Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner. And Juice.

For the last year, I’ve been acutely aware that I would be homeless at the end of this month. I was reassured that there was no need for panic, that June and July were ‘moving months’, and that I would find a house quicker than I could snap my fingers (which given I can’t snap fingers, is not exactly an achievement). It got to the end of June and I was having no luck, so I did the unthinkable and called on THE ESTATE AGENT.

Henry, that was his name, rang me up and set up our meeting. The first thing that struck me was his voice. He was so concerned, so caring, asking all these questions about what kind of place I wanted to live in, and what I did for a living. I found myself pouring my heart and soul to him right there in the street, with people walking past me and thinking, ‘sorting out a blind date’. It took me a while to realise that what had disarmed me so was his Australian accent. I was already picturing a surfer dude with unrealistically golden locks and a glistening yet surprisingly unsweaty body. Good sense had departed the building.

I had 45 min to get to our rendezvous, so I made like road runner and beeped to it. I got there, opened the door and a quick recon revealed the only non-ethnic person in the room. He was so Aussie i.e. he was HOOOT. I sat in the chair, and tried not to smile too hard, surveying the board with all the flats they needed to sell or rent. I was in an estate agent’s inner sanctum. I expected them to make me sign an Official Secrets Act document of sorts, but instead he came up to me and said something in his heavy voice. Unfortunately all I could hear was ‘that’s not a toad, it’s a fush’, a slogan on a t-shirt I had seen at 7s. I told him this but all he did was give me a blank stare, smile awkwardly and swiftly carry on. He said things that sounded important, and then led me out of the building to the flat he thought ‘would be perfect for me’. I was so engrossed in his face, that I forgot how to use my legs and my sense of direction deserted me so I lapped at his heels like a helpless dog. He talked money, he talked life...and all I came out with was ‘you’re from the southern hemisphere right? Sidney?’ Then he properly smiled! I almost collapsed. ‘How did you guess?’... Conversation continued and the little devil in my head shouted ‘progress’. Let’s be clear, I had no plan. I don’t know what I thought flirting with my estate agent, whose sole purpose in life was to milk as much money out of me as he could, would achieve. But as I’ve said time and time before, I can’t help it.

We viewed the apartment and I fell in love, though I’m not sure I’d be that enthusiastic if it wasn’t for him. He made promises like ‘we’ll do what we can to get the price down’ and ‘you tick all the boxes for an excellent tenant’. I remained mute for fear that if I spoke, I would ask him out for dinner, or say something outrageous like ‘I tick your boxes huh?’ He would then be forced to list me on a register somewhere as a predator.

Back at the office, I started the arduous task of filling out lots of paperwork as he went to get himself (and hopefully me) some lunch. One of the other estate agents came in and pointing at me asked, ‘Which apartment?’ ‘Lakeview’, his boss answered, ‘courtesy of Henry’. I looked up in time to spot the other agents in the office nodding knowingly. I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d just been had. So I casually asked how good Henry was, and ‘excellent’ was the resounding reply. ‘Especially with women?’ I probed further, and unsurprisingly, they all smiled. It appears this flirting-to-get-what-you-want thing works both ways. Estate agents were particularly good at it, but then Freakonomics showed that they’re never up to any good. I’d just been had for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but luckily it was for a house I wanted. Be on your guard...these beautiful men are up to no good after all. He did get me a juice though.

Minor rant...

Maybe I lie. Major rant. I have a thing about not blogging when I’m annoyed about something, because I think ‘foot-in-mouth’ disease is compounded greatly when you do. Today however, scratch that. I am pissed; at myself, at the world, at this lovely bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. So here’s a quickie to make me feel better (as they always do).

I got onto Twitter, and a week later, when I realised people don’t play stupid colour/fruit/country/relationship status games, I deactivated my FB account. 6 months down the line, done with my exams, I figured the only way to satisfy the faux-friends in my life was with a quick update so I reactivated said account for a week. Day 6, I logged on, and saw that a mutual friend had written a congratulatory/delayed birthday message on my ex’s wall. I thought ‘bastard’, then five minutes later, pointed at myself and said ‘idiot’, because there I was, looking at his profile.

