Category: relationship and love (Page 1 of 2)


Wind. A breeze. The quiet promise of a starry night sky. A woman. A windy breeze blowing under a starry night sky carries upon its wings the quiet promise of a woman.

Who has looked into a woman’s eyes and seen her soul? Who has held her and felt the reverberations of her thoughts? Who has conversed with her and understood the inner machinations of her heart?

Which man has kissed her lips and not felt his heartstrings snap? Which fiery hearted lover while ensnared in her embrace hasn’t felt fleetingly a slice of paradise? And in so doing, hasn’t he for the slimmest breath of a second perchance…glimpsed the color of love?

Like a river after the rains, love flows, over flows,  swells its banks and we like so much sand are swept into its murky depths to lose our dignity, the very fabric of our independence in pursuit of another human being. A person, who most often as not doesn’t appreciate the fact. One whom by utter ignorance or petty prejudice disregards and belittle the courage we have shown.

But that is to be expected.

Who being loved has ever understood the sacrifice made in loving them? Who being loved knows why?   Who being loved doesn’t take for granted the affection shown them? Who being loved has ever looked deep into themselves and questioned if they deserve to be loved?

The color of love is one so true as to be next to impossible to find. Why?   It finds us when we least expect and eludes us when we need it most.

Alas when it finds us!

Which meal, eaten, has ever tasted as sweet?   What manner of musical note, having been listened to, has ever rang so pure and true? Which drink, drunk, quenches all thirst?

What color…in the whole world…possesses hues as vivid as to rival the color of love.



Two decades I have lived…Two decades mired in struggle, married with unrelenting and repetitive not knowing.  Chasing the elusive better tomorrow. Yet I must say, nothing quite scares the living hell out of me like love.

Well, It wasn’t always like that. In the past I loved love. Or the idea of love at least. Two strangers, unwittingly brought together by fate, willingly with tingly sensations losing themselves in each other. Living in a happy place filled with radiant sunshine, beautiful sunsets and starry skies, carried away by breath snatching kisses, goosebumps inducing caresses and hotter than Mombasa at noon love-making.

Turns out the idea my over imaginative head had concerning love couldn’t have been further from the truth. And the truth… it hit me like a ten tonne truck speeding downhill when Zipporah Onsongo broke my heart. I learnt that love wasn’t birthed when you looked at the object of your affections ans she smiled at you. I learnt that love wasn’t all sweet and rosy as the movies would have us believe. I learnt that in reality damsels didn’t go all week in the knee and misty eyed when you told them you love them. And even as smithereens of my ruined heart filled my chest with the pain of a thousand needles. I was dragged down into the dark fathoms of despondency and self loathing. And that’s not the worst part, no. It doesn’t even come close. The worst part is she broke my heart and didn’t even know it. “I love you like a brother.” Was what she said. Words forever etched onto my heart with the vividness of a tattoo.

And like that Love was done with me and I with love. Done and done. Thank you but no thanks. I mean, why can’t we just have sex? No? But why?

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Am not saying I haven’t met other fine ladies after the fiasco with Onsongo the heart breaker hereafter referred to as the “heart breaker.” I have and prettier ones at that. Why, Bertha Lauren was romance itself, Lily was the sweetest girl, I haven’t laughed so hard since Diana, Yvonne stole my virginity, Phine was a lesson in kamasutra, Letisha is the fuck of my life,  Winnie understood me and Rina loved me. I could go on and on but that’s beside the point. The point being that the forbidden fruit while untested is often the sweetest. “The heart breaker” with all her perfect imperfections held sway over me because I couldn’t have her. But that isn’t to mean all the girls who reject me are of consequence.  Far from it. See the mistake I made with “the heart breaker”  was that I invested too much time and feelings into the whole debacle. I day dreamed about her, many a night I night dreamed about her as well with the result that I was hopelessly and pathetically infatuated. Thanks to that experience that is something I don’t do anymore. I don’t fixate on girls. They are not worth it in the long run. Let’s just have sex uh?

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I want you and I, mature adults that we are, to be honest with each other. There is no need to dissemble. Love is for marriage folk and folk looking to get married. More fool they, for marriage kills love faster than the time it takes for Vera Sidika’s twerking derriere to go viral. The rest of us normal folk shouldn’t dabble in the messy affair that is love. We end up complicating shit, as though shit ain’t complicated enough as it is. Let’s just have sex aye?

