Today I got slapped. I do not know if I deserved it but, should anyone deserve to be hit? I’ll let you be the judge.
It started out when the day was bright and the only thing brighter was my smile. Forget the fact that the bank had just blocked my visa and I had no access to my account. Between me and that emaciated line called poverty laid Ksh 2350. With such matters you have to be precise. Earlier in the morning I had walked into my branch and a nice lady informed me that I needed to make the switch to the new EMV cards. Apparently they are pin and chip protected. Whatever that means.
In plain ignorance I ask why they did not send me a new one. I should have kept quiet. With a smirk she said that my account did not have any money – God bless women. She wasn’t loud but quite audible. I could feel the size of my balls shrink. There was a lady standing right behind me – professional looking. She tried to subdue her giggles. Her efforts were futile. I felt emasculated. Leaving the bank I had only one thing on my mind – redemption.
My financial woes have been in existence for as long as I can remember. I have laughed at this hoping it would go away – I guess laughing all your problems away only applies when you’re laughing to the bank. Fuck. I need to get rich – ASAP.
My phone has been beeping for the past half hour. I ignored it assuming the battery was low. It was a reminder. I had some meet-up with miss pretty face. Thank God for technology. I wouldn’t want to stand her up and look like an asshole would I? My mental calculations (though usually off by a couple hundred) concluded that I could pull it off. A little bit of trickery here, getting an old beat up rickety bus instead of a cab and I would actually pull it off.
The meet-up was at 3 pm. My plan depended on punctuality. Dressing up is not my thing so a casual white t-shirt, blue shorts and low cut sneakers did the trick. I loaded two thousand onto my pre-paid card. With only 350 left this was more than enough to get me there and back home. Enough with the shenanigans. I got to the establishment at 1.30 pm. Made an order for a special – a chicken schnitzel they called it, a shooter (which in a nutshell is patron in foamed milk and macchiato)and a slice of blueberry cheese cake.
It took me a while to finish up. All the while I baby sat my shooter. The waitress as usual came through, smiled as they are supposed to and I handed her my card. As she left miss pretty face walked in- right on time. I got up to welcome her, exchanged pleasantries and pulled up a seat for her. I was being the perfect gentleman. Too perfect if you ask me. The waitress is now back with my card, I.D and a white slip of paper – my receipt. Mental calculations indicate that my card balance is a meager ten shillings. Perfect.
I tell my miss pretty face that she can order anything she wants. She pores through the menu. She selects some sandwich, milkshake and a chocolate cake. I excuse myself to visit the gents. Only I do not visit the gents but head home. I do not know what unfolds at the restaurant. Fast forward, I meet miss pretty face on my way to town. My card is now sorted. She sees me. I do not see her. She stands right in front of me and slaps the black off my face. The reverberation must have sent down an avalanche to the foot of Mt Kenya. She walks away cursing under her breathe. I continue walking – business as usual. I do not understand why she is angry. But women, right?