like a true coward, he locked the door, went drinking, and only returned the next day—to find the mess he had made no longer breathing.

“Real men don’t raise their hands on women. They raise standards, expectations, and...children.”

He later surrendered to police and is scheduled to face murder charges. I hope the court throws more than just the book at him—maybe the whole damn library.

So, what do we make of this?

We mourn. We remember. But we must also reflect.

Ladies, gents, and everyone in between—love isn’t supposed to feel like a horror film. If you find yourself fighting more than flirting, walking on eggshells more than dancing in the kitchen, run. And I don’t mean power-walk. I mean Olympic sprint.

“When love starts hurting more than healing, it’s not love—it’s self-sabotage wrapped in a red bow.”

Now, every time I see a kitchen knife, I flinch. Every time someone says “love conquers all,” I whisper back, “Except a stab wound.”

Rest in power, Sheila. You deserved more. More laughter, more time, more life. And definitely more love—the good kind. The kind that doesn’t come with body bags.

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About the Author

Felix Kinyua is a freelance journalist with a background in Communication and Media, and a Master’s degree in Public Policy and Administration. He writes with heart, humor, and purpose—shedding light on social issues, untold stories, and everyday experiences that shape our world.