Waited for a call?

There you are, seated on this plush leather couch, holding a GOTV remote in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. It’s only three in the afternoon but you know he’ll call, so you sit back, get your body heated up by tea as you raise your temper by watching a Nigerian film.

You have watched it six times, and no matter how ticked off you are by the desire for Africa Magic to show it over and over again as though each scene changes with every replay, you like it. In fact you love the upcoming fight scene between Nzanzi and Patience.

You take the last sip of tea and walk into the kitchen to wash one cup, because if it’s dirty it’s gotta be cleaned. It has nothing to do with the fact that you just cleaned that sink with disinfectant an hour ago.

It’s four o’clock. No calls, no text messages, no reminders so you activate your mobile data and scroll down the notifications on your facebook home page. You want to check in on him, see what he’s done or where he is, but a sane strand of pride reminds you of your heritage. Descendant of Cleopatra, daughter of the Nile, dark, bold and beautiful, daughters of the Lake reign, who are you to crave attention?

So, you switch to Instagram and check a few updates from GlobalGiving, JustJared, and slowly turn back to Pinterest in search of the latest Ankara and Kitenge designs.

It’s five and you deactivate your mobile data and sit back on that leather couch and think of a thousand ways to vent your frustration. He will call. He promised. You wait and then look around and you hold your friend, the blue crown ink pen you got at Choppies for thirty shillings, and you say “well, at least you are here, let’s make him suffer in a story.”

The pen nods.

Your hand glides over the paper, masterfully crafting a story with a sad painful beginning and ending for him. “We could stab him and watch him crawl towards help.”

“Too brutal darling, how about we ask him out and never show up?”

“Devil! We could as well unleash the cold war on him while we do that, like set our phone on airplane mode for three days. When he calls we can say we misplaced a charger or something and then simply give him the cold shoulder.”

“You are worse than the devil, but we both know you have his number engraved on your mind.”

“So what, I am good with numbers but, he does not know that, let’s begin the story by stabbing him in the morning.”

“Why stab him and why in the morning?”

“You don’t know anything do you?”

It’s six thirty when you look up and stop writing. There is only one notification from Safaricom “Tunukiwa bundles,” and you know he will not call.

You finally go into your room, take off the new black dress you had and change into your smurfs pajamas. You take off those leopard print heels and walk into the kitchen. When you reach out for the knife to dice onions; your phone rings. So, you keep dicing those onions and humming that “Mercy” tune by Shawn Mendes because a good cry never hurt a soul, especially where onions are involved.

You settle down to have your supper at eight. He’s called six times.

He is still calling but we both know you are done and there’s something about growing cold and becoming impenetrable that he is yet to learn. So, every call fuels the freezing process and then you find yourself watching Spongebob Squarepants till midnight.

Have you ever wanted that?