Blog Changes

I have moved here

Kenya Vs Mozambique, a 2-1 Victory.

Finally, a victory. Three matches left: against Nigeria at home in September, against the Carthage Lions (I think) in Tunisia, and against Mozambique in their country. We stand no chance of qualifying for the world cup next year, but we have our sights on the Africa cup of nations to be played early next year in Angola. Three teams out of a group of four will qualify.

The boys played a beautiful game, except there were many missed chances of scoring, it was almost painful to watch. Whichever way we play, what matters in the end is the goals we score.

The stars scored in the first 10 minutes of the game and the goalkeeper of the Mozambican team was substituted pronto. There was drama when he refused to leave the field, poor sportsmanship, but I felt his pain. He was rudely pushed off the field by his team mates and skulked to the edge of the field Drogba style, accompanied by shouts from Kenyan fans, encouraging him to remain in Kenya after the game. My attention was now on him as he yanked off his shirt and was surrounded by some guys. He was seen being escorted to an ambulance, and again Kenyan fans shouted: “Peleka Mathare.”

Every Mozambican player who went down was booed to get up, and every foul committed against a Kenyan demanded a red card from us fans and a penalty.

The first half ended with no further goals or incidents. Though their (Harambee Stars) kit had no names as usual, this time I could actually make out most of the players.

There is this player whose name I could not catch, something close to Taiwo Otieno. He was half Kenya, half British and then he renounced his British nationality to play for Harambee Stars. Fans were screaming for him to play, he plays in the U.S. and there was no point flying him 20 000 miles to come warm the bench. We finally got to see him in the dying minutes of the game.

Eye candy..this Taiwo.

Hey angered us when he removed what I think are the best strikers- Patrick Oboya and Dennis Oliech. There were shouts of “Hey must go”.

In the second half, Mozambique managed to equalize. All energy drained out of me(despite a number of canned sodas)..I could not see us losing. If we lost the match, that would be the end of our hopes of making it to the Africa cup of nations.

The stars woke up and someone scored..but wait, it was disqualified because of the offside rule. Like who understands it, tsk tsk. Fans were now angry, this referee must be from Mozambique. He is favouring them too much.

Someone else was brought down in the box, and we were awarded a penalty. MacDonald Mariga slotted it in and we led 2-1. We played a defensive game afterwards and were relieved when the final whistle blew. Of course, we wanted a more convincing victory, something like a 5-0 thrashing, but a fan can dream.

There were no security incidents since FIFA had restricted the number of fans allowed into the stadium, and the Mexican wave could not be pulled off. The turnout was not too bad though, and fans always come carrying these bags full of beer and/or miraa. One in every two male fans was chewing.

As we left, fans appealed to the conspicuously large number of policemen to at least throw one tear gas canister. “Kamoja tu..turushie kamoja tu, afande.” It had been rather too peaceful.

The Gothic Top

This is for intelligensia and other curious minds..

The Damned.

And as a bonus, perhaps you have seen this:

Friday Night

We check in late. Coming early to a bash, unless you are a close friend of the host, could mean that you are just there for the free alcohol, which is not our intention. We call to ask the venue. Hostess, who is sounding a little tipsy, tells us to find her at the gate. Sure enough, the party has spilled outside, and by the dark patch where the security lights don’t reach, I can see Dude X emptying his bladder. I wonder if there is a bathroom at the venue.

Hostess says hi, and ushers us in. In the tiny kitchen, B is the bartender. He serves us this punch, but he refuses to tell us what is in it. I can tell the passion juice though. Later, actually the following morning, I will be told there was rats (short for muratina-a traditional brew), Kenya King, Safari Cane, Smirnoff Vodka and Passion juice. I know, semi-lethal brews, all mixed up. Holding plastic tumblers, we go our separate ways to check out the party.

Here is KL, I had thought he was on holiday? I smile and chat up with him. His hug is lingering, but am sure not encouraging it. He is already halfway past drunk, as is almost everyone else. This concoction is working wonders. The small two bed roomed apartment is teeming with people. I see very few familiar faces. The music is loud as usual, I wonder how the neighbours are coping. Hostess’ immediate neighbor is a family with school going kids. Time for a refill, so long KL.

B is his usual flirty self. He still isn’t telling me what’s in this yellow juice. He turns to argue with some guys and I wander back into the party. I am one of those people will stand at a corner observing. On the dance floor are these two chicks outdoing each other in shaking “whatcha your momma gave yer”. The dance floor is this area of the sitting room that has been cleared of furniture. The pal I had come with is sitting on a table somewhere. I go to ask her how it’s going.