Life is full of shit. Most of which are self-inflicted, galvanized and fueled by societal notions and expectations. Sex for sex’s sake, done by two individuals who want to, unencumbered by conditional mannerisms is the only pure thing left. Who said love must come first, show me the rationale which qualifies that ideal. Can’t we just get along, like each other along the way, have sex like two idiots and remember each other fondly?

I for one know that am good in bed. And you look like you could be too…I don’t know…so what’s the big deal. Let’s just get on with it. Do the do and be done.


A word begets a sentence. A sentence begets a thought. A thought leads to a paragraph. Thus a story is born. I labor with the word, I wrestle with the sentence and never since the beginning of days has there been a strife more ponderous than creative thought. But with the resultant story comes an assurance. I will rise.

I will rise.

I met her three weeks ago. The way she swung her hips was art in motion. Her eyes were a brown deeper than brown. And brown has never held an allure so great as it did in the moist unfathomable depths of her eyes. My breath stuck and words went right out of my head leaving a humongous cavern of silently resounding attraction. Alas she wouldn’t have me. “You are not quite what I want. I am not ready to be in a relationship besides. Don’t trouble yourself thinking about me.” And my heart broke into a thousand pieces each smaller than the last. But with her rejection came an assurance. I will rise.

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The days are hard. The nights are harder. The days though lonely cannot compete with the loneliness the nights bring. I lie in bed starring at the ceiling, willing the crushing need for something or someone to subside. My phone lies silent,  no one is calling.  My numerous texts though sent and delivered go unanswered. So I lie in my bed and battle the temptation to indulge in masturbation. I lose. Indulge then instantly castigate myself. A man should not have sex with himself. And in my state of helpless loneliness comes an assurance. I will rise.

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A word begets a sentence. A sentence…a thought…then a paragraph. The story that emerges is one full of promise. The future is as yet undefined. I refuse to remain in chains. No amount of rejection will keep me down. The story born is definite. I will rise.


Life is a journey. An adventure into the unknown. And yet that is what makes it worth living. The belief that since we don’t know what the future holds, we can do anything. Be anything. We can curve out of life a portion for ourselves. And why shouldn’t it be so, why shouldn’t we be able to achieve all that we set out to achieve? The answers to this question, at least in my opinion is simple. Can we be what we want to be? Why not. This is the belief I hold as I turn twenty-three.

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In the end all we regret are the chances we didn’t take.

Life is not simple. Life has never been simple. It will not start being simple today. This is not about simplifying life. Life cannot be simplified. The best we can do is wrestle. I say wrestle because life will not allow you to simply grab what you want to grab. It wrestles back. And dirty too. But good things don’t come easy. Good things are earned. Can we be what we want to be? Yes we can. But only if we want to be what we want to be real bad. Enough to make us make ourselves be what we want to be. That is the formula I have arrived at. And when you look at it that way, it becomes easy all of a sudden. Don’t it?

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Inferior men are satisfied by normal things. Superior men know that normal things don’t mean a thing.

I am not the wisest of men. I know that. I am not the most resourceful nor the most talented. Nor are you. But don’t let that stop you. It’s certainly not stopping me. Who’s to say I deserve any less than the next man a shot at happiness. No one. Besides, happiness is relative… what makes me happy may not make you happy and vice versa. That right there is reason enough to be selfish…to go out there and fight for my happiness regardless of whether it makes you happy or not. See my point?

Because at the end of the day, it’s all about me. It’s all about you. I am sure you’ve asked yourself this question plenty of times. “Who’s the most important person in my life?” Well, today I have an answer for you. The most important person in your life is you. The most important person in my life is me.

Finally, since we have established that the most important person in my life is me…as I turn a new leaf in my life. I promise to go all out this year. I promise to make more effort in achieving my goals. Both long-term and short-term. I promise to try new things and take more risks. I promise to love unequivocally and fuck irreparably. I promise to chase only the woman I really want, not those who I think will have me. I promise to live. Not exist. I promise to do better, live better, be better. The best is yet to come.

