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sneezed on the beat and the beat got sicker!

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BellaCiao!

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TRIGINTA LOVE II; FEMME FATALE

It’s half past five, eight minutes shy of 1738.

The weather; temperate, and Nairobi’s vibrant night life is just about to begin. You are not alone, it’s your birthday and Alyssa is treating you out (Oh, and did I forget to mention that you two are dating?) She holds your hand as you exit IMAX at 20th Century Plaza after watching Logan. You cross Mama Ngina street where stands Dedan Kimathi’s iconic statue and she leads you to Pepino’s Pizza at Moi Avenue. You climb up the stairs and head over to the coffee lounge. The place is half full.

Good.

You cannot stand crowded places. There is a girl (She looks likes she’s from USIU) typing fluidly on a sleek MacBook Air. Her phone with the Mickey Mouse cover on the side.

Alyssa buys two cappuccinos and you sit on the balcony overlooking Nairobi traffic. French Montana’s Unforgettable is on play and the ambient lights stage a dance in the mirrors on the opposite wall, saturating the entire atmosphere with a lazy feeling.

“Hun,”Alyssa purrs.

“Yeah?”

You make small talk with her as you try to make coherent sense of your relationship with her. You knew it wasn’t right from the beginning but you both drifted towards each other from the very first time you met at the party.

This relationship.

Her addiction to you.

She had already hinted at moving in your apartment but you still wanted to put her on hold. It was too early. She excuses herself and says she needs to dash downstairs and greet a friend or whatever. You take out your phone and try to pass time by playing Tetris (Yes, Tetris) but you can’t seem to get to level two because you had opened a window in your mind and escaped.

At the corner of your eye is a woman. She’s sitting at the furthest end of the lounge and you decide she’s Indian (From M.M Patel or wherever) You notice there’s this little game you’re playing with her. You check her out. She checks you out.

The adult version of Peek-a-boo (See what I did there?) She’s nursing her coffee mocha and you can tell from her body language that she was yearning for something. A certain wistfulness in her eyes that you can’t really place. After what seems like an eternity, she stands up, coffee mocha in hand and walks towards your table.

“Is anyone sitting here?” she asks.

Of course, there is someone, in fact, your girlfriend, but since you are not the kind of person to close doors that haven’t been closed yet; you say no.

She pushes back her long, wavy auburn hair with this brief jerk of her head.

You notice the red smear of lipstick on the tip of her cup.

Just the tip.

“I saw you here and thought you look so familiar…wait…you are a blogger…Authentic African, right?” she asks

“Ummm…yes,”

“I knew it! Oh, my God, it is you…I’ll have to be honest with you…your stories…”

“What about my stories?” you ask.

“Well, I’ve just finished rereading your work for the third time this evening and I just can’t…..just can’t stop drowning myself in the emotions…..It’s like a Nolan Keats kind of thing...I…umm…”

“Aha…go on,” You prod her further.

“They turn me on,”

“Oh, well…Uuhh…thank you?”

You are quite flattered because one; it is not every day that you get a stunning woman talking to you and two; she says that whatever you write arouses her.

And trust me, I’m not using hyperbole when I say that she is ripe (If you say it in Kiswahili, it brings out the meaning I intend you to know, yes, that one)

She tells you that she is half Palestinian, half Israeli. That she has a younger brother who is a recording artist in Rabat, Morocco (Yours is still flirting with clueless High School girls) You learn that she lives in Kilimani. That leafy suburb.

And slowly, very slowly, you fall in a trance. The music and the traffic noise fades into the background, reduced to a fuzz.

At this point in time, Alyssa seems so small, so insignificant.

She’s wearing a push-up bra, with a bomber jacket halfway her shoulders. She has two piercings; one on her navel and the other just above the curve of her exquisitely shaped eyebrow. Her ripped Balmain skinny jeans the 50th shade of Grey- and monochrome Fenty’s that bordered on New Yorkan high fashion.

Ah yes, the pockmark on her left breast.

Imperfection.

Her voice seemed like that of water before a waterfall. The slight half bend of her upper lip as though she was hiding an exciting secret. Her tattoo- a Black Star of David with the points peeking out of her bomber jacket every time she moved her hands this way and that way.

She had this oriental fragrance-sandalwood with a tinge of shisha.

“Hey, …you look distracted…anything the matter?” she asks, twirling her index finger around the rim of her cup. Her cheeks full of colour.

“Nah…Nah...I’m fine,” you lie.

Your emotions are turning inside of you. You refuse to accept the fact that a woman makes you feel like this.

This emotional mess.

“Can I show you something? It’s on my phone, “she says.

“Yeah, sure,” you say; unconsciously subdued.