This guy is seated next to her and has refused to budge, saying “ Nataka kuwa kama sadwish.” He wants to be like a sandwich, LOL. We let him be, and he keeps calling us, “baby you are fine.” It’s making me smile. The chicks on the dance floor are now removing their sweaters, it’s getting hot in here. And am thirsty too, time for another refill.

The playlist is mostly ragga and dancehall. Beanie man with some ass shaking track or other. Some guys have joined the floor and my space on the table is gone. I find some space on the settee after some little jig on the floor, and find myself next to a strange face. Most people here are actually not from this campus, and the few that are; I haven’t seen before. I am chatting up with some girl who is supposed to be studying somewhere, according to her mother. Here she is..she mentions something about J. uh-huh, I had heard J had a new wife. So this is her, hmm…

It’s not getting any cooler in here, so I get my third refill on the way out. I meet J’s brother. He tells me the story of how he quit the grass for good. He says in shagz, the people grow their own grass, and he confirms it’s first rate stuff. And it’s cheap too. So this guy gave them a bundle (Hata ya kukuongeza juu wewe ni customer wagu..) and some additional because they are good customers. So they smoked so much, and it made him so hungry he went home and had three plates of githeri. He then topped it up with 5 ears of corn(check out 3TOC’s story (or should I say 5 maize cobs of ‘young’ boiled maize.) He tells me his stomach has never pained him so.

I talk a little longer with J’s bro. Some guys are leaving now but am staying, it’s still early. My plastic cup is empty again. I get my nth refill and find myself ‘sadwished’ next to this guy and one of the dancer chicks. I say hi and introduce myself.

Dancer chick (D.C) leaves, and I introduce myself to GoodLooker. Reason am calling him GooldLooker (GL) is because I recognize a potential flirt-mate when I see one.

I can tell GL is a smoker. But he has a nice voice, what was his name again? He just introduced himself. I tend to forget names very quickly, in fact most times, immediately they are said. I ask him again anyway, he says he understands. But he hasn’t forgotten mine. D.C is shaking in our faces. The other guy on the right asks me:

“Ngai, hata wewe unasorora?” You can’t be ogling her too?

“Shouldn’t I? Kwani kuna shida?”

“Wewe ni dame.” You are a fellow girl.

I don’t want to get into an argument on whether chicks are supposed to look at fellow chicks dancing, or the definition of ogling and other opinions. I turn my attention back to GL. We are making small talk now, but there is an undercurrent that am immensely enjoying. Of course this is going nowhere, I decided that a long time ago. But I can enjoy the moment just before nowhere arrives.

Hostess comes back to cut the cake, it’s her birthday bash. We sing at our hoarsest and uncoordinated-most. We munch cake and wash down with the semi-lethal brew.

GL wants to go out for a smoke. I accompany him. At the gate, there are still party goers in various stages of drunken induced acts. Ludacris, a guy with cornrows-what we just call lines, is washing the fence. I confirmed there was a clean bathroom inside and am asking GL just why guys are avoiding using it. He says, “Maybe there is more freedom outside.”

GL and his crew are leaving now. He gives me his number. Am not sure I’ll ever call but I save it all the same. Now that he is gone, am getting bored. I can’t imagine going back inside, and besides, am feeling sleepy. It’s now 3 a.m.

I find the owner of the house outside near the hanging lines chatting with his friends, who are bare feet. They can’t locate their shoes, and I can’t get their explanations of how they came to misplace them. Owner is supposed to be asleep by now since he has to go to work by 8.30, he told me this 3 hours ago when he was locking himself in his bedroom. I ask him how come he is still awake, he tells me he lost the key, I wonder if he’ll make it to work tomorrow. He says he’s fine.
I ask for they key to Hostess’ place and she sets out a place for me. I gratefully sink into sleep.

My alarm goes off at six, and I switch it off. I finally get up around 9. Hostess and the others are stirring. This guy comes staggering in, he says, “Hii ni gauge gani, sijawahi amka ka bado nimelewa!” (What kind of alcohol was that? I’ve never woken up drunk before.) that is when Hostess reveals what was in the mixture, while pulling out some remaining Smirnoff. She asks us if we’ll take good morning shots. Ah, well, what the heck, if it will help me wake up (some logic here?)..

And that is a typical bash in campus for you.

