I won’t text back,” rants a distressed Greg, wetting his whistle with beer.
The entire time we’re sat there, he doesn’t follow through our conversation train; from Kobi Kihara’s flopped parade of the A-life (Did you know her Twitter location reads United States?) to John McCain’s sad demise to the racist ‘pastor’ who visited Uganda, Governor Waititi and other news that made headlines during the week.
He stares blankly at the horizon where the concrete canopy touches the darkening sky. You can almost see his thoughts – like a dejected couple – sleeping in bed, backs against each other from disagreement smothering their pillows with passion.
“So, what’s up my nigga?” goes James, the cheeky one of the group.
Yes, he said ‘nigga’ simply because he has the ‘nigga’ pass. Yet someone will ask why we’re so riled up when a different race uses it on us. Well, we say it because it’s a link to our history. However well intended it is, a non-black isn’t allowed to refer to we blacks as ‘nigga’ because it will always resonate to us that there’s a double meaning under. Sorry but that’s just what it is. Anyway, back to our sorry dude here.
“Nothing much man, just…” goes Greg before being cut short by an impatient James.
“Speak up! It’s a little bit hard to hear you with that pity dick in your mouth,” Goes James. Churlish as he is, yet gets the job done.
It’s funny how male friendships work. Not to sound misogynistic, but they are the best. We are not engineered to be soft and mushy. A guy will see you cry but wipe your tears with a stinging nettle leaf. Not because he couldn’t find wet wipes, but because firstly, he didn’t carry any and secondly, the best way over pain is through it.
So Greg rests his long-necked glass on the table, cusps his hands and goes ahead to explain how his girl phoned his ex and asked her to ‘stick her beak into her mans pants in stead of following other people’s men around. Men they’re trying so hard to build’.
“Tisha’s moods have been through the ceiling for two weeks now after she found out that June called me a week ago…” and the confessions from a sulk Greg cascade.
He goes ahead to explain how her mom was genuinely sick and that she needed Greg’s help to locate some medical document she lost when they were still together. Unfortunately, his girl Tisha is The Queen of drama. (Notice the capitalization of ‘t’ On the article ‘the’ and ‘queen’.) She can literally puff for a week because Greg snored too loudly. Or because Greg merely viewed her WhatsApp status without passing a comment.
The last time we were out together, she didn’t talk to James because according to her, ‘Jamo is bad influence’. Our lady here has a history. No surprise.
“Honestly, I need this kind of drama drama like I need a bullet hole in my head,” goes James. He never lacks advice on anything. It’s like he’s a walking guidebook to life. Except, crude with honesty.
“No offense but you’ve been crying foul every time we meet. Why not just call it quits and look for another lady out here? She doesn’t necessarily have to have so long a nail that they curve backwards or have so long hair that she has trouble sleeping at night. These ladies raised with single mothers are a poison chalice. They are taught not to peg their happiness on men. That men are dogs and nothing can be done but leash them up,” goes James, visually discontented.
And then we all join in comments, saying what should be done and what shouldn’t. Being heroes to other people’s love lives yet victims in our own. It’s funny how the dysfunctional ones are the ones with the best advice. We are quick to forget that often a time three is too many in a relationship. Sometimes this advice we rake in from all directions is the cause of failed relationships.
The sun sinks beyond the rugged concrete canopy and high goes our blood alcohol with a disturbed Greg going on with his escapades. He tells us how Tisha had gone to an extent of phoning Greg’s ex and spouting Fuck-tonnes to her and occasional ones his direction as he tried to tone her down. Even after Greg’s assurance that nothing significant was going on between the two of them, she couldn’t just hold it together.
“She’s been texting all morning atoning herself of her unbecoming behavior, saying how she wasn’t in her best state of mind when she exploded like that,” goes a distressed Greg.
“Like she ever is,” goes James. “Wake up and smell the coffee. It might me a sign that she’s poison for you dude. Disconnect before you get too entangled. Ama aje (What do you think) Inno?”
Love makes us do things. Things a sober woke mind wouldn’t do in two lifetimes. Things like making a lifetime commitment to someone whose real intentions you will never really know. Someone with so many yet deep a secret, you need oxygen supply to upon reaching bottom. Yet because we’re stupid in love, we fall in line and the rest is history.
To some extent, love is a disease or a hard drug. Good or bad? I can’t conclusively say.
We sometimes lie in toxic relationships not because we’re chained to the bed but because we peg on hope that the other party will change. Only for them to entangle us in their ways. To be honest, love and poor decision making are synonymous to Agikuyu media houses and country music. Inseparable.
A friend of mine went to the extent of switching his religion to align himself with that of his lady only to be straight out rejected. He forgot that movies remain to be movies as real life should.
Let’s not go to the stories of those who move into their ladies’ hacienda or buy them cars or rent them apartments in Kijani Ridge only to be snapped into disappearance like Thanos. Yet you ask yourself where toxic feminism came from. It had to do with a guy who didn’t text them back after a fuck or a deadbeat father or (fill in yours).
We let love cloud our judgement as reason peeps the party from the grilled window. Results? ‘We don’t need men’, ‘Men are trash’, ‘I’ll call the police on you’.
Society has coined love the wrong way, with ignorant lots falling into it in stead of standing in it. We fall for someone instead of CHOOSING to be with them. We leave reason outside the door and expect to solve a maze puzzle by plain intuition. Madness! And that’s where the rain starts pounding heavy on us.
I know, it makes no sense like a 37(?) year old Niki Minaj shouting carelessly on radio but just take it in.
So we’re here silently listening to some live band play ‘Maze’ by TP OK Jazz and the background singers are spending the least kilo joules of calories showing us how good they are at singing off-key. It’s almost like they practiced for it.
With the brain tipping the scale in favour of the booze, Greg fidgets with his phone, evidence that his emotions want him to text her. Like his being is driving him to tell her never to repeat such indecency again. Like he is nothing without her.
One thing is for sure. No man is a hero to his woman. No man whatsoever.
Have a happy week ahead.