You both lean over the table, she takes her phone and shows you some pictures in her gallery. You use your finger to swipe forward, and at this moment, she places hers on top of yours.

For a split second, your eyes lock.

Brief.

Minute.

Sensation.

Her lips parted.

It was like a conversion experience Saul struck by light on his way to Damascus.

“.…I’m not your typical mzungu girl,” she says, in a voice that turns you into mush.

In this unexpected turn of events, you see Alyssa’s reflection on the mirror, at the periphery of your vision, returning from wherever she went to.

The girl stands up and picks her phone. She touches your shoulder and gives you a peck, just above the curve of your lower lip; a subtle hint at what you could have had, but never will.

The hairs of your emotional being standing on end.

“Who was that Becky-with-the-good-hair?” Alyssa asks with this salty look on her face and venom in her voice.

“Just a fan,” you answer, rather absent-mindedly, no need in complicating matters.

She’s left her cup behind, yes, the one with the red lipstick smear. You pull it to your side and you notice a piece of paper sticking out under the cup.

You take it and read.

You don’t know when she wrote it, or even when she put it under the cup.

It has a number.

And a name.

Annazzita.

  A U T H E N T I C  A F R I K A N©

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TRIGINTA LOVE I; GENESIS

You are an 18-year-old. A blogger to be precise. Your life is a mix of both post-high school memories and trying to step into the shoes of tender adulthood. You've attended a few parties here and there; all of which you most probably talked to some pretty bird (And told her you own a blog, of course)

She is mildly interested as you ramble on about the kind of stories you write and what a following you have; and you're saving to buy a domain (You lie; because every shilling you get either ends up in your stomach or as airtime)

"Ah...interesting,"

She says while checking whether her girlfriend has texted her. You try to cover for your utter lack of charm by asking her for a dance (Clearly knowing you have two left feet - but you saunter on nevertheless - no son of Koitalel ever backs off from a woman)

"A dance?"

She asks, with this look on her face that speaks volumes about your scant knowledge of history - or rather, current affairs. It hits you hard that the year is 2017 and not 1978 when you could just talk up a female and ask for a waltz.

Awkward.

"Uhmmm...ah...I mean, don't you want to grab a drink?"

You ask a second time, you are sweating at the armpits and you thank the benevolent gods that you wore a jacket - lest she smells fear.

"Well, I guess I don't mind,"

You realize you have not been breathing for the last what? 50 seconds? And you sigh and inhale before you pass out.

She said yes.

"What's your name again?...ah..don't tell me," She closes her eyes pretending to remember a name you never told her.

You will probably never know whether she ever did remember.

You take two Coke cans, open them and hand her one. (Coke; one because hard liquor has never seen the inside of your stomach; and two, you still live in your mother's place and any of her offspring who as much smells like alcohol is banished to the shed)

You talk with her and you find out that you both share a passionate love for smokie pasua, chapo madondo, nyama choma (Ah...a true Nairobian) and dry jokes - the Trevor Noah kind. You pleasantly resign to the fact that she's not one of these hare-brained Nairobi girls who insist you take them out to Java or Coldstone; when you can barely afford a decent meal of ugali (That's the glitterati type - with an Instagram following as big as her ego and a billion-dollar attitude)

She tells you she lives in Kahawa Sukari and you reply in a surprised voice; that you also live there (Although you have never been anywhere past Nairobi)

Somewhere in between this téte-a-téte, you begin to notice her full lips; the way she arched her eyebrow every time she asked a question; her Tom Ford Fleur de Portofino perfume; her dark, dense, short, kinky hair; the womanly slowness of her gait; her nose ring that caught light everytime she shook her head this way and that way; and maybe, just maybe, the way she ran her hands through her hair whenever you smiled.

She notices your second hand Ralph Lauren shirt from Muthurwa market, your vans for shoes (that you stole from your brother) the way you kept on smoothing that crease on your shirt and blushing like a 10-year old girl.

"Are you shy?" She asks.

"Me?...Uhmm..yes...I mean no," you stutter.

You feel thoroughly embarrassed and exposed as you try to hide your hands in your pockets.

"You're cute."

"You're not so badly off yourself,"

You calmly say, trying hard not to reveal the inner turmoil that is raging inside you. You have never felt like this; not ever since Beatrice-with-the-long-legs left you two years ago.

"Follow me."

And since you have no other choice - you follow her into one of the many rooms in the house.

She sits you on the bed and closes the door behind her. This is the point where all the sex education classes back in school come flooding back. You try to recall what was said about contraceptives and safe days.

"Have you ever done this before?"

"Uhmm..what?" You ask-and your blood pressure rises.

