Living alone is kind of like solitary confinement, especially on weekends. Weekdays there is work, so you get to see people, even though it's people you hate.
But in the house on weekends you can go for a whole two days without seeing a human being. Especially when the house help doesn't show up. The only people you interact with are Tom and Jerry, or Garfield, and he is a cat.
I had to remedy that, that is why I was in a matatu to Nyali. I was going to see a she friend. I was going to break the monotony. I was going to have a little fun.
Her house is on second floor. I counted as I went through the gate seeing her seated at the balcony which over-looked the car park as well as the gate. She must have been having the time of her life there. A cigarette in her hand and some wine on the table.
"Bobby..."
She cried out loud when she saw me. She ran back into the house. I knew I would meet her at the door.
It was a friendly hug. I hadn't seen her in a while. I didn't know she moved, but she was there then.
"wow, nice place you got here."
The floor was black and polished to shine like your shoes are. The whole floor. The seats were a blend of leather and velvet, so there were somewhere somewhat like swede but not quite cause you could spill red wine and it could drip off, but then when you sat on it it was softer than leather.
She told me about her periods. I made fun of her thoroughly, I told her about how being a guy is hard. Chasing after women. She asked me to quit chasing, cause hot people don't chase, they build themselves to be chased after. It is more productive. I told her what she told me was bull shit. But I knew it wasn't, and I would think about it later.
"you don't want wine?"
"it's really nice, I've let it air for two days in the fridge..."
No am fine. I went to the kitchen. Oh, this girl is so cool. People think am cool, yes? No. Okay, but I think she is way cooler than I. There was nothing in the fridge but a lonely green apple chilling in that whole big neat fridge, one bottle of wine which was half done, and a bottle of Konyagi, which makes lips dry. I hate it. But they lie there and they looked nicely organized.
"water?"
"...on the telephone chair,"
You have seen scotch bottles haven't you? With the short fat glasses that they go with. That's how she serves her water. With an ice bucket. She has no juice, soda, it's just water, porridge and wine. And I felt like I should throw all the clutter in my house, just sit down at the balcony and sip fresh clean water off nice glass with a tong to pick the ice cubes and talk about music that isn't as commercialized as popular music.
"...I just got an email, you know there is a Tsunami Alert Warning?"
"what! Where?"
"in Mombasa,"
"you lying, google it..."
"...we are right at the beach."
Do you think it will be that big? No. Where will you ran to if it were to happen? I don't know? The winds are strong by the way. Should we leave? We go to town? Okay.
In thirty minutes about, at around Coffee O'clock we were at Aroma Cafe. I had never been, but she always gets wind of nice places before everyone does. She is like the Kenyan Concierge.
We ordered one plate of I can't remember what but i remember it came in a plate with a large bowl on top of the bowl. She is the kind of girl that makes it cool to share a plate of fries or whatever.
"excuse me,"
"waiter..."
"bring me a slice of white forest and the newspaper..."
What the hell. Newspaper? How now? And you know what, he walked to the door, handed the guard some of the money. And in a few minutes we had the Saturday paper.
There is friends with benefits, morally incorrect but popularly practiced around. But to tell you the truth, she is attractive, I dont mean her simple elegant style, but her lifestyle, yes, I might not approve of going all the way to the Mall to buy staws and a bunch of plentiful fruits, bottles of Vodka and what not.
Then spending the whole Boxing Day holiday season on a strict diet of vodka, movies, series, wine, cigarettes and chocolate. But man, is she attractive. She carries herself with such grace that her imperfections seem perfection. You want to complain about the things she complains about in the way she complains about them. Throw her love for Swahili Dishes and her perfect Swahili in the mix and you have yourself a girl that is true to herself, beautiful, original, completely one in a million.
A simple lifestyle, poise, incredible manners, informed taste, disregard for the conventional, short skirts and nice lingerie. Throw some cleavage over there. And that is why everyone hits on my friend. She is a piece of work.
