To those we loved and lost

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Most writers are paranoid on the inside. Also, they’re mostly introverted, often saying most things about themselves but not enough for you to know them. They have mastered a way of telling so much, yet so little about themselves. When you interact, they can be talkative, a way of putting you in the comfort zone so that you can open up. Sometimes they can be quiet, giving you an ear so that you think they really care about what you are saying. As writers, we are selfish. We have mastered the art of exploiting people we meet for stories without their knowledge.

The downside of dating a writer is that you become part of a story. More precisely, you become a story. You enter into a reel, and your story develops like a film with each second. Your story develops according to your daily deed quality. During your good time with a writer, they might never mention anything about you during their writing as they are private people, but if things go down the drain there are 90% chances that you’ll become a story. The story that writer has been working for for years. People must know you.

We are akin to outgrown kids who love their mothers when bought presents and treat their mothers coldly when they come home empty handed.

When the year started, my woman left me. That is not news. How she left is what pricks me. For a moment, I wanted to dedicate Alvindo’s takataka song but she doesn’t understand Swahili. So I decided to swallow a heavy bolus of saliva and move on because there are many women, right? That is what I did.

Deep down, however, is a feeling that I must address this issue for me to be able to move on. She left me as if I was nothing, as if I was in for a night shag and then disappear in the morning.  She left me without saying she is breaking up with me. She never said anything or explained why. I just woke up one day and she was no longer taking my calls or replying to my messages. She blue ticked me on WhatsApp severally.

Having grown up literary on my own, somehow I learnt how to shield my feelings, or rather my emotions when things go wrong. I also left trivia for people with small hearts. I learnt to move on quite fast after a tragedy. The danger of being a man like me is that you fail to learn how to commit.  So I moved on… but have always been troubled by why she left me.

I met her late in 2017 in my buddy’s cyber. My buddy was and still is their driver. This means that the lady comes from a family of modest means. A family that doesn’t know what poverty smells like. I was on her heels and soon enough I was her computer teacher. She was 29 years then and I was 26 years.  It was not my first time to date an older lady. If anything, I had already dated even women 10 years older than me and handled them pretty well.

We started kicking it. The thing that attracted me mostly to her was her humility. Later on I began to like her more because she was an animal in bed. She knew what she wanted and she was not shy to go for it. Her prowess in bed made me miss her. 

So I loved her not because of who she was as a person but because of what she became when we were shagging. I grew into loving her from that. I loved her with each day though I felt that I was betting my love on the wrong place. Something was amiss and it left a rift so wide that it kept staring at me.  We mostly talked over the phone, and when we met, it was for sex. A few times she could ask me over, and as a humble young man, I went over to their place in Lavington, simply because I missed her and her cooking. As a chef, she cooks tasty meals. She makes dishes that you’ve seen on menus in Sankara and Hilton but you can’t read them because of their funny names. That is what she does.

I want you to, as a man, to picture of a woman who is both good in bed and in the kitchen. Imagine that. A woman who buys Louis Vuitton underwear and lipstick. I remember one day, during our second shag when she told me her knickers were Louis Vuitton. I didn’t care much because if she was still wearing it underneath no one was gonna notice. No one would care if you were wearing original Gucci boxers.

I started seeing so many qualities in her that I like in a woman. I love medium and heavy set bodied women. I wouldn’t want to get married to a slender woman because sitaki tutese watoto na ukonde. She was good in bed and in the kitchen so I was assured that I’ll enjoy sex for the rest of my life… plus she was the squirty type… and I was guaranteed of enjoying a good meal every day, adding some weight too.

Life was good. I had entertained the idea of marrying her. She didn’t. She did not tell me but having been in the profiling field for a while I knew it. Our goals were countries apart. Then one day she turned thirty, somewhere last year.  Suddenly she started having issues with my beard and hair. She began telling me that at 30 she was having a clear perspective of things. I don’t talk much when someone takes the alternate route and starts hitting me right on the face. I absorb things, and when I get fed up I explode. I told her that if she wanted me to shave I could, provided that she also stops whining.

She was a whiner. Every time I called I became her dumping pit- oh baby I have headache, baby my blood pressure is up, baby I feel sick, baby I am stressed. She stressed me with her complaints. I was tired of calling and not enjoying a conversation even if it is for once. I knew she had a right to tell me her shit because I was her confidant, but she didn’t know how to limit it, or listen to me and at least know how I was holding on. She was selfish and stubborn.

I believe that most women are stubborn. However, her stubbornness surpassed that of all other women. I am a man of action so when she complained of sickness I’d offer to take her to hospital but she’d decline and say she’ll go. But she never did. She never listens to admonition.

Anyway she left me. For whatever reasons. I am not going to mourn over it because I’m already mourning my Jaboma. Many of you don’t know who Bella was to me. Our friendship was tight and I shuddered with pain and grief when the news of her demise reached me. I felt taste leaving my mouth. Saliva became sour and I felt like running away from myself. I have been agonizing silently, crying mostly when I remember that she is no more.

We first met at YALI last year. Our friendship grew up from there, slowly like a plant in the hot desert. YALI was over but we were not over. We became best of friends, calling and texting each other, going to church together on Saturdays, visiting each other when loose and eating out together when we could afford it. More importantly, we laughed a lot. Her gentle, genuine smile charmed me. I loved her when her glasses were off, she would squint at me and make funny faces that sent me to have good belly laughter.

We were building something, a friendship that could have seen better days. But now that dream is lost. I am not going to dishonor her by including her in this shitty post. I’ll mourn her in my own right way. I’ll still keep the photo of her and me as my phone’s screensaver. I will print it as a souvenir.

The year has had its share of me already. The last few days have been horrible. They have drained me of the energy to live. I can’t summon enough energy to write. My juices are at the basement. My mind is clogged with chaff. I don’t know how to clear my mind off now that I don’t drink.

If I had enough money, if I weren’t in deep debt, I would have boarded a small plane to a place where people don’t know. I’ll drive that kaplane, and land nowhere, a place where I can interact with holy thoughts, somewhere I can cry my troubles off, somewhere I can holler and release my  pain, a place where I am not restricted to do anything that can help me come to myself.

But this is a dream. A terrible dream. Perhaps all I need is to place my head on a woman’s thighs and sleep for three days.  So the struggle is on. I pray for God to give me good health, and to proliferate my energy so that I can find the will to face another day.

I am starting to miss interviews. I want to begin interviewing people with stories that can transform others. If you have one, hit me so that we can talk. Whatsapp 0716503589.

Mzangila Snr,

Where shall we go, we who wander in this wasteland in search of better selves?

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About Mzangila

Mentor, media consultant, photographer, editor, poet, writer, and counselor.

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