There’s this chic currently crashing with me in my digs; has been, actually, for close to a week now. Big boobs, big ass, huge set of front teeth, horrible walking style, terrible laughter. And, before you guys get your knickers in a twist, No, I ain’t smashing. Let me explain how it went down;
Last week, late Wednesday evening, the boys and I are leaving class, right? Then one of us asks, “One for the road?” and, as usual, we go “Hell yeah.” Because, you know, we’re boys; we never turn down a drink. Alafu, circa 11 p.m. hapo, I decide enough is enough, donge? So I walk away from the table and stagger towards the pad; drunk out of my senses, seeing double, humming along to something by Drake. [Also, I don’t know why, but every time I’m drunk, I just find myself listening to Drake; his music just makes you feel younger and emotional and prettier for no reason.]
Anyway, a block away from the pad I meet this chic. We hug, exchange a few pleasantries, then I ask her, “So where are you headed?” This, ladies and gentlemen, will turn out to be the worst mistake I have made in a long time; only second to that time I asked a chips funga to stay home for breakfast. But, in my defence, if you’re gonna screw someone on the kitchen slab, the least you can do is send them away on a full stomach, No? I mean, it’s like dangling candy in a child’s face and then shoving it down your own throat; you’ll look like an asshole. I was just trying to be nice.
She says, “Actually, I lost my keys today so I’m just walking around hoping I’ll spot it somewhere or get a place to spend the night.” She looks torn, confused even, and broken. Now, because I’m a nice guy [refer to chips funga story above] I blurt out, “Look you can spend the night at my place and figure your shit out tomorrow.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how a bachelor got his ass into a situantionship.
It’s been five days now, and this chic is still here. I leave the digs every day at 8 a.m. in the morning and she remains in bed, I come back around 10 p.m. and find her watching a movie from my laptop…still in bed. She doesn’t even get up to brush her fucking teeth. I know this because we, out of poor judgment, kissed last night and I almost puked in my mouth. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing; she was stoned, I was hammered, I slid into the sheets and she started playing footsie with me, next thing I know her tong’ue is down my throat. I stopped it [not because I didn’t want to hit it, but because of her breath, man, I have never smelled anything more disgusting in my life] Later on, she leant close to my ear and whispered, “Hey, you know what, I kind of like you.” I know I should have been flattered, but, instead, I felt like someone was chasing me down the street with a rotten sack of oranges, screaming, “Eat it! Eat it! You have to eat it!” I pushed her away and she caught feelings. Now she’s giving me the silent treatment, like we’re a couple having a fight or some shit.
This chic doesn’t clean jack; just eats and leaves the dishes on the table, doesn’t even bother taking them to the sink. I house her, feed her, clothe her [did I mention she also wears my t-shirts?] and she can’t even do the bloody dishes? Warrathese?!
My place looks like a pig sty now; filthy as fuck. I own one pair of sandals that I shower in; she wears them outside the house and when she comes back, she still walks around in them. She says the floor is too cold, kwani her feet are made of…what…candy? They’ll melt off if they come into contact with a cold floor? GetTheFuckOuttaHere!
She has made no effort at all – since she got here – to look for a way of getting back to her house. My boys have told me nabebwa ufala, that there’s no way she lost her keys. They think she got kicked out of her place [maybe she smoked her rent] and now she’s dead broke and she has nowhere else to stay, so she cooked up this cock-and-bull nonsense about her key because she knew some mofo [who turned out to be me] would listen. What amazes me is the fact that she has no shred of shame at all, juzi I’m going to get myself some breakfast [I hardly take breakfast, but when I do, my budget never exceeds 50 baab] and you know what she tells me? She goes, “Get me some rock-cake and a glass of juice while you’re at it.” Doesn’t hand me cash, just a long hard stare.
First things first, guys, what in the friggin’ hell is rock-cake? Do they make cake out of rocks too these days? Those sneaky bastards. And how does that even taste like? Is it crunchy or…you know…rocky? Secondly, juice for breakfast, where the fuck does this chic think she is, the land of milk and honey? This is a bachelor’s pad; the most exquisite meal here is Chapo-Madondo [because it’s the only food which requires a spoon]. Thirdly, who the fuck are you sending woman?
Okay, that’s it, I’m done. Mimi I’ve had enough of this room-mate manenos, I want her out of my house. I don’t care if it takes a tractor or the whole bloody police force to drag her out; I don’t care if I have to shoot her in the eyes and toss her lifeless body in the trash can; I don’t care if I go to jail after this, I just want her ass out of my house. Somebody, anybody, please, help me!