The Nightmare of Withdrawing Over the Counter

I need cash, and instead of a five minute dash to the ATM machine, having no ATM card, I find myself having to make a trip to the main banking hall. Here I am, wearing my pencil jeans, my gothic top and almost-three inch heels. Smile at boda boda guy and hook my leg over the passenger seat. I can feel the bumps on the road…slow down boda guy; can’t you see these pencils are too tight? I am afraid they may bust. The other day J asked me if I have to lubricate myself to wear them. Ludicrous I know, it’s just that he’s an old flame who still flirts with me. You think I should leave him alone? Well…I left him a long time ago, it’s him doing the flirting this time, I swear. Okay, bye, thanks for the (rough) ride…now to take a matatu.

Jeez, where are the mats? Been standing for almost 20 minutes, why did I feel sweet for the matatu that just departed? Please don’t talk to me, fellow waiting passengers, am in no mood to be friendly today, besides I woke up late. You actually talking to me? Yeah, I’ve been here for almost 15 minutes, Dude-with-Shady-Sunglasses-and-Funny-Hairstyle. Don’t worry that am turning and looking at the other side, a sure sign of disinterest. As I explained, am not in a friendly mood, which is why most of what am saying is not coming out loud. But am taking the next matatu that comes along.

Oh, here it is. It’s so full, but the conductor is giving me his seat. I’ll take it, but am regretting a few minutes later because another passenger has just entered and am forced to sit in space, literally. There is this space between the seats in a matatu that acts as a passageway for back seats. Am dangling off one side of the seat and perhaps I should gain a few more pounds so I can sit in the ‘space’ more comfortably. Am hating this ride, can’t wait to be over. Conductor, just take the cash, don’t bother saying something witty, I won’t laugh, I promise you that.

Finally, here we are. Ok, to the inquiry desk. Yes, Reception Guy. I have to sign the activation form for my account, I know, it’s been dormant. Not because of me, I assure you. I am not in charge of putting money into the account you see, only withdrawing it, and for the past six months, the person in charge of putting money into the account has been giving it to me directly. Oh, you have to take this withdrawal slip to be signed by the manager since I have no ID. Fine, I’ll wait.

Five minutes, how will I know it’s been signed? And I can see the manager through the glass window talking to a client? Can’t she just sign my slip…what’s taking her so long? I am not going to pace, just stand and stare. Finally, she is beckoning me…okay, Miss Manager, just so you know, this is the hundredth time am repeating my theft story, so just sign? What? I have to now join the withdrawal queue? Isn’t that the queue that is almost spilling outside? Do I have a choice? ATM card…I am still waiting for that. Okay, thanks anyway.

Oh Mon Dieu, this is the longest queue I have been on since first year when I was paying my school fees. Am glad my-not-so-old-man is doing it now, though that means I can’t lie about how much fees I pay in order to take a few thousands for myself.

Let’s see, where is the tail of this multiple S queue? Behind the Quiet-Personality Guy(Q.P)? Squeezing through the ATM queue now…here I am, Q.P Guy. I wish I had my phone, I’d be on twitter right now, or facebook. Am so bored, how will I get through it? I wish I had even carried my novel…that psychological thriller by someone Kellerman.

I guess am going to have to look for some way to amuse myself for the one hour or so that I’ll be standing on this line. It’s hot in this hall, Jesus, where is the air conditioning? Hey, who is this guy? Is he cutting the queue? Squeezing past me now, so unapologetic…oh, the pungent whiff of tobacco, he’s a smoker. He seems to find his place in the queue, I get it now. He had gone out for a smoke. Smart move, not just because smoking is prohibited, but because the room might bust into spontaneous flames…it’s that hot. I have to remove this sweater.

Mr. Tall Man…you seem to be the only tall one around. It’s like the world is shorter or something. Everyone here is as short as me, or just a little taller. Oh no, don’t look at me…no, not even my bust. I know, I know, it’s conspicuous. Am wearing one of those modern bras that push your high chest even higher into your face. Yes, I can breathe, I just can’t see my toes without bending into an acrobatic angle. Ah, I see…now your interest has shifted your attention from what’s beneath my top to what’s drawn on it.

Let me explain why it’s goth. On it are these two nude chicks…sitting at some angle so no exposed vital parts, but both have wings. One has a halo over her head, the other a pair of horns. They are seated on a skull…I wish I still had my Chinese phone, I would have put up a photo. Anyway, below the depiction is the caption DAMNED. Did I mention it’s a glow in the dark kind of thing? I love this top…I even refused to give it to Cliffo Small as a souvenir. Maybe when I finish campus, though I doubt it will fit him. He’s pretty muscular, you know. No, that’s not how I know…I just hug him every time we meet so I know.

