Intoxicated
Don’t you just
love how we fall in love? It’s mysterious. Like the way we fall asleep –
slowly then all at once; John Green’s words not mine.
Our scathed
reality slowly ushers in a fantasy; a lustrous moment that takes our breath
away. Literary so if you’re into a plus-size beauty and you want to sweep her
off her feet. I am willing to bet that those castle-in-the-sky moments are why
people in love do crazy things.
Things like staring at each other's eyes. Well
because on a normal day I’d hardly stare at any eyes; not man eyes and not
woman eyes either, I simply look at people’s eyes. You look at people’s eyes
when talking to them, its courteous to, but you stare when you’re in love.
At that point when
you’re the only rose in someone’s garden little
else matters. Dudes become generous because of love. You’ll see Kinuthia, with
all his stingy behavior agree to buy ‘Felly Fun’ roasted maize with the pilipili thing they smear on it. And
both of them will be happy. She’ll giggle incessantly as they walk and
disappear into the sunset. Kinuthia won’t feel cheated off his money.
He’ll push her all the way to her home, two,
maybe three ridges away, get a peck on the cheek (in the village they don’t really kiss but
the peck is an equivalent, it will make even his toes tingle with excitement)
and he’ll sleep under the stars in his Thingira
a happy lad. He’ll look for more money to spend on her tomorrow.
It’ll feel Christmas; exhilarating. He’ll say he
feels funny about Felly Fun – because they don’t have a word for goosebumps in
Kikuyu.
And about the
lemon and pepper stuff that people smear on roast maize, isn’t that slightly
unhygienic? There is this day I was chatting up a maize roasting guy, do we
have a name for them? To pass time as I waited for one of those friends that
tell you ‘nipee five minutes’, turn
up 30 minutes late and the first thing they say is ‘sijakaa sana. Sindio?’
So at the maize
guy, five heads bought maize. Each squeezing the lemon piece with
pepper (or whatever the red stuff is anyway) and running it, slowly – some did
it fast, against the maize. How many hands? Five damn hands. Say one hand has shaken
another 10 hands since morning – it was around 3pm – the total hands that will have
touched that lemon will be fifty. Fifty!! I suggest that if you can’t go
without roast maize, like if you’re crazy in love with roast maize, maybe deworm
often. But again what do I know, akina Kibet
have been eating those things since time immemorial and they’re still fine.
But Kinuthia and
Felly Fun won’t mind the roast maize or the lemon thing, they’re in love. It is
part of the daze of love. And before I forget, there is that weird thing I read
at Biko’s where he christened a chic as ‘Freaky Fiona’. Isn’t that a weird pet
name? Freaky Fiona would do weird things to his guy during copulation (don’t
mind the choice of words, I am on a mission to make use of the stuff I learned
in high school and that I can’t apply anywhere else, like the word copulation).
But still Freaky Fiona? No. I think I will have to chose the pet name my missus
will be calling me.
So speaking of a
missus let me handpick one love story of my life. There’s this girl who I knew
back in the day. Disclaimer here, back in the day can be any time between the
third Saturday of Feb, 2005 and four years ago. I don’t want my sister who
mysteriously found my blog to try time-guessing this.
So I was in my
teens and with all my exuberance I only understood somewhat like twenty percent
of what love entails. Thought I was a Mutahi Ngunyi of love though. Choosing a
girl then was easy. The only (sloppy) standard I had was that she looks good -
physically. And the loving I knew was easier; simply write to her as often as the
meager pocket money I had from mzee allowed
for postage expenses. I was a good writer. Splendid at drafting those
‘top-notch’ letters that made me more than Suzy’s Cupcake, I was her Kikuyu Shakespeare.
Yeah she was called Suzy. No freaky pet name. We never had such then.
Here is a rare extract
of my prowess
Dearest Suzy,
With love from my heart, I pick my golden pen from the basket of
love to write to you this letter. I hope this letter finds you in the best of
health as bestowed to me and you by the gods of love.
Time and capacity have teamed with ability and enabled me to jot
something down on this *benedicted sheet of paper. ……..I want to say I love you
spontaneously and continuously. Like the flow of Sagana river. ………. How my
heart beats when I see you puts Tom Tom drum players in South Africa to shame.
