I honestly have nothing solid to write about this week. I wanted to write a small story on my first time voting and call it “My First Time Voting” but I thought against it. It sounds like those compositions we wrote after school holidays in primary school, and this is a blog, not a composition book.
I also thought about writing something a bit controversial about Martin Kamotho, alias Githeriman, and what I think about his situation but I thought otherwise. We said here we don’t want contentious issues.
As I’ve said, I have been struggling to write this past few weeks. What I didn’t tell you is that I have a working system to combat this problem. I open Word on my computer and swear (and sometimes spit on the keyboard) that I will not close it without putting something down. It has always worked. I did the same after taking a hot shower yesterday. It was 10.07pm when I did it. And then it was 11.15pm before I knew it. All the while, the blinking cursor tormenting me in a stare contest that I was losing, because I still had nothing.
I took a break from the stare game and read Biko’s most recent post, and a Kendrick Lamar interview on Rolling Stone. I responded to a few texts and scrolled through Instagram stories to see people’s Sarahah responses and still, nothing in my head seemed like a worthy story to jot down. I then decided to write down anything that pops into my head first.
My word count is at 370 now and I’m scared I won’t be able to waste your time properly with such a few words. So please allow me to lengthen this post by telling you a pithy story about my most humiliating date.
Picture me, a young eighteen year old with dark pimple spots, bulging chest and a small head sited on top of it. I am in form four and I am full of myself. I think Riddims are cool and Konshens is the greatest artist since Michael Jackson. I am stocky and have the shape of a nude boiled egg and happen to be in a mixed high school.
Before we closed school that term, I had been flirting with this yellow bird two classes lower than I. She was new and I took advantage of this to show her around and buy her a loaf of bread on overcrowded Friday evenings at the canteen. You see, in my school buying loaf for someone was the greatest show of affection. I would sometimes go on to help her with my books to copy similar assignments I had already done in the previous years.
For anonymity purposes, we shall call her Leela, short for the font type I’m using to type this. She was the perfect match for a boy with hormones pullulating through his gonads. She would say short nasty witty statements when we’d meet on lunch breaks that would cause a bulge in my pants. Sometimes, she would go ahead and grab the bulge. She was filthy, Leela.
In no time, we were something close to a couple. Even an intimate session was shared on hard classroom furniture. Happy days.
So we close school and we (she) decide a date would be a great idea. I am not for this idea at all. I am broke from buying chapo smokie at school and there would be no way I would ask the old man for such copious amounts of cash in the holidays.
The day finally comes. I am in loafers, slim jeans, a nice t-shirt and a jacket; I look magnificent to be honest. I arrive a few minutes earlier than her, just to study the place. It’s a decent place. She arrives in quite a skimpy dress (you know adolescents and making bold fashion statements), boots and jacket. She gets a lot of stares from the judging eyes. The waiter comes, we make our order as we prattle on about school and how assignments on holidays is atrocious.
The meal is brought. It’s as sapid as it looks, the drinks too.
The bill is cautiously placed on the table in a beautiful dark-brown leather pouch that is really begging to be stolen. We banter on until it is finally time to leave. I turn the pouch to reveal the hidden receipt. The bill fits perfectly into my budget as planned. Now my mishap comes in here.
We stand to leave and I dig into my pockets to get the cash. There’s nothing. I dig deeper. Nothing. I turn to the other pocket and the emptiness bites me. They’re all empty. I am now panicking and in a quandary. My heart is pounding and my stomach is rumbling. I feel a trickle down my armpit. I let out that tremulous chuckle people do when in trouble. I check my breast pocket and the money’s still elusive.
I don’t even realize my phone’s missing until later that evening. I’m not even sure where exactly I was robbed.
The waiter, seeing my nervous fumbles, comes to check on us but I see through him. He knows what’s going on, he’s about to record an unpaid bill. He has probably seen many people like me that claim to have lost their wallets. They feign worry so much that now he is stoic and cynical in the face of truth. I tell him I dropped my wallet but everything’s fine because I’ve called a friend and he leaves. My dear beautiful now-not-so-nasty-huh? Leela is fretted with a bit of rage lurking somewhere in her eyes. How could he humiliate me like this? I even wore a slutty dress for him! Aargh! She says can pay half but not before she starts crying and causing a scene.
People, you have not had a hard situation on your hands (I found this really funny while editing) until you’ve tried to console a sad-angry girl. You have not lived life until people stare at you in a restaurant thinking how you’re such a dick to your lady and others saying ‘watoto wa siku hizi wameharibika, wanalewa lewa tu’ because they think the girl is drunk.
The long date came to an end when she called her dad and footed the bill. On the upside, there’s nothing anyone can say or do that can embarrass me now.
Later that night in bed, I died of shame and embarrassment.