Victoria Sabula is no longer running. Not from the poverty-stricken girl in the village. Not from the girl who had a child at 17. Not even for fun. Maybe to her family, or husband, whom she beams uxoriously about—the one God kept for her, the one who zigs her zag, dots her i’s, yins her yang. “Hubby and I,” she keeps saying. She seems to love him with a power that can pry her ribs apart, I can tell. “He’s my high priest.” It is a romantic high noon, and I put on my armour as I sense Cupid pulling his bow.
“I am very strong-willed, but my husband isn’t threatened.” Her husband is no slouch either, he’s the CEO of the Kenya Association of Travel Agents.
