I went back home disappointed and frustrated. Boychild’s plans and dreams had been shattered and thrown into abyss. You know what even hurt the most, is that you called that night and talked about the things we could have done if only dee had agreed to exile herself.

Since the away ‘match’ had been blocked by Dee, we scheduled for a ‘home’ match where the environment was a bit condusive; no cock blockers, nor people with dreadlocks. Fear these ladies with dreadlocks, folks. They have the powers to empty your loyalty and replete you with lust. It’s even worse if they have locks and wear specs.

Spending some quality time with you was something I was yearning for. I had so many questions to ask you. Questions that I obviously couldn’t ask through the phone, nor texts, because then you’d block me if I did. I had no other choice but to fondle my patience and wait for a perfect jiffy when we’d be together so that I ruin your moods, quite intentionally.

This is what happened on this sunday.

Wait, I will tell you about that Sunday. Chillax. I remember all the plans you had punched in my head the previous night on that phonecall. That you’d come earlier before my first yawn. That you’d wake me up with a kiss – we all know you’d never even hugged me before. A kiss would be an abomination to my ancestors. You see, you were a good promiser (Dear Oxford, we need that new word in the dictionaries, perfidious doesn’t fit my description here). You were very good at spitting the good things that you couldn’t accomplish. Matter of fact, You should consider a political seat- your fellow dodgers are out here painting us with false promises as well.

So here is what happened on Sunday. You called early in the morning, and when I received, you cancelled the call. I dialed *131# (legends Aye!) then called back, excited that maybe you had arrived. You justified that it was a butt call, but still begged that I shouldn’t hang up you had something to tell me.

“You know I love you, right? And that I will do anything for you … right?”

I knew this was the latest version of, “I need a favour.”

“I would wish to come but I don’t have enough fare to get me there.”

I didn’t even think twice. Your presence around me was all that mattered. Sportpesa would take care of the rest, later. I rushed to my Mpesa and slapped you with enough fare – so enough that you could actually book yourself a jumbo jet to my crib.

I’m a clean guy, I’ve always been. Infact, any nun out there can testify that am cleaner than their thoughts. I had cleaned the crib (at this point let’s call it the slaughterhouse) the night before. Everything was in order, you’d think I have a house manager. I had to leave a statement in your head that could earn me points. I read somewhere that ladies like clean men. Is that up for debate? Not at all; the writer was right. Should I also mention that I had my flashdisk filled with latest movies and series?(I don’t want to lie that I have a Netflix account, erase that Netflix and chill BS in your head.)Jonteh, my movies plug had done me justice. He had convinced, “msee hizi ndo za ku-marinate…ata before mumalize episode one atakua ashajipa.”

Three hours later, you hadn’t even confirmed if you had received the cash nor if you were coming. You went mute. You weren’t even picking up your phone.

Boychild had been played!

A few hours later, you called and showered me with torrent of excuses. That you were caught up in an emergency that was unavoidable. That Dee accidentally dipped your phone in the poridge in the rush of confusion. That your ID disappeared in the process so you couldn’t even withdraw the cash and come.

“It’s okay, I understand,” that was my reply, brief like a miniskirt.

I don’t know which emergency that was, but your WhatsApp status blazed with tipsy individuals dancing and having a good time to what seemed like a party. The porridge, I didn’t see any porridge, I saw some expensive liquors, unless this lingo is evolving to extends of calling liquor porridge. Those “odi” looking guys might have been the ones who stole your ID by the way.

To be continued…

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She was exquisite, clean dreads, a bit lighter in complexion, thick the way Drake prefers her girls; BBW – Jason Derulo would have wonderd how she fit all that in them booty shorts.

Dee was talkative. She had the right questions on her tongue, and the wrong body language towards me. In as much as this was a delicious temptation, I summoned my horny side not to make any move, nor utter any word that would be used against me later. But I won’t lie, if she wasn’t your sister, you’d be reading a different story.

