There’s this chic I dated almost two years ago. We went out for a month or two before I called it quits, I couldn’t keep up with her theatrics anymore. She was way too demanding for my liking. She wanted to see me every second of the day, and when we weren’t together, we had to be texting. Sometimes I’d be getting toasted with the boys so I wouldn’t pick her calls. And then she’d call one of my boys and tell him to ask me to pick her damn calls and my boy would tap me on the shoulder and be like, “Boss, it’s time for your curfew.” And everyone in the bar would burst out laughing. Do you guys know how embarrassing that shit is?
Here’s the thing, and I’ve said this a thousand times, mimi I’m just not built for relationships. There’s only one mami I ever went out with for more than a year; and that was just because it was a long distance thing. Okay, I like you, big deal. But I don’t want to see your face every day, I don’t want to talk to your ass every passing minute, and, for crying out loud, I don’t want you to tag me in all your bloody Facebook photos.
So this mami – the one from two years ago – calls me some time back in the middle of the night and goes, “Hey, Hello, it’s Carol. You asleep?” I say, “No. I was up making out with my cat. Which Carol is this, again?” She giggles kidogo then says;
“We went out back in the day. Remember?”
“Oh, Yeah. What’s up?”
“Uhmm. Do you have a minute? To talk?”
“Sorry, can’t talk right now. Told you, I’m making out with my cat.”
“But I really want to talk to you?”
“About what? Are you dying? Do you have HIV? Shit, you have HIV don’t you?”
*Another giggle* “Hells No! I just really need to talk to you.”
“About what then?”
“Can we meet up?”
“I don’t think so, I’m pretty busy siku hizi.” *Yeah, right. Because running a blog is a job these days.*
“Well, do you think you can squeeze fifteen minutes for coffee soon? My tab. For old times’ sake.”
“Uhmmm. Okay. I’ll see what I can do and let you know.”
“Great. How’ve you been anyway?”
“Just fine. Look…uhmm…gotta go, my cat’s starting to get real jealous here.”
“Hehe. Okay then, tuck tight.” [Hold up, tuck tight? Who the hell still says tuck tuck tight? What are we, in high school? Do you still have an auto-book? Do you still sign off your letters with ‘Dedix’? Are you still looking for the value of ‘x’?]
Of course, I wasn’t going to call her back. Hell, I didn’t even save her number. I mean, what was there to meet and talk about? My newfound love for whiskey? That people think I’m nuts? Whether she still leaves the toilet seat up? What she thinks of Moses Kuria? Whatever happened to that tattoo of a rose flower on her right butt cheek? Is it wrinkled now? C’mon.
Then a few Saturdays ago I’m drinking in town with my bro and his boys. They’ve bought a crate-and-a-half of beer and I’m on my fifth bottle so I’m probably not thinking straight. There’s this mami beside me who keeps asking us to pose for selfies and, even though we hate that shit, we smile and say “cheese” because she’s with the chap that bought the beer. And when someone buys you a crate of beer, he owns your ass. He will ask you what you think of the mami he brought and you will say, “Ah, she can gerrit mate” when what you really want to say is, “What is that on her head? Because that’s not hair, Boss.”
I log into WhatsApp and, besides those thousands of group texts, there’s a text from some unsaved number. It says, “Hey. So…about that coffee, say, Monday afte?” And because I’m already drunk out of my hoots, I say, “Sure” without even bothering to check who the text is from. Come Monday noon I’m at the digs, chilling, watching some Jennifer Lopez movie which is not really great but I love me some J-Lo so who cares. Then my phone rings and the caller goes, “Hey, I’m already in town. What time will you be here?” I’m like, “Huh?” and she says, “Uhmm, we were to meet in town today. Remember?” Now, because she’s already in town, and I’m a nice guy, I say, “Yeah. Gimme twenty.”
We meet at Heritage Grill along Moi Avenue. They have the best kuku choma in town – after Ranalo, of course – and an amazing wi-fi signal strength. She’s seated next to the counter, in a pink crop top and black tights and shoes I wouldn’t give to my worst enemy as a dying gift, fiddling with her phone, a bottle of ice-cold Black Ice before her. She looks good (besides the shoes). She looks beautiful, let me just get that out of the way.
“So, what do you do these days?” She asks, after the usual pleasantries.
“Well, you know me, skinning sheep and torching women weave. Nothing much. You?”
“I’m in the Fashion Industry, trying to climb up.”
[ *Inner Voice* Hehe. Sweetheart, with those shoes, the only thing you need to be climbing is back down to the rocks from which you came, because this is 2016, not the zombie apocalypse. ]
“Aha. Good for you. Good for you. So what did you want to talk about?”
“I miss you, Ian. Do you miss me?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me. Do you miss me?”
*Trying to dodge topic* “Look, nice shoes, where’d you get those?”
“I made them.”
*Now it makes sense.* “Well, good for you.”
“Do you ever think about us?”
“So how’s the Fashion business anyway? Versace released any more of those hideous leather t-shirts yet? If, Yes, where can I find them before they hit the market…so I can burn them down.”
“I know what you’re doing, Ian. You’re trying to evade the topic. Stop doing that.”
“Look, why did you call me out here? Because it certainly wasn’t to ask me if I miss the sex.”
“Like I said, I miss you. And…I want us to try it again. Fresh start.”
*This is where I ordered a double, on the rocks.*
Let me tell you something about this mami here; when we dated, first of all, she couldn’t cook for shit. Her meat tasted like birth control pills (don’t ask me how I know what birth control pills taste like) ground up and wrapped in plasticine then dipped in a bucket of wall paint; her Ugali looked like the bloody pyramids of Egypt; her Pilau had the stench of a thousand dying raccoons; and, please, ladies, when you put before me Chapos the shape of Mississippi, I just can’t take you seriously. On top of all that, she would insist on giving me massage as foreplay when what she was really doing could be classified under ‘Crimes Against Humanity’; she had palms so rough they could halt a moving tractor. Also, guys, indulge me this, it’s Okay when a man goes to the loo and leaves it smelling like a garbage truck, right? But what if a woman goes in there and three seconds later you hear sounds of what you can only equate to bazooka shots and when she leaves the whole house smells like a goddamn farting ground for the walking dead, huh? Would you even be remotely Okay with that shit? Would you still kiss her on the lips and bite an apple served by those hands after that?
So I did what any normal man in my position would have done; I downed my whiskey, stood up and asked. “You said you got the bill, right?” and walked right out those doors, like how Denzel Washington smoothly strolls out of a scene of crime after dodging a bullet; feeling like a million bucks and shit.
Guys, we’re so close to bagging the 2016 OLX SOMA Award for New Blogger Personality right about now. I can almost feel it flowing through my veins. We’re headed to the final week of voting, put on your game face now and keep voting as many times as you can these few final days.
See you on the other side.