“Look here, I still don’t understand why you have to do this to me…”
“What? What in Heaven’s sake are you talking about?” you innocently ask.
“You very well know what I mean…why are you so selfish? What have I done to deserve this?” she says, breaking down into a teary mess.
You still have no idea why she’s acting like this. You’ve woken up and you find her curled up like a puppy at the edge of your bed. She’s sobbing uncontrollably, and like the good old clueless man you are; you try to soothe her first.
‘Don’t you dare touch me!” she hisses, almost biting your head off.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Your hands retreat to your lap and you are reduced to looking at her. She looks small wearing your oversize Ralph Lauren shirt.
Like something you can cuddle.
Your back is propped up against the wall sporting your Calvin Klein boxers. You’ve never felt this helpless in your life.
You don’t understand where this kerfuffle came from.
Alyssa had slept over for the night after date night the previous night. She looked normal alright. You got back to your apartment. Her slipping in your shirt and snuggled in your embrace till you both fell asleep. And being the heavy sleeper you are, she obviously woke up before you.
At least you remember that is what happened.
‘Look, hun, is anything the matter?” you tread carefully as these are volatile waters.
She ignores you while giving you the death gaze. She’s stopped sobbing apart from the occasional sniffle here and there, rocking back and forth on the bed staring blankly at the Persian rug on the floor.
You might as well go make breakfast than stand there trying to figure out whether it’s you or her hormones.
*Rewind 10 hours back*
“You know how Tony Mo calls it?” Afolabi asked, throwing his head back in a mild laugh, “he calls it vodoski, and you, my dear friend, have drunk too much,” he said, to no one specifically. It’s boys night out and you and your particular breed of friends are at your favourite bar in Kitengela; waiting for the kickoff to the much-anticipated Manchester Derby (It’s Manchester City versus Manchester United, to my readers who are vaguely uninterested in football) and you really love how this opportunity is serving you. You know, Tusker flowing like the Nile, nyama choma and the usual mutura you can’t get back at South C.
You know Afolabi is the typical kind of alpha male. The main man in your pack of wolves (Read-hyenas). But his is an interesting story.
He has two sides.
The Afolabi with a stunning woman draped on his arms and his other rather tame alter ego.
Tamed by his woman.
Any female would fall for his fluid lines and deceptive charm. You have always wanted to be like him; you know; the women, the class, the money.
The atmosphere is slightly subdued with heavy jazz tones. This is your third shot of vodka and you’re still riling to go. You rarely drink. Drink is for the weak. And that is what you are right now.
You lean over the countertop and reach out for a bottle of triple distilled Smirnoff.
“So this is what you do when you’re not writing,” a feminine voice speaks – vaguely familiar.
You turn to your side.
Afolabi with a stunning woman draped on his arm.
“Let me introduce you to my bar girl here, Imanda, this is Annazzitta,” Afolabi says, seemingly answering the puzzled look on your face.
“We have met before, haven’t we?” she asks with a knowing look on her face.
“Ummm…yes…yes, we have?”
“And shall we discuss your latest story over a drink?” she says, cleverly unwrapping herself from Afolabi’s arm.
Like a gift.
“Umm…absolutely, be my guest,” you say – quite sure that you have set yourself on a path from which there is no return.
She takes two glasses of brandy and leads you to a table at the furthest end of the bar.
It was like the lightning that announced the coming thunder.
She was wearing a soft sea-blue laced dress, slashed to the knee and a dark blue flimsy bun scarf to match. The dim lighting accentuating her nut-brown skin.
You both sit at the table. A comfortable distance from the main floor of the bar. With a partition to accord the necessary privacy.
If its darkness we are having let it be extravagant.
The Dilemma cannot be solved by mere dancing and waltz. It will be solved by bloodshed. Passion. Blood. Red. Wine. Drunk from the Cup Christ poured His blood. And course through your veins like Yeshua. Like Moses and His Staff. Like Jesus and His Wine.
“Are you okay, you seem rather distracted,” you hear her say – the voices in your head just can’t seem to stop – and neither are they making any sense.
“No…No, I’m alright, just a little too much vodka,” you reply.
Your head is swirling, and so are her words, you take a gulp of the brandy in your hand. You really don’t know whether it’s the alcohol or her that’s firing you up.
“Let me cut to the chase, you know from the very first time I saw you back at Pepino’s, a feeling has been gnawing into me, eating into my insides,” she says – the conversation taking a completely different turn.
“ghhghg…Sorry?” You ask, choking on your brandy.
“You never seemed to leave my mind. My fucking head. I’m pretty sure I didn’t just meet you for nothing. That fairly warm evening. In a lonely place. Over a warm mocha,”
“Oh…well, that experience stuck with me too,”
“You feel sort of fictional. Like someone I’d have to pay to meet. I don’t even know how to explain this,” she says, her eyes turning a shade darker than her hair.
Everything just became tense.
She moved in for the kill, and just like all your other experiences, it was as if you were watching it from afar.
“Sometimes we don’t have to fight our own animal instincts, should we?” she crooned, slowly closing the distance.
The distance between your two faces. Her lips. Her oriental fragrance. Still the same.
You slowly removed her glasses, cupped her face in your hands and leaned in.
Passion.Blood.Fire.(For the lack of a better description of the feeling)
Her eyes almost closed with the sweet pain of desire. Desire that tore through her like a sword. Desire that made her body tremble against yours. Desire that made her breath come out slightly laboriously.
Desire that turned Samson over to Delilah. That Philistine babe.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do anything stupid please,” you say, out of breath.
“Why should you be sorry?” she replies, starved and hungry.
“Oh come on Ana…I can’t do that. I told you I can’t. I just…”
“Woman up,” she asserts, giving you both no time and space to recollect your thoughts, and presses her lips hard against yours.
And just like Judas was betrayed by Jesus, beset us our sins to cleanse us from goodness.
Voices play in your head, just like in the House Of Atreus.
Her entire essence takes over you. Her animal urges now dictate the pace.
And at the very back of your mind.
That you’re cheating on her.
With this Philistine babe.
Becky with the good hair.