Minutes later, you walked out of the bathroom. The pink towel looked good on you – it could have looked better on the floor though.

I didn’t know whether to wake up and hug you, or just sit there and stare at you. You didn’t greet me. Instead, you walked towards the suitcase in the far end, rummaged for a clad, then changed as we watched.

You later signalled (with your index finger) Dee to go sit on the bed as you replaced her position. I didn’t understand what that silence in the crib meant. I knew something wasn’t right.

We talked. A boring talk. This was actually your demeanor – you are not talkative. You explained why you didn’t want to mention Dee in our conversations – you didn’t want her to snatch me from you, like the way she snatched two of your exes before. I understood that, very well.

Dee had, apparently, refused to exile herself. She refused (strongly) to give us our ‘we’ time to explore God’s creation. What a cock blocker!

I had no other choice but to go back. I wish you knew how a boychild felt. Even though I looked okay and pretended to understand the situation, deep down I couldn’t mind a threesome (Dee couldn’t mind neither)- am just saying.

…To be continued

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The way you had dressed showed how eager you were for that day; black dress that hugged your voluptuous physique tight, make up well applied – eye brows well drawn as if you had a relation with picasso, a tang perfume and a small red purse that matched the red heels which exaggerated your height (I will always talk about your height, pardon me). On my side, I only had my blue jeans and tshirt – I looked like your driver.

I had never been on a date with anyone’s daughter before. I didn’t know the right questions to ask nor the right words to say. It was all messed up. At times, silence could rent the air and leave us staring at each other on the mirror infront of us.

You were silent, chilled and kept on fidgeting. For a minute, I almost doubted if you are the same girl that made me stand on one leg during those long night calls.

You had a book of disappointment written all over your visage. I read it well. From how you threw one word answers at me, how you never even smiled, leave alone laughing, at my dry jokes.

Well, you left half your plate untouched. I whispered to the waiter to pack it as takeaway but you retorted, “no I’m full, am okay.” I didn’t even expect you’d hear that – nilikua najitetea mahn. That right there, was a bruised economy.

Long story short, I walked home.

I anticipated a fracture in our bond after that date. I knew very well that I had lowered my standards to a negative. We didn’t even have our culture observed: night calls. Instead, You texted a long text, a text taller than you (ooh, I did it again, never mind).

“I know I made it all awkward today, but I’m sorry. I am on my menses. It affects my moods big time…All in all I enjoyed the evening, it was amazing. You are really a funny guy and very caring. Your simplicity turned me on. I know, this is weird but…”


… To be continued

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I made the move. I took off my bomber jacket and like a gentleman, engulfed it’s warmth on you. I felt you wanted, no, needed that. Long story short, you gave me a wrong number and disappeared with my jacket.

I met you weeks later, at Tom Mboya street, right there next to Mr price. You seemed like you were waiting for someone. You couldn’t even remember me. The moment I said, “sasa” you had already given me that harsh look. The harsh look that you give to ‘suspected’ conmen when they approach you in town pretending to have lost direction.

I had to narrate the whole story, like am doing now. And when you recollected, the vibe was on. This time, you gave me the correct number, which I confirmed it’s yours (by calling to see if your phone would ring) before departing.

Days rolled by. You had the perfect way of chatting, or was it the correct grammar and punctuation that I liked. I bet my bottom dollar it was your speed in replies. You never gave me a chance to entertain other girls in my chat list. You had hooked all my attention to your inbox, the same way I had tattooed my feelings on your heart. It was in the air already, yes that young love.

Night calls were like the ten commandments, we obeyed them without fail. You had the right voice for the words you said. I had the right promises for the money I lacked. The night call conversations were long. I switched positions every time. I’d be on my stomach while I tell you how my day was, then switch to looking at the ceiling as you sing me your favourite song. Sometimes I preferred standing on my one leg so that I don’t sleep while on the call. Shit was amazing.

…TO BE CONTINUED

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