I’ll come back to that.
Happy new year. I missed you too… I’m late, I know. There are no niceties to exchange, we’re saving time this year. Over my three-month hiatus, I became extremely rich, and now I don’t talk poor. Niceties are the hallmark of poverty. There is a reason why people in remote places have time to ask you everything about the four squares of your homestead including how your crop is. Poverty. It’s brutal but it’s true. Unlike everything else in my life, this is not a lie. Also, in the journalism hierarchy, the better you are, the more sunlight you’re allowed to see. It explains my daytime absence and general absence in life. I would rather shove a beer bottle up my urethra than explain to you all where I have been and you will have to do with the lie I have come up with. In reality, I don’t particularly like excitement. I aspired to a boring life and I achieved it, making it the lone success in my otherwise unbroken chain of failures.
If you’re in love, or in a fantastic relationship, if you believe in soap-opera and fairy tale level romance, if you’re overly religious and act like God speaks to you on Messenger, if you don’t like my type of humour, and if reading any profanities makes you feel violated, if you think writing any profanities against a lady is misogynistic… Stop reading. Take a Bible and spend your time better. Since this spells the end of you reading this blog, I wish you a great day and a fantastic life ahead. If you read on and still complain, go into the nearest supermarket, buy a liquid detergent and sip it thrice. Lie on your bed and rest in peace. Thanks.
Now, to my point…
Take my advice, I am trash. I want to make one thing clear for any one who might be wondering out there: I’m a dick. A proper, full on, vein infested, blood pumped male genitalia. It explains why I have exactly 5 friends. Ladies, kindly, as a matter of concern, don’t have a crush on me. Don’t be confused by how I write my words here, to make you think I’ll weave you into romance in the same way…. No. I can write about love but can’t give it like that. I am as toxic as they come, first because I like spending 85% of my time by myself. I enjoy my own company and the sound of my voice, which means that 12 hours after seeing you, I suddenly feel like my living room is getting smaller and will make up the dumbest excuse like “the plumber likes working naked so we have to leave” just to kick you out. I cannot do a proper fist bump; usually we have an odd moment where the other person brings a fist forward and I stretch my hands with my palm open, then I have to switch it to a fist but it’s too late because his palm is equally open, then we switch again and I just leave them hanging in my confusion when I decide to say my pleasantries by mouth with my hands in my pocket. Toxic. I won’t allow you to take a piece of my food in a restaurant because I bought you what you ordered and my sexuality is threatened by you putting your hands in what I ordered. I speak to my mother three times or more in a day and will text you once in four or five days… You will get angry, and think that I like you less when I am actually just trash. I love my job more than I love myself; basically that means if you’re expecting a meal in my house, you need to carry it with you from wherever you’re coming from. I never have vacations… So if you plan on basking naked on the beach after knockout pornography level bouts of sex with your dream man, look far away from me. I cannot discern between love and ‘kicking it’ and I end up breaking a lot of hearts out here. Statistically, I’m responsible for 0.0024% of our National Heartbreak index, which is a fairly huge number if you do the math. So don’t. I’m a wrecking cupid bomb, an overgrown man child who will lead you to be a motivational speaker. I am a terrible man, and at age 45, I will be alone with my dog whom I shall name Pablo. Avoid me. This is not a result of how I was parented. I received the best parenting, and still receive it. Overachieving parents want you to believe the harder you work, the better your kid will turn out. That lie ends now. The truth is most kids end up remarkably unremarkable no matter what you do.
But, even Satan needs to get laid sometimes. I believe strongly that his interference in the garden of Eden was more about realizing they got played in heaven. I’ve never heard of a female Angel, and I’ve read the Bible properly. I cannot raise these questions in a Bible study session because 97% of people in such gatherings believe that I am an indifferent fuck who cannot take other people’s opinion. It is true. So Satan saw that God had created a woman, something he had not seen, and was like “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK…”. He later went into the garden of Eden to get laid but realised the only way to get it was by making the lady eat the apple, since Adam and Eve were two naked beings who had no idea what genitalia could do. The apple is a symbolic representation of Satan’s male genitalia. I’m sorry but that’s just me. So even Satan needs some… the easiest route is hitting a club or sliding into DMs randomly and apply your high school knowledge of differentiation, integration and probability. First, I don’t have a Mercedes. Men who go to such entertainment joints with Mercedes Benz vehicles just need to beep their alarm and things happen. Also, I have a very unattractive table in a pub. There is nothing expensive, and Del Monte is not quite the conversation starter. I cannot slide into any DM because single women will block a poor man while he is still typing. So I joined a site called Tinder.