Our last conversation was the obligatory ‘Merry Christmas to your family’ message (our families are close friends). He then informed me that he had a baby. I was past the point of caring about this particular issue, because it was a sticking point in our relationship: his wanting a child, my being ‘selfish’ with my uterus while I was still in university, and not fitting him into a five year plan. As I said, he is bastard. Of course when the pressure was non-existent, I would acquiesce to the fact that the idea of a daughter who I could name after my mother would be nice, some time in the VERY DISTANT future. I congratulated him, and forgot all about it. I didn’t even think to ask if he had a girl or boy, which is apparently the norm. I was busy with other things and other people.

So there I was, browsing his wall, snickering because he had ugly spindly legs (new profile picture). Then I saw one of his posts: ‘Her name is X’. I stopped scrolling. He was joking right?! X was my name. The little conniving son of a female dog had just stolen my name. My mother’s name is unique; she was born a few years back (trying not to be ageist), her dad worked under the colonialists, and was really old school (bless his heart), so it’s a bit on the rare side. He’d also chosen the truncated version that we had talked about. Bastard. Then I got even more annoyed, because I was pretty darn sure that despite being together for approximately 7% of our lives, it was a conversation his sorry little brain would have forgotten. Finally, I got annoyed at myself. WTH was I thinking? What was I looking for on his profile? Because let’s be honest, I went looking for shit right?! It’s like reading texts on someone’s phone. Furthermore, why do I care about something that he has done?! It’s not like there was any ambiguity regarding his status as a bastard *slapping myself furiously now*

That is how I ended up here...drinking wine and bitterly blogging. I’m annoyed at myself, for taking 20 steps back in the direction of a donkey walking in reverse...towards stupid. I feel better after this little rant, and will be grand after this bottle of wine. That is all. No. STOP. His account has been deleted. Yes. Now that is all. *HAMMER TIME*

Mojo. The end. Sort of.

So clearly I had taken the ball into my own court, whatever the hell that meant. I mulled over the issue for a few days, the number mocking me and daring me to be different. I eventually sent a nonchalant ‘want to meet for a drink today?’ not really knowing what to expect. Truth be told, I still held a grudge, but something told me that writing off a person because of my issues would be up there with the stupidest things I would ever do. I wore a nice dress to the drink, because that’s what I do when I’m nervous (and most other times as well). But then the not so slight problem of the unrelenting Nairobi sun and nervous energy meant I arrived at the rendezvous fanning myself, shining a little, swearing a lot, and desperate for a drink. I could see it in my head: MISTAKE. The moment I sat down however, order was restored. We were talking, flirting in fact, but in a friendly ‘this means little’ way, and we fell back into easy company. It had been 2 years and apparently, a lot had happened since.

Mundane conversation was dispatched with rapidly, and we began talking about the good stuff: life, and why he wouldn’t let a bet go for a pretty girl (Me people! Me). He laughed off all the little jibes that I threw his way (one assumes he felt I was justified), and was gracious in letting me ‘have one’. I felt a familiar, unwanted emotion stirring in my head, so I did the only thing I could and asked ‘so how’s the girlfriend?’ [Quick sidebar: When a girl asks ‘how is the girlfriend’ rather than ‘is there a girlfriend’, it is a thinly veiled attempt at not showing her true hand. All she really wants to know, is there a girlfriend?? Huh? Is there? Tell me now! I need to know!! It’s sort of similar to that moment as a child when you realise your friend’s toy is far superior to yours and you really want it, but instead you say ‘It’s not even that cool’. This was EXACTLY one of those moments]

I hadn’t given any thought as to how I would react to his answer, given I hadn't anticipated the question.  So when he said ‘she’s fine’, I winced. Well, I call it a wince but it was more of a wheeze that made it seem as though I had impaled my foot on a toothpick soaked in chilli. It was loud, and it sounded painful. Unfortunately, I couldn’t wallow in my wheeze any longer as I realised his girlfriend was someone I sort of knew, and I was turning blue. I tried to hide my disappointment, coughing and claiming that I was now choking (on the drink I had been gulping to camouflage my wheeze. In the words of Mr. Knightley, it was badly done). The next emotion that assaulted my now battered and bruised heart was even stranger than I thought was possible... I was happy. I was actually happy for him, no jealousy, and no dismissal. I wanted to hear more, and be even happier for him. This internal conflict was too much for little young me to bear, and made itself manifest as a grunt, followed by a snort, and then a fit of giggles.