Second guy from front, what are you doing? Am sooo irritated, yet I stare in horrid fascination. Why are you picking at a clean beard? Wait a minute…it’s a miniature pimple that you are turning into a monster one…stop it! Now! Before I say it out loud. Look away? I just can’t…don’t know why. Could you be an obsessive compulsive guy? I can see your fingernails are bitten short…do you swallow your nails when you chew them? Fine, I can’t stand your pickings any more, I have to look away. Straight into the mirror.

Am confronted my browning wild hair. I combed it this morning, it does have a habit of sticking out. My mum says I have inherited that from my father, well, she knew him back when he used to have an afro. I remember how my bro has been refusing to shave his hair…and his defense is that my dad had an afro at his age, why can’t my brother have one? Needless to say, he shaved it in the end…my dad is still boss. Bro is not yet in campus so he can’t do anything he wants.

Finally, I’ve turned a corner…thirty minutes gone? My thoughts are killing me. So far, I haven’t said a word out loud. Where are the young people in this hall? It’s like am the only one, at least the only one under 25 with a dress code of jeans. Oh, there you are Young Dude. Really, eye contact? Am not interested. Where is your hand going? Hmm….you are trying to impress me by ‘chomoaing’ that phone…don’t bother, I can tell it’s Chinese. I am experienced, my brother, besides mine actually looked almost authentic. I see you have turned another bend in the queue and out of my line of vision. Good riddance.

At least now there are some 20 people behind me. Lady in Pink, tsk, tsk….I know the decency debate, but you can wear fitting clothes. You are practically floating in yours, but it is your call anyway. Aren’t you in your early thirties? Take it easy. Oh, I see, you are studying me now. Disapproval oozes from you, I can feel it. Don’t mind me smiling out loud…these pencil jeans are in fashion. Besides, if it makes you feel better, the heels are killing me.

Why is everyone here wearing a weave? Including Matronly-Woman-In-Purple-with-Green-Plastic-Basket. She reminds me of a primary school teacher on her way to retirement with a farm and some cows. Yes you, what’s in the basket? Can’t see from this angle, besides, you have covered it with one of those ‘vitambaas.’ Looking closely, I can now see it’s a wig, not a weave. A good thing am a distance away, I am sorely tempted to yank it from your head. Not unkindly though….it’s the restlessness that comes from being in a queue.

Finally, just one more bend…Guy-From-Deposit-Queue-Opposite, you are not my type, so please, quit staring at me. I swear, I don’t like attention…I can assure you when am in campus I don’t stand out. I have seen outrageous dressing. A good thing your queue is short, and moving rapidly. Still haven’t given up? How can you be looking sideways like that, you might have neck-ache later.

At last, am facing the cashier. It’s been almost an hour. I have spent it composing this blog post, which is true, by all accounts, I can assure you.

Of Cute Cops and Replacing Lost Cards

Boris Kodjoe, not a cop but you get my point.

Any student in a Kenyan (public) university will tell you to always stay at least 100 yards away from a policeman. The rules are: one: never be within 100 yards of a cop (am not sure how long is 100 yards but what I mean here is a reasonable distance away..), two: never approach a policeman(whether to report anything minor-like a disturbance that is not violent, or to say hi.) three: if by any chance you find yourself face to face with one, treat him with all the respect you can muster. If you can’t, fake it.

Being a policeman in Kenya is not a glamorous job. It may be in movies, maybe novels, just doesn’t happen here. And there is this perpetual enmity between university students and cops, who take every chance they can get during a strike to hurl a tear gas canister at you, or if they catch up with you (you need to be fit to get away from cops during a strike!), woe unto you because they will club you to unconsciousness. If you are unlucky, you might not wake up. Perhaps it was the day Lord finally called you, and you catch a bullet ‘apparently fired in air to disperse the rowdy students.’

I’ve been waiting for the thief who lifted my phone and wallet from my room to return my IDs…and since I can’t sit around forever, I decided to take action and move on. That is how I found myself at the Police Station, and I was feeling like a character in the (unscripted?) Kenyan comedy, Inspekta Mwala. With this semi-fearful, semi-respectful expression on my face, I asked if I could report a theft.

The cop at the desk was really courteous. He asked a few questions here and there…then brought out this big book-the biggest I’ve seen so far, and wrote for sometime. I was watching him all this time, nothing else to do since the walls are bare of posters or anything distracting. Cute cops exist in movies…but once in a while in real life, surprises come your way. Like a young, good looking and courteous cop.