Although it’s impossible to possess an accurate judgment of everyone’s true feelings about it, the general tenor of this generation seems to be that Tinder is an Algorithm created for an age where sex has been completely disconnected from norms of fidelity and courtship. At work and at play, men and women spend their hours gazing at their phones, continually swiping left or right, dividing potential sex partners into two categories (Yes or No) on the basis of a snapshot. A handful of messages later — for some the exchanges consist entirely of pre-verbal flirtation conducted with emojis, for others it includes photographs of genitalia that serve as a kind of second interview. In summary, the goal is sex. And maybe dating and marriage if you find the good 2.406%. Simple, direct effective. God created man to create Tinder for us toxic humans who have abhorrent social skills to get laid.
I looked for all my fire photos, created an account, paid for premium because I believed I’ll get premium stuff and started swiping. I’m picky, and I’m direct. So anyone with an account reading “Not here for blah blah blah, looking for friendship” was swiped left without second thought. If you are looking for friendship, go to a social gathering. Anyone who matched the taste was swiped right. Also note that I avoid conversation with people because a lot of people I talk to are highly more qualified and intelligent than me. I did a college course that was deregistered by the Commission for University Education and that speaks a lot. When people I converse with speak, I end the conversation quickly because I understood some of what they said, mostly words like “however” and “the.” So I needed something quick and direct.
I swiped for 3 weeks. No hits, no returns. Nobody wanted me. Then BAM!!! Prime. “You have a match”. Her name was Ella. I had grand elaborate plans. I took some time looking for an opening line. Note that I have very little romantic creativity in me; My most abundant resource is excuses. I did my math, did the sign of the cross and told God that if it fails it’s okay. Deep down I knew it wasn’t. I went ahead…
“You have a beautiful mane…” I said.
I even used the word mane where other regular normal mortal men would have said “Long hair”. Despite my vocabulary prowess and abundance, she did not respond. I’m used to this. Women bluetick me and respond when they want to. I always console myself by telling myself “I’m still alive”. Three days later, she responded.
“Thanks, but it feels terrible when it’s hot.”
I don’t know what that means. Guys often complain about being hot, while girls generally complain about everything. This conversation needed a proper way forward, preferably one that would lead to it being steamy and flirtatious. So I went on…
“Yeah, must be a problem then because that’s what you are…”
Don’t tell me anything guys, I was on a roll here. I had thrown the hottest line in the digital dating Southern hemisphere. I have trouble keeping my core body temperature under control even when I am anxious and excited. Most nights when I am about to watch an Arsenal match I don’t cover up at all, and I keep a towel nearby just in case my sweating gets out of hand. I once fell asleep under a comforter before we played Red Star Belgrade and nearly died of dehydration. So I was sweating.
“Well thanks (Smiley Face emoji with hearts around the face. Can’t tell whether it means she’s smiling at the love or whether she is in love and smiling). Then I have a problem for life…” She responded.
I wasn’t sure whether Ella was into me yet or not. I had landed a heavy romantic vibe there but she left me without a compliment. Either I look terrible or my selected photos weren’t clear enough. But I knew where I was headed and decided to soldier on…
“Maybe to you, but it won’t be for me…” I said.
Ella did not respond for five days. I had an emotional fit about it which means I unmatched her and deleted the app from my phone entirely. After that I joined on in the daily routine of toxic people by going on to Twitter and hating on everything posted about love and sharing breakup and cheating quotes.
This is the point where I’m supposed to share the wisdom I gained by surviving another disappointing attempt at finding a rhythmic muscular contraction in the pelvic region characterized by coital pleasure. There are none. I’m just better able to recognize my own shortcomings as I age, or perhaps I really am losing brain cells at a dangerous rate. It was not Ella’s mistake. If anything, that is someone’s daughter saved from toxic masculinity. It was Tinder’s mistake. Tinder should make it loud and direct that the sole purpose of their existence is matching bedmates. Love is an added incentive, but not the main. It would make it simpler and easier. So yeah, screw Tinder.
Having said that, kindly note that this incident happened months ago. I have since dedicated my life to serving the Apostolic Nunciature. I believe strongly that when the day of Pentecost comes, Jesus will be seated at the right hand of the father, and I will be seventh behind him after Ezekiel Mutua, distributing leaflets of the celebration Concert which will be going down behind Angel Gabriel’s yard. I share the Facebook posts that say “Share this and God will bless you” and the motivational Jesus quotes on WhatsApp.
Enjoy your week.
Before I end this post, I would like to pay tribute to a friend of mine who passed on in February. He is not here to read this post. Michael ‘Daddy Kul’ Kulundu. He died in an accident. I was pained and am pained. I wake up sometimes and feel very afraid that death became so real. Kulundu now knows what it feels like being dead, and it pains me. But I am not writing this for sympathy, painful as it was. I am writing this to acknowledge the life of a man who tried and did it well. A man who lived life and made sense of it. A man you met and made an immediate impression. Anyone who will read this post past my own demise will know that there was a man called Kulundu, and that he lived and probably still does in another life. May he rest in peace, even in my heart and those of everyone who knew and encountered him.