THE LOVE I NEVER HAD (version 6)

“I don’t think our cultural and religious differences will allow us to have a future together,” She said as she pushed her fork in our favourite delicacy; Iskudheh Karis.
“We have talked about this before and am sure we can live with it happily.” I retorted.

“Yes, and am sorry but we can’t be more than what we are here. I will be a laughing stock in my community back home.”
“What about our dreams? The garden wedding, the 4 kids that will fit in the dining six-set , the hawaii vacations, will we watch as they sink in abyss?”

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“Just hold it there mr planner. Weren’t those just normal chats that people have to keep the day going? I’m never getting married to a gurale, please.”

With that, she stood up, pulled her hijab off the seat and shaked her keister out of the restaurant.

“Ridhwan, what about the bills?”

Snobbed.

She had been my best human being on earth. From the first day we met at Two Rivers Mall, I knew something was about to spark. She was at the counter of the clothes store, serving customers who afforded to buy a tshirt that costed $30 and trousers which were double that. A pair of socks would go for $10 and you’re wondering if they came with the shoes? No, the shoes danced at $50 and above. For me, I was just in my weekly window shopping spree to kill time. Clearly, gikomba was my place.

She kept throwing glances at me through her clear glasses. The glances confused my senses. She was either suspecting am a thief, or she was just trying to check me out. I’d go with the latter. I won’t forget, no, I won’t forget to mention that her black Hijab was quite tight on her body- it mophed her physique into something that looked like the number 8.

As I was stepping out of the shop after pretending the trouser I was searching for was not in the store, she signaled me back. This was it.

“You didn’t get what you wanted?”

I said I was looking for khaki skinny trousers that weren’t too tight and not too baggy.

The colloquy blazed as we rummaged for my size. I declined all the sizes, not because they didn’t fit me, but because I wanted the conversation to keep going. We later exchanged numbers (she saved herself as Ridhwan), and promised to keep me posted when the new stalk arrive.

Two weeeks down the line, we had created a bond that was stronger than the Kenyan government. Early goodmorning texts, all day chats and future plans were the order of the day.

Things were moving quite faster. We were on the verge of confusion; we were neither friends nor lovers – just something in there between. Our hearts had knotted into one. She was the moon, I was the darkness – she was the light, I was the sun. Nothing could ever come between us. I could feel that.

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On one Saturday, she had promised to spoil me. I felt this was the best time to pop the question. I was ready for a serious relationship with someone’s somali daughter. I arrived at kilimanjaro Restaurant (our favourite restaurant) quite early so that I plan how best I could ask her to be my girlfriend.

I staged a camera at the back of one of the table menus then asked Abdifatah (my day one waiter at the restaurant) to mobilize his colleagues and create a celebration scene after I had gone down on my knees. He agreed. It was all set.

She arrived half an hour later, ordered our favourite dish then dug into deep conversation about our ‘relationship’, from which I’d then pop the question. It was all good and romantic untill I mentioned that I wanted us to move to the next level. It all slapped me that we were clearly on different pages. The idea of us dating was the worst she ever heard from me. An abomination, perhaps.

I wished I could backspace my words, maybe erase a few lines and delete some feelings attached to them, but shetani ni naniiii, the milk was on the flour and the cat was busy licking. Whatever that mean.