“Just One Little Fix”

It started with a broken mug.

A simple accident. A chipped ceramic handle. A moment of distraction.

But for Diane Mbugua, the broken mug represented more than a kitchen mishap. It was the first crack in the carefully constructed façade of her new life.

The mug had a name on it—Michael—painted in blue cursive with a tiny, smiling coffee bean beside it. A dumb novelty gift from her boyfriend. A dumb mug he loved.

Diane didn’t mean to drop it. She’d only just moved in last week. It was 6:43 a.m., she hadn’t slept, and her left eye was twitching from the stress of adapting to Michael’s intense organizational system. The kitchen had labeled shelves. The spices were alphabetized. The forks were separated by tine length.

She didn’t belong in this kind of order.

She didn’t belong at all.

So when the mug slipped and shattered, she froze.

Her first instinct: hide it.

Her second: fix it.

The third, most dangerous idea came last: He never has to know it was broken at all.

She swept up the shards with exaggerated care and sealed them in a ziplock bag like it was evidence in a murder trial. Then, she remembered the tube of superglue in the drawer. She retrieved the biggest fragments and started piecing the mug back together like an ancient archaeologist trying to reassemble a priceless vase.

An hour later, the mug looked… functional. Sort of. She turned it slowly in her hands.

From a distance, it was passable. Up close? It looked like Frankenstein’s latte chalice.

“Close enough,” she muttered.

But the handle was crooked. Not obviously—but just enough that you’d notice if you were the kind of person who alphabetized your spices.

Which Michael was.

So Diane made a plan. She’d place the mug on the second shelf behind his travel thermos. He only used it on weekends. By the time he noticed, they’d be stable enough to laugh about it.

It was a tiny fix.

No big deal.

Right?

Except.

Michael came home from work early. With flowers.

"Hey babe, big news!" he shouted.

Panic. Diane froze mid-scroll on her phone. The mug was still drying on the windowsill.

“Don’t come into the kitchen!” she blurted.

He peeked around the corner. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Surprise… meal prep?”

“You don’t cook.”

“I'm evolving?”

She scrambled to block his view, knocking the mug clean off the sill.

Time slowed.

The mug flew like a wounded bird. Hit the edge of the sink. Shattered—again—this time into dust.

Michael stared.

Diane stared.

Then she did something inexplicable.

She screamed, “It just fell on its own!”

Ten minutes later, Michael was sitting silently at the kitchen table, staring at the fragments of his beloved mug now wrapped in a dishtowel.

Diane paced.

“It’s just a mug,” she said too cheerily.

“It was the first gift my sister gave me when I got sober.”

Cue the guilt.

The kind that wraps around your spine like a cold hand.

She’d forgotten. Or hadn’t known. Or hadn’t listened well enough when he’d told her.

She swallowed. “I’ll fix it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s dust.”

“I’ll replace it.”

“It was custom-made. She had it painted.”

“I’ll… find the artist.”

“You don’t even know her name.”

Diane hesitated. “Not yet.”

She spent the next two hours deep-diving through Michael’s Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn, searching for the sister who'd gifted the mug. Her name was Candice, but she’d changed her username to @SoulBloomCeramics.

Found her.

She ran a boutique pottery studio in Loresho. Very exclusive. Very spiritual.

Diane messaged her:

Hi! I broke Michael’s mug. Total accident. Could I pay for a replacement? I’d love to surprise him.

No reply.

She messaged again an hour later.

Still no reply.

By 3 a.m., she was on her sixth message and had followed the studio account, Candice’s personal account, and even her dog’s account.

Still, nothing.

So Diane did the only thing that made sense to her desperate, sleep-deprived brain.

She showed up at the studio.

It was closed. Obviously.

But it was also… unlocked?

She peeked in. The space was dark, cozy, filled with rows of drying pottery. Candice's signature mugs with cute little faces lined the shelves. The one with a smiling coffee bean—identical to the broken one—sat right there on a display pedestal.

Diane panicked.

She wasn't a thief.

She was fixing a mistake.

She stepped inside.

"I’ll leave cash. Or a note. Or an apology cupcake."

She tiptoed past a row of vases and reached for the mug. It was heavier than she expected. Glossier, newer. She held it up, victorious.

And knocked over a shelf.

With a sound like a thousand clay souls screaming, an entire rack of drying pottery collapsed.

One mug bounced, flew, and shattered against the studio wall.

The noise brought movement.

Footsteps.

A dog barked.

Lights flipped on.

“Who's there?!”

Diane bolted out the back door, mug in hand, adrenaline in her throat, heart beating like a drum solo.

She had not left a note.

Or the cupcake.

Michael found her the next morning lying on the couch, cradling the stolen mug like a newborn.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“I fixed it.”

“That’s not the same one.”

“Technically, it is. Same artist. Same design.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you break into my sister’s studio?”

“Break in is such a strong phrase.”

“You committed pottery larceny!”

“I left 1,000 shillings under a coaster.”

“That’s not how laws work, Diane!”

He paced, fuming.

She stood, heart pounding. “I just wanted to fix things, Mike. I messed up. I panicked. I didn’t know the mug meant so much to you.”

He stared at her.

“You know what? Keep it. As evidence.”

He walked out.

For the next two days, Diane heard nothing.

On day three, Candice posted a grainy security video.

To the woman who broke into my studio and stole my mug…

Return it. Or I go to the police.

Also, you owe me a cupcake.

It went viral.

Diane made the mistake of reading the comments.

“This is why we can’t have nice things.”

“Typical mug-snatcher behavior.”

“Someone check on her dog. I bet she took the leash too.”

She panicked again.

She couldn’t return the mug. That would be admitting guilt.

So instead… she tried to cover it up.

She drove to Karatina and signed up for a “Beginner Ceramics in a Day” workshop.

Her plan: make an exact replica of the stolen mug, return it, then “discover” the original and apologize.

Easy.

Except pottery was hard.

Her mug looked like a melted mushroom.

She tried again.

And again.

On attempt five, she added the smiley bean. It looked like a kidney in distress.

Her instructor, a man named Amos who wore clay-stained Crocs and had no patience for nonsense, stared at her work.

“Why are you sweating so much?” he asked.

“No reason,” Diane whispered.

She brought the replica to Candice’s studio at midnight and slipped it through the mail slot in a paper bag.

Inside was a note.

Found this outside. Hope it helps. Love, Anonymous.

(PS: Sorry about your vases.)

Then she threw the original into the Nairobi River.

Symbolism.

Closure.

Done.

Except it wasn’t done.

The replica mug was made of low-quality clay and collapsed on impact.

Candice posted again.

To the person who returned the haunted kidney mug—this isn’t funny anymore. Police have been notified.

Diane hyperventilated.

She decided to come clean to Michael.

She told him everything.

The lie.

The theft.

The river.

The second lie.

Michael didn’t laugh.

He didn’t speak.

He just stared at her for a full minute, then said, “I think we should take a break.”

Two weeks later, Diane got a letter from a law firm.

Candice was pressing charges.

The letter ended with a P.S.

If you’re going to steal art, at least respect the craftsmanship.

Diane now attends weekly pottery classes. It’s part of her community service.

She still hasn’t mastered the smiling coffee bean. But her latest mug, shaped like a startled turtle, won second place in a local art show for “Unintentional Expressionism.”

She sometimes sees Michael at the supermarket. He nods politely but never stops to talk.

Candice started a new mug series titled “Mugshot: The Series.” The first piece is a terrifying sculpture of Diane holding a dripping ceramic kidney.

It’s sold out.