She comes and sits next to you and whispers in your ear. Naturally, something awakens in your pants and there is nothing you can do about it. You don't want her to start thinking that you are one of the easy ones. So you start to think of everything that turns you off (Ashy elbows, city council toilets and saggy tits) but none of this works because her hand is now on your crotch.

Now you try to remember whether you had a Durex tucked in your wallet because you cannot - I repeat - cannot let this chance pass.

It's a rollercoaster ride from here and you earnestly wish you never met her in the first place. She's got you cornered- and when you're most vulnerable.

"What do you want?" you ask.

"To be in Hell with you,"

She says in the midst of her soft moans, digging her nails deeper into your back. Her eyes a different colour altogether. Her back arched. With every move, her patience stretched to the limit. Her eyes shut in bliss. Her moans turned into demands.

You still remember the look on her face, frozen in your memory. Her expression contorted in a confusing mix of pleasure and anger.

All this time your mind was clear. Calm. You felt detached from your body; from what you were doing. It was as if you were watching it from afar.

You hear her let out a lustful gasp - as she breaks into a shattering orgasm. A feeling of pride wells up inside of you - you've been able (quite miraculously, of course) to satisfy a female.

You dress up, kiss her goodbye and leave.

You feel empty. You feel frustrated. You feel unfulfilled. You feel tired, desecrated and filthy. The kind of tiredness that weighs on your spirit and drains you of all emotion.

Her name is Alyssa.

She was using you.

And you loved it.

 A U T H E N T I C  A F R I K A N©

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MIXED FEELINGS III

“If I told you that a flower bloomed in a dark room, would you trust it?”

-Kendrick Lamar, Poetic Justice Ft. Drake

You are a 20-year old. A blogger to be precise. And a YUOEN fellow for that matter. Your life is an intriguing mix of bargaining with irate lecturers on assignment deadlines and trying to find the perfect canvas upon which you will paint the story of your life.

You have been to a few parties here and there with your particular breed of friends after attending Baraza’s goddamned SFL Friday class. A class which she would at times; to the evident disdain of students; extend the lecture by half an hour.

Most of you were actually more pressed to grab a hold of the guy who had promised a truckload of beer to those who voted for him at the student council elections; for such characters had a devil-like tendency of being as slippery as Rongai politicians after being elected. Thus, after receiving manna (liquor money) from heaven as promised, you would all get on that Friday Groovin’.

And so, the same gods who gave and took teenage loves are the very gods that had decreed that at the appointed hour; when your stomach was full of liquor and your vision hazy; you would proposition an attractive member of the fairer sex. And as was with all girls before, trying to make conversation with her was not as grand, especially without making her think you were just another guy who was driven more by his nuts than his brains.

You, probably, at the time of your drunkenness couldn’t quite point out what really struck her apart as gorgeous. But you weren’t the kind of guy just to hit on a girl by her looks. You remember telling her that she had a beautiful mind. And that nothing turned you on as much as a mind as hers.

You had heard her voice from what she wrote on her blog. A voice trying to exert her indifference to the expectations of the world. A voice yearning to be understood. A voice you could now see in her soft, brown eyes. A voice that echoed to the very depths of your heart. There was something by how she looked at you. How she subliminally communicated that she needed someone to talk to. Someone to rest her shoulder on. Someone to ease her pain away.

But even though you could feel the familiar feeling of affection creep into your emotional being. It wasn’t as before. Your perception of love had changed over time. But little did you know that the feeling was mutual. That her own will was against the entire idea. The idea that she could love again. The idea that she could even love after so much hurt. The idea that she could feel again. She had already resigned to the fact she’d be emotionally numb. Both of you hesitant to feel again. But as is with all human connections, both of you had no control.

 And as DJ Snake’s ‘A Different Way’ gently played in the background, and all you could see was her subdued figure against the dim lighting, you realized that she had broken through the wall you had built around yourself, and with a fairly less amount of effort. And even in your drunkenness, you all of a sudden wanted to breathe the same air as she did. To run your hands through her strawberry smelling hair. To feel her hand against yours. To hold her tight against yourself and tell her not to think. But feel.

And as fate willed it.

She was the missing color from your palette.

The missing tinge of vibrance you needed to paint into the story of your life.

 A U T H E N T I C  A F R I K A N

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MIXED FEELINGS II

I met her today. Surprisingly so. I knew she was around but I absolutely had no plans on meeting her; even though I had asked her out to meet up; eat cake and catch up. But really? Was I even going to do that? However, no matter how much I prayed to my ancestral spirits not to bump into her or anyone as remotely similar to her in town, was just for naught. Apparently, the grand scheme of things had its plan different. It was as if the universe had this planned out so surgically that I just found myself walking towards her; and her walking towards me, on that empty sidewalk.

Just like that.

It was so intense for me. Damn intense.