Objectively speaking (humour me)..he was tall dark and handsome, young too. And professional. He had these long tapering fingers with clean, short nails. He spoke a mixture of Sheng and English. A legible handwriting…I wonder what else I noticed. Or did not notice…

Anyway, I’d expected some bureaucracy and was not disappointed. I got the school ID abstract free, but if I wanted one for the ATM card and national ID, I had to pay Kshs. 50 each. And I had to go to the Thika Police Station…asking where it is in Thika, the cop was like:

“Si you know the City Hall?” The few places in Thika I know are the supermarket, the stage and the bank. City Hall? Why would I know it? So anyway, I decided to ask the conductor of the matatu I would take.

Thinking I might kill two birds with one stone, I went to the bank to cancel my ID and met myself in an un-air conditioned room full of humanity and dirty floors. Equity Bank really needs to install air conditioning in their banking halls as well as their ATM centers. They should also clean their halls…the floor was really muddy. Maybe it has much to do with their clientele…my friends have been telling me I need to change banks for image’s sake. But I ask whether they can withdraw Kshs. 100 from a Barclays ATM. The least you can withdraw from some banks is Kshs. 500, but much lower in Equity.

The queues at the bank were long…and am not a patient person. Previously, I’ve never been one to use the main hall, the ATM did it for me. So I gave up for that day…and decided to come back the following day early.

Finally here I am with a waiting card for my national ID in two months, a promise of an ATM card in two weeks, and waiting to reapply for the school ID. The other miscellaneous cards will be hard to replace…I don’t even remember where I got some of them. I also had enough of family and friends’ passport photographs that used to rotate for the place of honor (display ‘pocket’ of the wallet). They will be replaced gradually. Let’s not even think about the 1000 (I think) numbers I had in both SIM cards and phone.

As for the cop, he did joke towards the end of writing in the big book, something to the effect of lunch. I laughed appropriately and said I’d be back, of course I haven’t been back. But you never know…besides, he has my number (not like that…he needed it for the official record in the big book) and I don’t have a phone yet. But still…

Just Maybe III

It’s Wednesday. I’ve blogged about it, thought about it, read people’s advice about it, and decided to see where things go.

Heck, am getting impatient with this waiting around.

I pick up the phone, I want closure, is what I tell myself. I have to see if it’s time to delete the number or revive last week’s ‘feelings.’

I decide to call as soon as I finish one page of my website project. Damn, I did not know it takes this long. My pal has left for church and it’s too quiet. Time to make that call.

Take my phone, step out to the balcony and press the call button. First ring (increased heart rate..), second ring (come on now..), third ring (he’s not going to pick up…hang up, but what if he thinks I was ‘flashing’ him?), fourth ring (maybe he’s in class…no it’s past class time), fifth ring( maybe he’s in the bathroom), sixth ring (he’s deliberately ignoring me…I’ll wait till it rings itself out), 7th,8th,9th and I hang up… that settles it then. Obviously not interested.

I sit back at the table, continue typing here, reading there, choosing a playlist, until I hear my phone just begin to ring. It’s my cousin flashing me! Probably wants to tell me Man-U will win the game, I don’t call back. A text message comes in, it’s him. He says he just saw my missed call and will come see me in a few minutes.

He shows up a few minutes later.

We chat a little. I’ve decided to take it slow, and no, am not launching Operation Snag Him. We say our goodnights. Tomorrow is also a day.

The song “Ordinary people” by John Legend is playing in my head.

I grab the whistle my 4 year old cousin forgot at home when he came to visit and head downstairs to the TV room to watch the match between Man-Useless and Barca.

First Encounter

This post inspired me to write about my first experience. It has nothing to do with..eh..matters below the waist.

I’ve always shuddered to think how my first robbery would be…hijacking and all..of course I have lost a few items here and there, some cash but nothing major.

Till sometime yesterday, when am having a free day so I decided to watch the Kill Point, some series about ex-army guys who rob a bank and it goes seriously wrong. At this point, I might want to mention I love the lead guy (Wolf), I think his acting rocks.

So back to me in the room watching the series, and I decide it’s time I checked my mails. This entails lugging the laptop to the hotspot (assembly hall). But before I go, a dash to the bathroom. I know I should be back in less than two minutes, so I did not bother locking the room when I left. I closed the door and made a dash for it, leaving the laptop, phone, wallet, keys and other items in a mess on the bed.

A minute later, am back and guess what? My Chinese Phone and wallet is gone with all my plastic identities (school ID, national ID, ATM card etc).