Happy 23 to me. I have arrived folks. I have arrived.


Its not an easy thing being with a girl. And no one knows this better than yours truly. Obviously, if you’ve been reading this blog for any decent amount of time you are no doubt aware of my ratiocinations concerning the human female. If not, well…time and blogs wait for no man. You may want to scroll down to the previous articles and let your enlightened betters continue with today’s story. The subject of which is clear. As the tittle brazenly suggests, I want…I need a wifely girlfriend.

I have dated enough girls to know better, I have had enough sex to learn I have a talent for it and I have done enough self evaluation to know I deserve better. After all, this world we find ourselves in demands you put yourself first, otherwise no one will. That said, the wifely girl I need should possess the following traits.


My wifely girl should be possessed of an animal need for conjugal mannerisms. Because I like having sex, I don’t like not having sex and I don’t want to look for sex elsewhere when am already committed. That would amount to cheating. The logic behind that requirement follows therefore…one rationale leading assuredly to the next until we unequivocally come to the last. High libido.

P.S: It goes without saying that a high libido should come with an affinity for bedroom matters. Or in absence of sensual skills, a willingness to learn.


I don’t want to date a girl who is materialistic. I am a man of little means trying to be rich. And Rich I will become. That said, I don’t need a girl who doesn’t see past her nose.
I have enough bills to handle without a girl going and adding her list of luxuries to my list of needs. And that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate you, I do. I just need you to be visionary enough to know it won’t always be this way.

But of course if that is too much for you to handle, feel free to be with a boy who takes you swimming and buys you presents. Just recognize that the said boy gets his money from his rich sponsor of a dad. Moreover, even his undergarments are bought using money from his mother’s purse. Enough said.


If you don’t dress sexy when we are dating, whose to say you will dress sexy in the future. A leopard never loses its spots. And please, PLEASE, don’t come to my place in trousers unless of course you are on your menses. Otherwise, that’s like saying you want to switch roles and be the man.
A lady should look lady-ish when she goes to visit her man and nothing looks more feminine on a lady than a dress or a skirt.


In this context respect doesn’t mean you curtsey whenever you see me. It means treating me as an asset rather than a liability. If I call and you miss it, call back. If you can’t, call back when you can. If I text, reply. If you are busy, text back saying you are busy. Don’t wait for me to call always, call too. If we make an appointment, keep it and keep time, if for some reason you can’t, inform me well in advance. If you are in the wrong, don’t just text a miserable sorry, show you are sorry. And please, don’t use the universal respect is earned thing on me, you are not a Job to be done and to earn anything as recompense.


You are here to be my companion through life. My partner in crime. My stress reliever. My lover. My best friend.
You are not here to be my investigator. My judge and jury. My highschool principal nor my university dean. So play your role.

In conclusion…I want a wifely girl…with whom…for one moment…for just a little while I can be more than just me…with whom I can connect on a level undefined by expectation, unencumbered by explanation….well…you get it…am not a bloody poet.


When next you knock on my door, I will stop whatever I was doing, shout out a breathless…”Coming.” Hastily tidy up…spray a quick whiff of lavender into the air, plaster onto my face my best its-so-nice-seeing-you smile and rush to welcome you in my love. That is what I will do.

I will hold your hands and pull you into the room, then envelope you in a hug-so-tight-it-leaves-you-breathless-yet-you-feel-so-happy-nibble your ears-lift-you-into-the-air-spin-you-around-set-you-down-and-squeeze-you-some-more kind of hug. I will hang your bag on a peg and usher you to a seat with a humble…”I would have said have a seat but a bed is all there is…so have a bed dear.” That is what I will do.

I will pour you some refreshment…hand it over…tell you to sit proper…and throw myself down beside you…I will rest my head on your lap and breath deeply a heady whiff of your intoxicating body scent…I will be content then…NO…not just yet…I will open up my note book and read you that love note  I have been working on. I will play some soft tunes and sing along to you using my cooking stick as a mic. I will make you laugh. That is what I will do.
When am done making you laugh…I will make you wet. That I will do by first asking for a dance when an especially romantic tune plays. With a bow I will say, “Baby, can I have this dance?” Then I will whisk you around the room taking special care not to step on your toes…I will look you deep in the eye and tell you how irresistible you are. That is what I will do.

