You don’t see it coming.
It lands on you. You’ve read the jokes online but you cannot relate. I mean you have known this girl for eons—she has no time for gauche simpletons who cannot properly enunciate names. Schmucks who shorten words. People who call biashara, ‘sharas. Raila, RAO. Naivasha, Vasha.
Lately, however, she’s been acting cool. Too cool. She’s not arguing with you. She has been preparing all your favourite meals—I mean when was the last time you had chapos on a Thursday? Chapos on a Thursday? That’s unheard of. It’s like hearing your pastor does not have a scandal. Unheard of.
You test her devils. You even called her Mary instead of Milly and she laughed it off. Too cool. This is not normal. Unheard of.
You scratch your balls because only boys scratch their heads when thinking. Wise men scratch their balls. You visit the shrine and throw stones to see where they land. The chakras concur. There is something fishy going on.
You confront her.
“Babe what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mbona siku izi you are not fighting me?”
You shut up.
“Sylvester Kamau Wandegwa, I said excuse me.”
She has called you by your government name. No ‘babe’. The Geneva convention has been ripped apart. A declaration of war. Let’s talk about gravity for a moment. Not so much the stuff involving Isaac and apples. When your woman is quarrelling and you don’t know what she is yapping about, pulling out your historical misdeeds, masters of reverse psychology, the devil’s hand in torture tactics, boy, that is gravity.
Tail between legs (ahem), your snooty bravado evaporated the moment you stepped into that conversation. You can see the bottom of your jaw dangling beneath your balls. Sweat bubbles above your upper lip. You feel uncertain and small.
“Nothing babe, I mean, urm, well, sorey ah..”
You call on your ancestors but even them they don’t care for this poppycock. She is about to launch this molehill claptrap in to the stratosphere. She guffaws. Unleashes a war cry.
“So you want me to fight, abi? You know it’s funny how you can love someone, cook for someone, fuck someone and all you get is shit in return..I’m tired Ndegwa! Tired!..”
As the words hit your ears, the reality slaps you into a daze.
“Men will embarrass you!” she shrieks as she packs and leaves, fuming hot air through her nostrils. Muhadhara! This is on you.
“Fuck you Ndegwa. Where’s my Type C charger?! I’m going home! Don’t call me!”
You stand there, scratching your head—since she has gone with your balls. Babe 1, Ndegwa 0.
Later that night you go through your closet. Her clothes are still there. Phew. It’s not a break up. It’s just a break? But…wait a minute…where are her bikinis? Booty short? Wait…where are all the condoms?
- You check her status. You can’t see her status. You WhatsApp her bestie, Mary. You also can’t see Mary’s status. Ewoo.
Later that night you see someone like her on Twitter. Riding shotgun. In a bikini. Your favourite bikini.
“Vasha! We must be seen!”
With Milly and three others.