I never thought our rooms (in campus hostels) were unsafe. You see, for guys’ hostel, you have to lock your room even if you are going next door. For me, I could always go to take a shower, leaving the room unlocked. Of course we laughed at guys telling us true stories of desktops being stolen from the rooms (How do you carry a big CRT monitor and CPU without detection?), but now am locking the room every time I step out.

Well, that’s the story of my first robbery. Still hoping to recover the wallet, minus the cash of course. And if anyone must contact me, e-mail it is. Or twitter, or facebook.

Just Maybe II

It’s been a week and a half. Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with me. One minute you feel like you can’t live without someone, the next they have slipped out your mind.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning. The said day previously being a Tuesday, we hang out and talked a while. Then he had to go back finish his work, he is in one of those courses where they stay up till early in the morning (She can tell you about it.) I retired to bed with a smile…

WednesdayGoing about my day as usual, and he texts sometime in the day asking if am in the room. Except I get the text much later (damn…I need to put one of those screaming text alerts), and calling finds him in the studio. He says he’ll break at midnight to come say goodnight. I say I’d be asleep by then. He says he’ll call to see if I’ll be asleep. Okay, so I lied, I stayed up. We took a short walk. I let him go back to his work. I can feel the chemistry in the hug.

ThursdaySort of busy day, and waiting for phone call at night. I don’t want to divulge TMI to you, my readers, so let’s just say the day went almost the same as Wednesday. His marking (lecturer checking up on his work) is tomorrow and he will not be sleeping tonight.

FridayHe has to go home, so any plans imagined will just have to wait. But am free in the afternoon and he is free too. We spend time talking among many other things. It’s hard letting go…it’s those ones of “I wish we could stay like this forever..” only it is in my mind, don’t want to scare him away. Then we have the talk, and I can literally feel it going wrong. An excerpt from the conversation goes like:

“I don’t know… am not a commitment guy.”

“Okay…but I don’t think friends with benefits will work.”

“How long have we known each other, a week..”

“Yeah, that’s too short. Maybe we should give ourselves more time…we should have this talk another time.”

“No, it’s good to talk in the beginning.”

It was circular talk after that. And yes, it’s only been a week, though we’ve been seeing each other around the campus before then. He leaves for home, I stick around campus waiting for Sunday night, when he will return. He promises to give me a call the moment he steps in campus. It’s Tuesday and still no call.

I should be sad, I should be anxious, I should be mopping around (at least on the inside), but sadly, am not. I knew it was too good to be true. Right now, I feel, it’s hard to describe what I feel but it is not the heady rush of last week. I am thinking rationally, and I know it will not be the end of the world if he does not call, and frankly, am realizing I don’t care. Or that is what am trying to convince myself.

How come one week you feel like you can’t live without someone, the next they have slipped out your mind?

I wonder what will happen next..

Just Maybe

It was a Friday night. We did not talk much. The semester has barely begun and am already liking someone (I think.) How else can I explain this moment, when am waiting for that knock?

Am lying on my bed trying to read the Wilbur Smith (Elephant Song) but it is barely registering. I turn to my phone but I don’t have the patience to log in to facebook. I try listening to music and you would not believe the stuff that is coming out on the playlist (Sexual healing remix by Michael Bolton, If you are not the one by Danniel BeddingField….skip and it’s 3 Doors Down-Here Without you baby). Is it a coincidence or what?

I turn back to the novel and manage a page. Someone knocks, and my heart leaps. Oh no, it’s the neighbour coming to pick something of hers. An electric cooker, I think.

I close my eyes but his face swims before my face. I keep them closed anyway.

A few minutes later, I hear heavy footsteps. The door is knocked alright, but it’s not mine.

He’s not coming. Or maybe he is. Maybe he is too busy, or he just does not want to come. I hate this uncertainty. I think it’s the worst part. The waiting and the uncertainty.

I decide to call him and hesitate. It’s been almost an hour and if he is not coming, well and good.

Then a loud knock. I sit up straight, straighten my hair and say come in. the door opens and in busts….Mary E. Mary E is returning my electric kettle, and she is so jovial I can’t tell her the last thing I care about right now is if I’ll be having hot coffee tomorrow morning. Then she sits to chat. I just can’t tell her to leave me alone, because she is a good friend and it’s not her fault he hasn’t come.

I finally settle down to read the novel. Thirty pages later, and I hear a knock. I carelessly say, “Come in.”

He says, “hi..” and I look up from my book. At last he is here.