And while the song continues to carry us on its rythmic currents…I will push you up against a wall, pressing your body with mine…moulding your soft planes with my hard angles. I will place both hands on your cheeks, tip your head back just a bit and plant a most passionate kiss on your lips. I will kiss the upper lip, suck on the lower, I will bite on it, so gently it won’t hurt. I will run a finger so slow down your spine the motion will leave a tingly feeling sneaking up that shapely spine. Meanwhile I will be kissing that spot on your neck that has a pulse. Then I will lift you up and carry you to my bed. That is what I will do.

We will tumble down together, wherehence I will reach behind you to unclasp your bra. Thereafter I will lift up your top and expose the sensual promontories of your bust. I will love your boobs with my eyes…and then I will love them with my hands…But before that, I will make sure to get an eyeful, for remembrance…to keep me warm in future cold nights. After I get that eyeful, a handfull will suffice…I will grasp them both, feel their silky softness, their hot readiness. I will explore them…tease…careress…and just when your nipples get brazenly erect, I will take each into my mouth and savour their tangy taste like so many lolipops. That is what I will do.

And whilst I continue to discover the pleasures of and encumbent. I will slide down my hands behind you to grab your ass…Now don’t get me wrong, there is holding, there is grasping, there is handling, and there is grabbing. And grabbing is what I will do.
Thereafter I will careress your legs from the knees up. I will spread them open to get to your moist inner thighs…I will move up so slow you will be wishing to speed up my hands…to get my hands up there faster. And then I will get there and you will be wishing I never leave. I will rub you through your moist pant…I will hold on to you as surely as any olympian has ever held his gold medal. That is what I will do.

And just when your river of pleasure is ready to burst its banks. I will slip a finger into the pant and hold your leash. And then I will commence my dance…symalteanously rubbing the leash and penetrating a finger into your silky wetness. Slowly at first…then faster and faster. And as pleasure mounts, I will unwrap you…throw aside the wrapping, open up your legs…push your thighs apart and suck on your center of pleasurisation. I will tease it with my tongue, flick my tongue on and in it…and then we will unleash the beast on it. I will use it to rub your wetness…And then I will endevour to usher you to the utmost crest of love. This is what I will do.

How she picks up your call says a lot..

The phone really has made life easier. To say any different would be to lie. To lie as surely as the man who said honesty is the best policy. But that is up for debate and is neither here nor there.

I could argue and win that the biggest beneficiary of the phone after the cooperate world is romance. That said, it doesn’t mean the fruits of the phone are all good and righteous as the petticoats of one Virgin Mary. It only means the good outweigh the bad. But since am not here to debate petticoats, I will start from the beginning and move to the end, and then I will stop.

And now I have sunk to the petticoat…sorry…crux of the matter.

And like most things, or indeed all things; it boils down to girls. Girls are often the nexus of subjects. From why Neil Armstrong went to the moon to the reason Barrack Obama became president. Everything…and I mean everything. Boils down to girls. If they are not causing it, they are influencing it.
And on the phone as in the bedroom, the devil is in the detail. Sorry, I meant to say…the girls are in the detail.


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Some girls you call and before the phone actually rings. Okay…that is taking it too far. As the phone starts to ring, they pick up and talk to you as though you wanted to announce to them they won a lottery. These are the ones that care about you… the best part of their day is when they talk to you and they will not shy from letting you know that truth.

In those times that through some devilish interference they miss your call. They will call back as soon as they are able to tell you how much they regret missing your call and “What is it you wanted to say. Or maybe you just missed me like I miss you? Is everything good at your end, and I really miss you…Oh my gosh, I said that already…and I had a long day…and am so happy to be talking to you right now…blah blah blah, ending in a deliciously said I love you”

So now you know. If you have such a girl in your life. Call her back…as a matter of fact…love her back.

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Sometimes you are talking to a girl over the phone and you run out of credit. I mean, that happens. It’s part of life…and since your dad doesn’t work at the telephone company. The lass should put two and two together and call you back. I mean, isn’t common sense common. Then why is that so difficult for ladies to figure out. I mean, who said to call is the preserve of men alone.

