I’m having an impromptu beer at a club in the city. All the tables are taken except for this one with a lovely lonely girl thumbing her phone. Her face is sullen and her body sagged as if she has just lost her husband to a slay queen.
She’s in a cream coat. On her neck, an oval face that is easy to like. Her forehead ends in the middle of her head and then her hair begins. Which means she’s from House of Mumbi. Which also means she was born holding a jug full of water ready to flood your broth. She could be twenty-five or thirty-five. You can never be sure with women. I always add or deduct ten years from their ages.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask.
“No.” She lifts her head momentarily and sinks her face back to her phone.
On the table is a bottle of Cider and a wine glass filled to the brim with its contents. She holds the glass by the body instead of the stem, which suggests that she’s trying to warm her drink or the only class she knows is in Primary School.
I sit and order a Lager. I have no plans of entertaining anyone but it happens the world is full of people and when you find yourself next to one you best move your jaws. The music is loud. I lean in, almost smooching her cheek.
“I didn’t catch your name?”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you.”
I ignore the shade, “I’m Kevin.”
“I’m Rose.”
Images of the Titanic flash in my head.
“Is that a stage name?”
“What?”
“Is that your stripper name?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I say as my drink arrives.
I lean back and take a swig. Four other girls join our table. They order bottles of Savanna, take selfies, and do a jig with their shoulders, oblivious to our mating dance. Rose steals a glance at me, the expression on her face apologetic. I lean in again unable to resist her big brown eyes.
“I decided to keep off. I don’t want to meet my maker.”
She brings her lips to my ear. One of the girls from the group that joined our table has stood up and is inventing a new dancing style.
“I’m sorry, it’s stress.”
“Work?”
“Yeah,” she puts her wine glass down.
“So this is your zone?” I don’t know why I said zone. Hope the people with TikToks love me now.
“Something like that.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in marketing.”
Third Wheel
She leans back and removes her coat and I get a chance to look at her profile. She’s in a white blouse with long sleeves which she’s rolling up her arm, dark grey pants, and small pointy boots. She has a watch on her right hand which faces downwards. She has the kind of figure that European men like. I lean in again.
“The ring on your finger, are you married?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to be removed out of bed with a machete.”
“Who is taking you to bed?”
“It’s a hypothetical.” You and I both know it’s not. I change gears.
“What exactly do you do in marketing?”
“I’m a telemarketer.”
“What is that?”
“Google it.”
The girls that had joined us leave. I lean to have another swig and she leans into me out of habit that I will say something. I want to ask her about the ring again but women wear rings for all sorts of reasons. A promise to themselves, a commitment to the church or to push off thirsty males.
“What are your plans tonight?” I ask instead.
“Nothing much, I’m just waiting for a friend then I leave.”
“I’m also not here for long, should I call an Uber?”
“For what?”
“Transport?”
“I’m not ready for that.”
“What about a coffee?”
“What do you mean?” She raises her left brow mischievously as if coffee is code for something lewd. The dating scene evolves while we blink.
“A serious coffee, like in a restaurant?”
She laughs and gets up. I think to go to the bathroom. She leaves me with her coat and drink. ‘How to Build Trust. A TED talk coming soon.’ I decide I will buy her a drink because she’s good company. We won’t exchange contacts. I won’t take her home but at the same time, I won’t say no if she warms up to the idea. I’m having these thoughts when she gets back with her friend in tow. A tall dark guy.
He shakes my hand and sits down so that Rose is sandwiched between me and him. I look at the gent. He has a face like that of a watchman or I might just be getting worked up by the sight of a little competition. I think of leaving, but I have already started drilling the well, I might as well stick around and see if there is water down there.
Storm Over Paradise
I lean into Rose.
“Who is your friend?”
“You want to know him?”
“Is he your guy?”
“No.”
“Are you lovers?”
“He’s a friend.”
“What do you mean ‘a friend’?”
“Platonic.”
I fish out my phone and punch, ‘Platonic’ into Google.
Platonic
/Plo: tonic/
Adjective
(of love or friendship) intimate and affectionate but not sexual.
I giggle and lift my head. There are more bottles of alcohol on the table now. The gent is seated with one of his hands stretched out towards Rose so that it seats on the rim of the chair and not on her shoulders. I can tell he’s marking his territory, urinating on his tree like a baboon in the wild.
Rose looked interested at first but now she’s sulkier than before. She’s fingering her phone. I had eyeballed it. She was reading quotes. Girls get extremely philosophical especially when a relationship goes south. That’s when they start saying things like, ‘I feel so light, like a boulder has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel free.’ Break her heart enough times and you will be staring at St. Thomas Aquinas, not your girlfriend.
I lean into my second beer which is almost done and she leans into my ear.
“You’re leaving?”
“Almost, do you want to give me your number?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Her phone is on the table. The screen is cracked. I wonder silently if it fell on her forehead while she was scrolling it in bed. I power it on—it doesn’t have a password, which says, ‘She has nobody to hide things from.’ or, ‘It’s not her main phone.’ I tap the green receiver and key in my number then tap the receiver again.
“I don’t have credit,” she cries but I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. Guess that Bamba Five is good for something, eh?
I add contact. Her attention is magnetic on the screen. I type in, ‘Kev Hot Chap’ and before I’m halfway through she’s already breaking into a laugh. A man can dream, can’t he?
“Do you want to give me a push to the door?”
“You’re so ambitious.”
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”
I get up and stretch my hand. She takes it. I try pulling her to her feet, but she doesn’t budge. I smile, take my bag from the chair where her coat is and leave her to her platonic friend.
McOgutu 