All the 6.5 pints of my blood rushed into my head and emptied out of it just as fast. Leaving myself utterly flustered.

Here she was. The only first girl that I had fallen in love with since I was even able to feel anything for the female kind. Right in front of me. And just as all the other times when I was with her; my hands were shaking like a leaf in a goddamned storm. Oh My God, my hands were so shaky. And I didn’t even know what to say. I was this incoherent mess. Making a total fool of myself.

And just to think that everything was getting out of hand; everything just came flooding back. And not flooding back in a good-sort-of-way but in a me-drowning-sort-of-way. The memories, the moments, the tree, the Trident.

“Why are your hands shaking?” she asks and I feel like snapping that she probably knows the answer to her question. But I can’t even talk.

It was her. It was always her. Even though I always lied.

I felt entirely fucked up; both inside my head and in my heart; or whatever was left of it, and even that which remained of it, was wild aflame.

Questions that were ought to be buried deep down the reserves of my mind surfaced with such force that I couldn’t even see clearly. Everything just faded into a blurry mess.

Had I fallen in love with her? Did I feel the same the moment our eyes locked on that empty sidewalk? Have I ever pictured the two of us for eternity?

The answer is singular.

But I can’t. I just can’t. I reckon that the relationships that the both of us are in are just distractions. To distract ourselves from the stark truth. The truth that the both of us had fallen so deeply and irrevocably in love that even when we broke up; the cords, ropes, strings or whatever that had held us together were not severed when we parted ways. They were firm in place. Seemingly, the scissors of heartbreak were as blunt as the back of a knife.

I felt like telling her how stupid and nervous I felt around her. Honestly, around other girls I was ever smooth, suave, cool. Around her I was this pile of mush. My tongue turned into a pillar of salt-the Lot’s wife kind of thing. My insides into molten heaving lava.

But. There is always a but in the story. But the but in this part of the story is laced with optimism. Hope for the future. Or nay? Who knows?

But. I will bid my time and wait. And wait.

Wait.

I do know not know what I am waiting for but I will hold on and wait. For the ordained time. The ordained moment. Ordained by fate. As her last words to me when we broke up.

“We’ll find each other again if fate wills it.”

If fate wills it.

Yet fate does not will it that we find each other today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not ever. Who knows? Who knows but fate?

Wherefore I am left with a singular option.

Wait.

 A U T H E N T I C  A F R I K A N

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MIXED FEELINGS I

So it came to be that the benevolent gods that gave and took teenage loves had willed that M. and I would be destined for each other. I had most certainly chased her for almost four years now, and this moment where our lips locked in intimate passion seemed like a scene off a Mills And Boon novel.

Through the four years that we communicated vague 'I-miss-yous' and 'I-can't-wait-to-see-yous' she went through two relationships and myself none. Both of her past boyfriends, current and newly ex, were close friends of mine. I remember the first time we met. And tried to know each other. The fact that I could not read her nor get past the veiled look in her eyes startled me; so to me, she was terribly intriguing, and painfully so.

At the end of every year, we would text each other often. Flirt heavily. But during those tiny stretches of time, I figured; ours was a relationship that was safe. Bound. In which both of you carefully avert from discussing anything of considerable depth. Shallow. We were both bat-blind to the things that happened in each of our lives. I did not give a damn. I was entirely convinced that ours was a match made in Heaven, less so in Hell.

The first time I took her out on a date was the beginning of an inevitable end. Yes, we went and ate KFC chicken, played Injustice on PlayStation and made out in a  tattoo parlour. Her pouring liquor on my Harvard sweatshirt so she could have it.

I guess she was the kind of girl not to bear herself fully to others but bear herself fully to the world. She's a good kisser, that I'd have to give it to her.

But(There's always a but in the story) there was something that had changed. The first time we kissed was an ethereal experience, my stomach twisted in undoable knots and my hands trembling badly. But the second time.

No magic. No tongue. Same girl.

It was time to go and I offered to take her home. We got into the Matatu; waiting for it to fill up. I asked her whether she wanted another Trident gum, yes, she said. She took the Trident packet and split it in half and said that never should I lose the other half.

A symbol of our love she said.

I went home feeling empty inside. I did not know why.

 A U T H E N T I C  A F R I K A N©

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Songs current rotation #24

Gesaffelstein & The Weeknd - Lost in the Fire

Snoh Aalegra - I Want You Around

Hiro Ft. Still Fresh - Doucement

Maverick Sabre - Slow Down Feat. Jorja Smith

Gary Luton - Horizon

Drake - Blem

TENDER - Slow Love

Kehlani - Butterfly

SG Lewis - Blue

Still Fresh - Mon Ami

London Grammar - Sights

Kehlani ft 6lack - RPG

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