That said, if am talking to you like… “Hey, I think am thinking about you. Do you think you are as sweet as you look? I really want to get close to you and to know you in the proce….and CUT! I run out of credit.

Damn girl, be good enough. Be sensible enough to call me BACK.



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So why did you give me your number then. These are the types of women who make me want to be the prosecutor at the Hague. So I can try their sorry asses for naked violation of romance. Why? Because I call and for the first time she doesn’t pick I give a rational… “Maybe her phone is in the other room.”

I call again, and again I give a rational… “Maybe her phone is in silent mode so she doesn’t hear it ringing.” But since phones that are in silent mode vibrate, I call again and still I give a rational… “Maybe she is occupied, class or work or something.”

And so for the second last time… I call later on and still I stand up for the devil in a skirt. “Maybe she is in the bathroom.” And then after an hour (Because who bathes for more than an hour?) I call back and this time when she doesn’t pick up… I GIVE UP.

And if you this type of girl…once I give up and delete your number….never call me back. (Because you will draw me in with your devilish charm and the process will repeat.)



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Sup girl, don’t you have a mouth. And don’t you run it all over the place and to the Rio Olympics and win the 100 meters men sprint like one bolt with it when you are gossiping about Cristiano Ronaldo’s abs and Chris browns dance moves. So then, why is it that when I call, this happens?

Me: Hey you.
You: Hey
Me: How are you?
You: Good
Me: I see you in the future and you look so much better than you do right now.
You: What?
Me: Never mind.
You: Ok (In a murmur)
Me: What?
You: What?
Me: Good night then.
You: Night.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! That has to be the most depressing telephone conversation ever. And because of that… I won’t call you back.


Ladies and gentlemen…mostly the gentlemen reading this… I don’t need to summarize this article for you, now do I? Okay, okay….I will.

Cherish those who pick up your calls, laugh with those who laugh at your jokes, call those who love talking to you and love those who call you back.

And to everyone else…adopt my award-winning adage. (It hasn’t won any award yet…but…you never know) It says… I WILL NOT CALL YOU BACK.


Two o’clock (On the dot) yesterday found me standing dispassionately at a certain corner. Hoping with all the hope at my disposal that she would show. There I was, immaculately polished. Astute as usual and impertinent as shit. I was waiting for a damsel. A girl as slippery as she is attractive. (Sigh) Alas, she never came. Due to a ratiocination beyond my comprehension. She chose not to honor the pact we had, to meet at that time and in that certain corner. She stood me up.

My initial reaction after the obvious feelings of anger and naked betrayal was one of revenge. That’s right. You read right. I wanted revenge. And by that I mean I wished for an occasion, chance and the power to do the same to somebody else.

See, for me it’s all about perspective. For instance; picture the following scenario. You have no job. And by chance you apply for a choice position in an organization and happen upon a job interview. One meant to take place say… tomorrow. Nothing short of grievous bodily harm would keep you away from attending said interview. Point in case, the interview is important to you. So much so because it has the potential to change your life.

The same can be said for relationships. If somebody thinks you are significant. If they think you are crucial…they will make time for you. No matter what. And so when I was stood up I got to thinking… “She doesn’t think much of me. Not really. I don’t feature high enough in her list of priorities. If that wasn’t so…she would be here.”

And then I got to thinking. “Well, right now I don’t think much of me as well. I would stand me up.” See am that guy who prides himself in facing adversity head on. I aspire to be honest with myself and with others. But mostly with and to myself.

And so I got to thinking. “I have nothing much to offer to nobody else. To be honest. I have nothing to offer to myself right now.” And please don’t take this for self-pity. It isn’t. I prefer to call it self-evaluation.

And so I thought. “Circumstances are never permanent. And that means my current situation will change. It has to. I am working towards changing it.”

And in that moment, there was nothing I wanted so much as to be in a position to stand somebody up. I promised myself that I would work hard to make it come to fruition. That one day, when my financial situation was a tad weighty. I would stand somebody up.
Just to be clear though. I am not that kind of guy. That feeling was reflex. Promulgated by what had happened.

I collected myself and my hurt feelings and went home. Suffice to say, those feelings of hurt and revenge stayed with me for a while. And then like magic my head cleared and I got to thinking. “So what if you actually make some money in the future and stand somebody up? What would you gain? How would that experience build you as a person?”

