Have you met Mojo?

(To all my faithful and much loved readers, sorry if I am a bit out of commission for the next few weeks...minor issue of major exams to be passed...I will still tweet crap, so feel free to engage. Oh and before I disappear...

This is a story about Mojo. Or rather, how I met Mojo.

I was 19, and vanity had smacked me in the face, and then held my hand. I thought I was alright looking, and my hair was doing things unbeknown to my younger self, bouncing every which way and swishing in the wind. Gyms had sorted out legs, and a year of pretentious debates about ‘space and place in economic Geography’ while expounding on the nuances of protein function had left me itching for smart conversation constantly.

I was back in Kenya on holiday and the sun was out, as were the sandals and the abbreviated dresses, as my mother affectionately refers to my wardrobe. I was in a supermarket buying a phone that would see me through the break. Over my shoulder, a rather commanding voice tried to sell me something. I chose not to turn around, but because it/he was well spoken, I replied with a ‘no thanks, not today’. As I waited to be served, I noticed my two friends crouched in one of the aisles pointing at something behind me. My immediate thought was ‘bastards! They left with a snake about to kill me’. Then I realised they were giggling, and making eyes at something. You know those eyes a girl makes that say ‘come hither mister, spread whatever it is boys spread’. I screwed my eyes at them and that did not deter them, so I decided this must be serious. I turned around and behold, it was Hallelujah’s understudy, because that’s all you could say when you saw that man: Hallelujah. But because that is a rather Godly term, and this post is anything but, we’ll call him Mojo.

Mojo’s arms were muscle-y. In a ‘I am a man, but I dislike steroids’ way, and his smile was disarmingly skewed, not perfect, but also just right. I literally swooned and held onto the table in front of me (tossing my hair as I did so- never one to waste an opportunity). He looked like he smelt nice and his bottom and calves, though unseen, felt like they would also look good. He was one of those beautiful people that you didn’t have children with...you’d be the least hot person in the house. Now, BWTB doesn’t like to brag, but I actually possess a genuine smile, appreciated by many people, and I find it easy to make friends. So I smiled; one of those where my eyes screwed up a little, and my lazy dimple kicked into action. In the sweetest voice I could muster (which given I am a proper alto, is rather deep...), I accepted his business card, ‘to pass on to my mother’, obviously.

Two days’ later, I sent Mojo a message, you know, totally nonchalantly. ‘Hey, it’s B, girl from X. I thought you were cute, so hi’. He waited for a perilously long time, about 2 hours, before he replied. One has to assume that he was trying to work out who I was, then trying to decide if I was a serial killer or not. He decided not, and we began to chat and text message. It turns out he was intelligent, enough to feed my pretentious brain. Of course, as is B’s nature, my intentions were so much less honourable. And because he was fascinated by my white dress and gold shoes, we met for a drink after work. Well work for him, gallivanting for me. But that’s neither here nor there. Physical attraction was definitely there- I had mentally undressed him so many times that he was running out of virtual boxers.

We kept at the tea dates, lunch dates, phone flirting...and yet, B could not get her man. My vanity was taking a serious dent. I decided that perhaps his problem was ‘poor signal reading’ (ref to ‘Old man and the sea’), so I would help a brother out. We’d been out for an evening coffee and he walked me to the car, hands around my waist and all. It was perfect. I had parked in the basement, and had a car that required a step ladder (I am not very tall) to get into, so of course he would have to give this damsel a hand. I was also wearing a dress. I figured he liked dresses. Or rather, legs. Anyway, we descended the stairs to the basement, me lamenting at how cold it was, him getting the hint and pulling me closer. $$$$$...#winning. All of the above. I opened the door, and he helped me in. It was now or never, so I said, ‘thank you for a lovely evening’. ‘You’re welcome gorgeous’. *Hug*. As he pulled away, I went in for the kiss, just as he said ‘I have a bet with...’ < I stopped listening. It sounded like something that would disappoint me, but more importantly, I was now falling out of the car. It wasn’t a dramatic fall, not in the slightest. It was simply an I-am-throwing-myself-at-you kind of motion. I would like to say *to be continued*, but after that performance, I was sure he would decline. We said our goodbyes.