The other day I saw you and my metabolism stopped. I couldn’t eat even meat
which I like a lot…….I want to marry you Suzy and have beautiful, chubby kids…..
Blah blah blah
So I have edited
it a little bit but you get the gist.
Then right about the
end would be some song dedication from Westlife, Boys to men, Nsync, Iglesias,
Keysha, and other musicians we fancied then. Before sealing the letter we’d
apply cologne to it – just so she is sure it’s from you. Remember that vibe of
I love the smell of your perfume? Yah that kinda stuff
I thought I’d
marry Suzy. Seriously. But then on this other funkie I met a ‘rangi ya thao’ Caro with all the
dimples, the perky chest, the bum and the gorgeous eyes. Okay lets back up to the eyes. She had those sensual and alluring eyes that you could see through to her heart but also carried some hint of mischief. I went Kinuthia on feelings; no English words kapsaa. Even love-struck isn't the word.
I leaned on the Kigo guy, my
wing-man. Kigo was one of those guys from Murang’a with a heavy accent but big
hearts. He had these endless stories that were centered on a certain river in
their village and his journeys to and fro school in Tulaga buses. Most were unbelievable but interesting. He used to
lie. He actually had twice the number of stories as the commutes he’d made. But
I never cared; the best of wing-men are good liars. And the only other place
Kigo had been to beside Murang’a was Kinangop. Such a tourist. Oh and he loved Ovacados too. They somehow soothed his failed attempts at bagging chics.
But me I bagged Caro. It didn’t take long to get her to converse;
Me: So, dimples
yeah?
Caro: Huh?
Me: I like dimples.
Dimples are pretty.
Caro: Me too, know
anyone who has them? Ebu smile I see
if you have them.
Me: Ha, I already
like you. You’re funny. (She was funny or prolly the dimples were just
distracting)
Caro: So what’s
your project about? (It was a science congress)
Me: People with
dimples (You can’t let such a conversation digress to boring science stuff, I’d
have let down my ancestors)
Caro: C’mmon,
enough with the funny stuff. Seriously, what’s your project about?
Me: There’s more
funny where that funny came from.
I said a whole lot
more stuff here and so fast forward to the point she guffawed, somewhat, and then
we stared a bit. Love staring.
Caro’s
eyes somehow convinced me she was the one. She was way cooler than Suzy. Like a
long way cooler. She had this weng in her voice that I’d make Bruno Mars kind
of sacrifices just to hear. I’d fight John Cena for her, ata kill Mufasa the lion. She even came from Nairobi man. And
Nairobi was a synonym of all things cool. We got along mostly because I never
had the accent from Mount Kenya and I made her laugh.
And just like that
I forgot about Suzy. I got my epiphany moment way after Caro and I were no
longer a thing. I realized I wasn’t shit when it came to love (excuse my
French). I was just on a teenage roller-coaster of emotions. That was never love
it was the opposite, your fall in all at once and then out slowly.
There always came
a better one. Like those Rongai Nganyas.
Of course love is
more sophisticated now. There are these crazy standards, the inner beauty
thing, dines and wines at fine restaurants, regular trips to Galitos and Pizza
Inn and KFC and Java and Café Deli and other fancy places. And akina Suzy and
Caro are now different. They have more leverage now to deny ‘entering the box’.
They have a job, prettier faces; smeared with lip gloss and massacre (there
this kid I know who calls Mascara that) and lip stick, bums sticking out and
all.
I bet they would
literary make you walk a wire to become their Bean-in-Githeri now.
Regardless, love
is what it is. We can’t refuse to stare at each other’s eyes sometimes. We all
get that Suzy or Caro or Freaky Fiona that drive us crazy. The one that, in the
words of Idibia, will make you float like a pot upon the Nile (Confession; I
did serenade another one of akina Suzy with this Jam, It was lit I’m telling
you, we even nini’d).
In good and bad
ways and big and small ways, we fall in love; we get intoxicated.
Love is
intoxicating.
This is an amazing piece. Kudos brother.
ReplyDeleteThanks for passing by Kweyu
Deletegood piece . . .could not help but reminisce about high school and the love letters I received.
ReplyDeleteThis is totally awesome......Great!
ReplyDeleteJust beautiful