See. Love isn’t easy. Love is the most complicated pleasure man has devised. Men want women. Women want men. But both of them pretend they don’t want let alone need each other. Men don’t know which women they want. Women don’t know what they want. And everyone involved doesn’t trust anyone else involved. That in essence is the situation we find ourselves in.

Still I choose to choose love.

I choose love because I have experienced it. I choose love because I saw it in Diana’s love letter. I choose love because I felt it in Rinah’s company. I choose love because I had it in Winnie’s embrace. I choose love because Lily loved me. I choose love because love is the best thing that ever happened to me.

I will live and love. I will live in love. So what if I suffer and hurt in search of love. I know the way I know the beating of my heart that I will find it.

Rise of the “sponsor”

I saw the ideal woman, she was faithful, she was true, she was beautiful, she was caring, she was dead. (Bujabs Dennis.)

Somewhere in Nairobi

Time; 3 p.m.

Shanika’s cell buzzes atop a dressing table beside the 3’ by 6’ bed in her rented bed-sitter apartment. The bed, though aptly spread, is littered with pieces of clothing; Vest tops, bras, pants in all colors of the rainbow, rugged jeans, stockings, miniskirts, sarong, wraparound skirts, ruffled skirts and other paraphernalia, among which prominently features; lib balms, Mascara, eye pencils, body lotion, wet wipes and cologne.

The room’s scent dabbles on the border of stale perfume and musky sweat. Shanika’s cell continues to ring; the caller id identifies the caller as fala wangu (My idiot). Shanika rushes from the bathroom, the very picture of unbridled haste; a towel is draped around her privates…water streams in rivulets down her neck and between her burgeoning breasts, her black jutting nipples are glistening and eager. Her lush hair is dripping; and as she scrambles towards the phone drops of water from her hair hit the plastic carpet covering the floor in a soft patty patter…Shanika sees the name on the cell’s screen and stops…she lets the phone ring…contenting herself instead with towelling her voluptuous body…she presses the towel against the graceful curve of her neck, across her bared anterior, down her back and onto the plump mound of her buttocks.

A few seconds later the phone stops ringing…Shanika pays it no attention, she is busy towelling herself down.

The phone rings again…the caller when Shanika glances at the phone is fala wangu; he is calling again like Shanika knew he would. She lets it ring for a few then picks up…

Shanika; Hello

Fala wangu; Hello babe, how are you? (Shanika rolls her eyes.)

Shanika: Am fine.

Fala wangu: so, nimetoka tao (Am from town), niko kwa mat naishia kejani. (Am in a Matatu heading home.) Are we still on for Aftee? (Afternoon)
Shanika holds the phone away from her mouth and groans audibly.

Fala wangu; Hello…hello…Shanika, are you still there?

Shanika: The reception ndio mbaya. (The reception is bad)…on for aftee how?

Fala wangu; Babe…surely, leo ni sato. (Today is Saturday) you promised to come over we hang. Remember?

Shanika rolls her eyes, the gesture is more pronounced this time around.

Shanika: Something came up tony, (So that’s the true name of “my idiot”) I can’t make it leo.

The line goes quiet for a while, Shanika bites her lips and stamps her feet impatiently. Tony’s voice comes on again, it is noticeably hurt.

Fala wangu; why didn’t you notify me like mapema? (Earlier.)

Shanika stamps her feet and groans, she makes sure the phone is well away from her mouth so tony can’t hear. Her voice when she speaks is ice.

Shanika; Am going through a rough patch…I totally forgot, try to elewa. (Understand.)

Fala wangu; Poa (OK) later then, take care…I love you.  (Shanika rolls her eyes a third time.)

Shanika; Poa.

She hangs up then throws the handset onto the bed and promptly begins to dress. She dresses and undresses and dresses and undresses and dresses again. She can’t seem to make up her mind and every cloth combination looks ghastly, at least to her they do. The dressing ritual is punctuated with groans and moans and groans again. Her closest companion in the room which also doubles as her worst enemy is the mirror…It’s the deciding factor and it hasn’t decided yet. In the end Shanika manages to make up her mind and settles on an elegant ruffled yellow skirt that flatters the swell of her hips, she partners it with a blouse that is a subdued green and tops it of with a black knee-length coat.