And in that messy, protracted story, my friendship with Mojo was born. I, along with all of you dear readers (thanks for the faith in me by the way :-D), could have sworn that the moment I fell out of the car would really have ended things. Apparently though, I’m like a phoenix, I rise to live another day. Or so I’d like to think. It did make me appreciate just how fantastically different all my friendships are, and that the most valuable start with the least amount of bullshit (i.e. me making a total fool of myself). More importantly, this brilliant, somewhat emotionally crippled person that I am, would have never been had I succumbed to the silly passions of my 19 year old self. FACT.

Mojo, revisited.

I had a serious case of the bruised pride. I mean, I had just kind of thrown myself at a boy, and it had ended abysmally. I got home and my mother excitedly asked, ‘so, how did it go?’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, and I fear she won’t have let it go, so I run with ‘Mojo wasn’t interesting’ (which was of course, far from the truth).

Mojo had a made a bet with a friend. A bet he had made before he met me (#novanity). A bet, that at 21, he was going to keep, to prove a point, as all 21 year olds feel the need to do (I know, I’ve been there). Mojo’s bet was that he would remain celibate for a month, which given my description of Mojo and my clearly uninhibited behaviour around him, you will understand was just ridiculous. I happened to meet Mojo on approximately day 15 of the bet. Which was also exactly 14 days till I was due to return to my little hole many miles away.

I took on the airs of a wounded cat after my rejection, and did what I do best, I deleted Mojo. I tried the assassins but naturally the laughed in my face; not only was I offering a pansy sum in remuneration, but they sided with Mojo. Apparently, a little hurt pride wasn’t such a bad thing for bringing me back to earth. So I had resorted to the manual delete: I ‘lost’ his business card, deleted all the texts on my phone, and then, on a Friday evening, in the middle of prayer, I pulled out my phone, blinked exactly 3 times and deleted his phone number. I could now pretend none of that had ever happened. My friends had other ideas and continually informed me of ‘Mojo sightings’. They really did try to make it a summer of discontent.

I wrestled thoughts of Mojo from my mind and somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that if he walked past me, slapped me in the face, and perhaps even curled my eyebrows (not that I know why he would be doing that), I would not recognise him. I was very sure of this, content that my powers of deletion had been successful. Time obliges you in that way, and gives credence to such self delusions. Two years later, while sitting in the car park of Junction waiting for my brother, I glimpsed a car at approximately 15 metres, moving at 10 km/hour, and turning AWAY from me. Imagine my utter surprise when my heart fluttered and immediately announced to my head that the passing flicker of light was Mojo. These two elements of my body were engaged in fierce battle as to which possessed the better memory, but my hand and mouth had other ideas. His car had now come to a stop, waiting for parking one assumes. I was standing out of my car. How all this happened, I don’t know. ‘Mojo!’ he turned. The ‘real’ me gave my mouth a stern look, but in that moment of distraction my hand was free to do as it wished. Therefore, it waved. Excitedly I tell you. Very very excitedly.

It was very awkward. The location was less than ideal, standing in the middle of a parking lot. These things are never as romantic as movies make out. It was far too hot to just stand there, and there were separate engagements to be attended to. I felt a small lump rise in my throat. Hurt pride. We hugged hello and hurriedly caught up on a few months worth of life, before the ‘let’s properly catch up’ line was bandied about. The problem was I did want to catch up. After all, one of the most attractive things about this man (aside from arms, smile, derriere), was the fact that he was really quite intelligent. Book smart, but more importantly for me, life smart. The kind of people I wanted to occupy a place of prominence in my life. I mumbled something about phones, and Mojo, oblivious, replied that his number was still the same. Once I had constructed a suitable explanation, he gave me his number again, and the deal was done. I skulked back to the car, wondering where we would go from here...

To be completed (after 15th...last exam).