Friday, April 9, 2010

Epilogue slash Continuation...

Apparently the quickest way to get over one man is to get under another one. So I hear. The problem with this mantra is that it assumes that there’s a mass of men about just waiting to be flipped into horizontal positions. It also assumes that it is healthy to constantly be in a relationship or chasing one. Which really cannot be healthy, can it. Because most women know that you shouldn’t need a man to validate you, you shouldn’t be pegging all your happiness on just one person, yaddiyaddiyadda. But the truth for most of these women is that men are like chocolate when you’re on a no-sugar diet. It’s probably bad for you in large quantities. You don’t really NEED any. But you definitely do WANT some.

And so here I was, back to the singlehood that I had never really left. It felt familiar; I knew all my neighbours. (It much resembled the gutter.) I spent inordinate amounts of time staring at my phone and wondering why it was so quiet – then remembering that it had no reason to make noise. I hate that stage, when your foot isn’t completely back through the door and you’re trying extremely hard not to let your (semi/pseudo) ex become your rebound, because it is so ridiculously easy to fall back into the pattern that you know oh so well. What clearer path to follow than the path you have already trod.

In a bid to forget my so-called woes (because really, in life, believe it or not, there are much bigger problems than just singlehood), The Girls and I went to get a cuppa at the nearest Java. I listlessly glanced around, expecting the usual crowd – who did not fail to deliver – and of course, JavaGuy.

So JavaGuy is….drumroll….a guy. Who I always see at Java. In my wildest fantasies, he’s a top secret CID agent/international crime lord/fugitive/random guy under a witness protection plan who is now living undercover and trying to mingle with the common rabble as he gets back on track to whatever he’s planning on doing next. Which, because he’s so uberexciting, is very exciting. So he saw me once from a distance and was so enamored by my ephemeral beauty and noticeable wit (as all my friends were conveniently laughing at a joke I just cracked, and saying things like ‘You’re so funny!’ and ‘Wow, you should totally have a stand-up comedy show…’ This is what is supposed to happen in real life.) that he immediately hired his strongmen/other CID buddies/himself to follow me and trace my every move.

The reason this fantasy exists is because every single time I walk into Java, either he’s already there or shows up within 15 minutes. It’s creepy and exciting all at the same time. Although more exciting than creepy, because he’s not a middle-aged Caucasian male, which is the most common standard profile for serial killers.

So of course he was there. And of course our eyes met, because they always do. And of course there was the usual flicker of recognition, and the appreciative up-and-down glance, because, quite frankly, it’s me – and of course there was me walking away, because I knew him. He was the kinda guy who irritates me so very much – check a girl out, raise her hopes then don’t do anything about it, no, never, can’t do that. Punk.

We sat down and he looked my way. I thought DAMNATION. You already know bloody well what I look like. And you clearly don’t have a pair to your name. So I turned around and continued to chop it up with The Girls. Really loudly, as per usual.

At some point, the waiters begun to put up the chairs, and we thought, perhaps that’s our cue to leave. We had been biding our time until they brought us the bill, but they were taking ages, so we grabbed the excuse to not depart. So we called our waitress over and asked for the bill.

“Your bill has been cleared.” We looked at her, confused. We hadn’t paid our bill. What were these words coming out of her mouth? Maybe she was really tired after a long day. But at the same time, she was looking at us as if we had taken a couple of hard knocks as children, or our mochas had been clearly laced. “The gentleman who cleared it left his card, and asked me to give it to you.” And with that, she placed a card on the table and left.

The Girls and I peered at the card as if it was an alien specimen that was the secret to no wrinkles.

“Nice card,” said MM.

“I guess…”I agreed grudgingly.

“Good quality paper is always a plus,” added PK, who has a knack for summarizing a man’s entire fiscal potential by his shoes and whether he orders a double espresso or a single cappuccino.


“Will you call him?”

“Well…..we’ll see.” But really? Call him? Classic move of a man who’d rather be chased than do the chasing. Was I really ready for that?


Ps. Young Kenyans are garnering an obsession with perceived depth through poetry slam sessions and spoken word thingies and the like. But half of the people who perform at these things don’t have friends who tell them they can’t sing/perform/write poetry for sh**. Same thing happened before Caroline Nderitu became ‘famous’. You have been warned.


  1. Tyt stuff :-)

    PS: I toTaLlY agree with your Ps!!!

  2. Hmmmm.... Alright, the card thing wasn't such a bad move, I'll give him props on that.
    And don't stereotype serialkillers, we, I mean they some in all shapes and sizes :P


  3. hehe...i love this...and im not saying it just coz i love you

  4. Weuwee!! Lurv it!

    Me chase a man?? Eh? Wot woz that again??

  5. Good one, Shy Narcissist! what became of this one? Can't wait.
    What a postscript. The truth will set the wannabe poets free.