Her phone buzzes again as she dresses…the caller ID simply reads “sponsor.” Shanika snatches the phone even as she wrestles with the ruffled skirt that for some reason won’t go past her upper thigh… the reason is not difficult to discern however. Shanika’s thighs are every man’s dreams…brazenly exposed in all their tender glory, the thighs are not too skinny…and not too fleshy, but just right, and chocolate and spotless and stretch-mark-less, they glitter with body lotion promise.

Shanika’s voice when she presses the receive button is cheery as noon day sun.

Shanika; Sweetheart, how are you.

Sponsor; I am fine…where are you Nika?

The sponsor’s voice is gruff ad impatient. Most importantly, it is a voice salted with age. The voice of a man in his years.

Shanika; I’m getting out of the house now.

Sponsor; Okay, meet me at the usual place. And please, keep time.

Shanika; of course Hun. Sina fare lakini. (I lack fare.)

Sponsor; Take a taxi, tell the driver he will get paid when he gets here.

Shanika; Poa, thanks dear, I love you.

Sponsor; Okay, just get here in time.

The sponsor hangs up. Shanika turns her phone data on, navigates to whats app and updates her status…The previous status read… “Busy.” The new status reads…. “At work.”
She puts the phone aside, finishes dressing and picks up her clutch hand bag stuffed with womanly paraphernalia. She is good to go.

The sun shines with all its orange glory as Shanika leaves her apartment. Off to gods only know where… Oh..gods…Shanika…and the sponsor.

The time; 4.30 pm.

Pretty girl-ugly girl symbiosis.

Before we begin this post and for the purpose of ensuring we are all above board.…let’s first define terms. Bujabs Dennis style.

Symbiosis is the interaction between two living organisms living in close physical association. The relationship is often driven by a need for mutual-ism.

A pretty girl is a human creature that is female by nature, and is pleasant to look upon. By pleasant I mean looking at them automatically reminds you of good things; Rainbows, Nikki Minaj’s butt, roast meat, cheques in the mail and reruns of fear factor.

An ugly girl is by contrast a human creature whose sex can’t be discerned at first glance, and who, when after further investigation is identified as female, automatically causes melancholic temperament; One is immediately confronted by thoughts of Donald trump, loan defaults, Job interviews, cancer and menopause.

Good, that aside… Today; while walking to campus, I saw a common sight that is so common in its commonness it has become strange, a pretty girl walking beside an ugly girl. What gave me pause though was that both parties were obviously enjoying each others company and acting as though the difference in their countenance wasn’t as wide as paradise and the seven hells. Why…? I moaned, I lamented…internally. All my life I have schooled my mind to accept the wisdom of the ages, birds of a feather flock together. But in front of me were two birds, definitely not of a feather, but thick as thieves.

Then it clicked, it clicked like Cristiano Ronaldo and a football pitch, or as Lillian Muli and news anchorage. The two were putting into practice that elusive biology terminology from my high school days. Symbiosis…. The pretty girl, while pleasant to look upon, wouldn’t look so pleasing in a flock of pretty girls, she wouldn’t stand out. So, in a manner of speaking she benefits from the mutual-ism by the benefit of contrast. Every male creature they meet will be like… “Damn…that girl next to the pretty girl is so FUGly, with a capital fug.” And then as if waking up from a long bout of sickness…they will notice the pretty girl and focus more on her. She will look that much better, said male creatures will be like… “Damn. At least the pretty one is something though.” In summary; prettiness looks prettier in the presence of ugliness.

The ugly girl on the other hand, benefits from the symbiosis by the benefit of…the benefit of the doubt. Male creatures while fixated on the prettiness walking next to her will say… “The friend isn’t that bad when you come to the think of it…” The benefit of doubt right there. Her curvaceousness in all the wrong places will start looking intriguing rather than off-putting, her big nose will look kinky instead of sickly,  her ungainly legs will look adorable instead of….you get my point.

So next time you see prettiness and ugliness walking side by side, recognize there is more to it than meets the eye.

hahahahaha, this post should be named The ant and the Aphid.

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