I always wondered why the intercom at home was never functioning. I had it repaired by the electrician before I left for boarding school. But every time I came back from a term in school, I found it dismantled. The CCTV never got spoilt, it's was just the intercom. Now I know...
It's three o'clock in the morning, my door bell keeps ringing. I drag myself out of bed, I don't care to wear my pants, cause it's 3am, if anything I should answer the door open. And there stand three men that subscribe to a religion I don't. And they want money, someone is in hospital apparently... It's assumed that I would pay up.
"Please help us... We in need? He is dying..."
I rub my eyes, stare at them as if expecting more. Then it hit them, we are not the same. They apologize, I grab my wallet, give them a note go back try to sleep.
Just when I get my sleep back.
Brrrrrrrrring. The door goes again. I ignore it but not too long, it's meant to be loud. I walk to the door thinking the watchman standing outside must be thoroughly lousy. I promise myself to give him a tongue lashing the moment I open my door? How dare he allow strangers to walk in at night?
I met this very hot dame at the door, I have seen her before, about three times, same door, same girl, same time, different days.
"Does Fatma live here?"
"No!"
I shut the door. She was pretty that's why I didn't go see the guard with a cane. Anyways, he would be too deep in his sleep to understand the tongue lashing, that lazy prick!
Anyways, I moved out of that apartment. Moved in to some other place, and I am not bothering to repair the door bell. If it was working, I would pick up my 3iron, wear my golfing glove, smash that switch into pieces. No door bell for me. Don't disturb me! No questions asked!
Which brings me to...
Knock knock knock. Baby am home. Knock knock knock. Baby am at the door. Five minutes after. Bang bang bang. Baby am home. Bang bang bang bang. Baby am home. Where is my door bell?
I stood so long at the door I wanted to buy a rocking chair and just chill there, only that I was so furious.
I started planning my speech. When she opens the door, I will ask her why she causes me to suffer like this, why she makes me wait all the time, I will ask her whether she thinks I deserve it, I will complain about her not being considerate to my feelings, I was going to throw a tantrum about everything wrong. I would...
"hi baby..."
"Don't baby me right now, do you know how long..."
Her arms around my neck. Her hug pouring sexy all over me. In her sweet voice...she asks.
"Bobby, how long what..."
I try to breath in her squeeze.
"...how long did it take you to dress up like that, you look absolutely delicious."
And am trying not to smile, am trying to look away from her, am trying to complain, but I can't.
"where are we going? I didn't know we were going out..."
"I just decided to dress up for you, I cooked by the way."
And in her arms I forget how long she kept me waiting at Kimende, how long she kept me waiting at that place close to Nakumatt Junction. I forget it all.
Not any girl can pull that off, beauty. No, not any. I have seen a fair share, maybe your share and your friends share. I have met dames who have smelly hair but are as dead gorgeous. And I have preferred that they sprayed doom in their hair. Oh it would smell better. Bad but better. And smelly hair is not how to steal my heart.
What steals my heart is simple. Hygiene. Very basic, but you know we don't hang our linen in public cause things we wear inside can never be seen. But guess what, beautiful people faint to, and they are undressed to breath, and there we find the true meaning of what glitters isn't gold.
It steals me heart when a woman's undies are without lint, you know the small cotton balls that form around sweaters. You might never have to undress anyone but you will see it somehow, with the clothes women wear, so sheer, undies always peak. And when they look at me, and I look at them, I either want to be close to them, or away from them.
Some actually scare me, they peak at me, and it's a horror story, swimming in sweat lines, swearing they have been re-worn a billion times. And the white forest date cake on the table isn't as appetizing anymore.
My type is in the details, my eyes doesn't run to your sandals, my eyes run to your nails, and not just your toe nails, your heel, and in a second my mind will make a decision on it's roughness or it's softness. My eyes will not dash away from your shoes carrying yesterday's dust, I used to know a girl, who never had her sandals wiped cause they had straps as thin as light coke spilled on a table. And for that she thought it was pointless to have them cleaned since they would get dirty anyways. And for that she never got her chance with my heart.
She thought it was the dresses so she went for shopping sprees, and she had like a billion of awful ones. There was one that looked breathtaking, until I hugged her, and I decided she must be suffering under it with such rough fabric. I took it off for her.
In a perfect world, I would love a dame that is first of all sure of herself. Slow to make radical changes to her life. I don't tell her this and she just jumps on it like she lacks confidence, if anything, she changes slowly, cause whatever she is is her, and changing a part of herself comes slowly cause she is confident and sure of herself.
Why? Cause it reflects badly on me when I am always in the arms of a very unstable person. It tells me I am unstable to. I could have an ugly person, provided she makes sure I believe she is beautiful. Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.
The most awful wine is advertised with people around it, wonderful people drinking it. It's never alone. And since beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, slowly I start to believe she is beautiful. She moans about her not being beautiful privately, but she never tells me outright.
"Do you think I am beautiful? No one has ever told me am beautiful..."
"oh yes you are..."
And at that moment I start asking myself, what is wrong with her? She doesn't have personality? What is wrong with her? And the pandora box o's opened.
Bobby starts asking himself, is she really beautiful?
And since she is too shy to dance, even stand up swing slowly if she doesn't know how to, somehow swinging slowly for any dame is dancing, such musical starry creatures they are. Why the fuck would one be playing for their own team? Come on! Since she is too shy to stand up, and we are visual creatures, since she doesn't put herself before my eyes. Or let my eyes see that other eyes are looking at her. I lose interest. But if everyone else is interested, who am I to take granted what I have? Don't you sort of it when you are it when you have it, even removing blind-love from the equation? Who doesn't want to feel good?
When luck starts, luck can't stop, it reduces, but it only stops when bad luck comes. And good luck can be on a roll, bad luck can't be on a roll, unless you embrace it, keep it close, treat bad luck like a stalker and not a lover, then it will flee. Unless of course you are such a seducer, you take bad luck buy it some wine, take it out for dinner, drive it in limos, turn it to good like Paramore has. Singing of her band breaking, all her troubles in such a way that her bad fortune became her good fortune.
I was watching RedCarpet. That chic on Fashion Police was hosting. She was doing a horrible show until she got a couple of people to cheer the celebrities she was interviewing, as she was interviewing them. And that just flipped the rating up high. The screams in the background cause everyone to radiate. It's always the little things, the little efforts, that are continuous, that steal my heart. Please give me the illusion you are on demand if; you are too lazy to give me anything else. As in, is that much to ask?
Otherwise, even if I was available, there are a certain type who will never be my type.
