There were signs he liked me. An invitation here, a late-night text there. The excitement, smiles and sincerity — all of which I was too clueless to notice.
“Yes, yes!” he would text, colourful, bawdy emojis punctuating his terse ripostes. Classic sanguine. So this is what men want, I thought to myself. Not litigation. Just someone to sit and listen and say “Mm hmmm” occasionally.
Prima facie, he was just what the doctor ordered. But like everything else in my life, I am not fond of rules. Much less melancholic prescriptions. It’s either too much or too little. No what-ifs.
Pearls before swine, he was (really) a nice guy. The streets had lost an important one. Gentle. Funny. Fun — which believe you me are two different things. He was a knight in shining armour looking for his damsel in distress. But I belong to the streets, not his sheets.
I replied his jokes with 💯. And ‘Haha, nice one.’
It was a cynical approach, but when I, newly single, applied it to dating, it got fantastic results. “Mm hmmm, and then what?” I said, and got back: “You are an amazing conversationalist. I could talk to you for hours.”
Is this it? I thought to myself. Is this all?
It was not all, not for me.
– Keshy, 23. Umoja.