It’s been a long day, the office has been unforgiving and the traffic jam was crazier than some whiskey brand with poultry on the logo. There’s nothing you’d want other than to relax and have your feet rubbed by your sweet boyfriend. This is the sweet boyfriend that you’d find hunched over the gas cooker with an apron around his waist holding the mwiko stirring some thick Bolognese sauce and a pot hot pasta simmering. You sigh at the thought – you don’t have a boyfriend – you live alone in an apartment full of noisy children and nosy house-helps. But you figure the schools are now open and you’ll find most of them tucked in asleep.
You get home and the watchman lets you in with a smile. He has a thing for you and more than once he has offered to put you out of your spinster misery. On the loneliest nights you actually entertain the idea – going to his rural home and becoming a farm wife. Trekking long distances to toil on the farm and having your palmer’s softened hands hardened by soil, sun and hard wood. But then you brush off the idea – you are still waiting for Mr. Right in his tailored suit and riding a silver Mercedes Benz because you think BMW is overrated. You remember one Sunday afternoon an infamous mummy pastor asked the likes of yourself to move into posh neighborhoods and rent servants quarters. Maybe living the other side of Waiyaki way adds onto your woes you think to yourself.
You open the house and find it in the same state you left it. There is no warm feeling drifting from the kitchen and no one to take off your trench coat. You flick on the lights and the bulb blinks once and goes off – it’s blown. You feel your way towards your bedroom putting the lights on and the sight of a messy bed is the first to acknowledge your presence. You kick of your shoes and it’s a relief, you wonder why you other wearing those high things as they hit the floor. You unhook your bra and feel an immediate reprieve from that constricting feeling – why do you even wear it you ask yourself – it’s not as if your pears need any support. You rub your sore feet and lie on your back dreading the kitchen. You are hungry but god-knows you hate doing the dishes. For a good ten minutes you wallow in self-pity until a neighbors chills cries pierce through the evening air. You get up thankful you don’t have one of those and drag your feet to the kitchen.
An hour and half a bottle of Sauvignon later you have your meal. You are sitting in the living room watching an episode of mistresses. The bulb is on thanks to the watchman, you promised to cook him a meal over the weekend. You know that was an empty promise and you’ll instead give him two hundred shillings. If only you had a boyfriend to change the bulb you think – you’d be two hundred shillings richer. The glare of the television is somewhat comforting you feel relaxed curled up on your couch and you are well on your way to emptying the remaining sauvignon. Two episodes later and your phone pings – it’s a message from Charlie – he wants to know how your day is. You don’t really like Charlie because while he is a nice guy he is too nice. Okay, you just don’t like how he treats you like a kid. He sees you as a small sister, who asks if you’ve eaten other than your mother. You are a little bit tipsy so you ignore the text and yearn for someone else’s attention so you text Rogers.
You met Rogers at an office gig hosted by your boss’s girlfriend and you kind of hit it off. You two kind of hit it off but he has quite the busy schedule. You send him the “hey” text and wait for a reply – which never comes and you soon after you give up chasing him. The clock reads just a few minutes past midnight and you switch off the tube. You turn off the lights and go into your bedroom hating the fact that you have to slip into bed in an oversized promotional t-shirt. You think if this would turn off any future boyfriends but figure they should love you just the way you are and smirk. You put off the lights and go through your phone. It’s mostly social media and you notice how a recent post you made got well over 100 likes.
You were ranting about public transport and how someone groped your ass as you weaved through the aisles to get to the backseat. You could not believe the audacity of some people but deep down you felt kind of nice. It feels nice when a stranger acknowledges your butt. You feel wanted, you feel desired even if it’s in a perverted way. It tells you that you have an attractive butt. These perverts just don’t touch any butt; yours is among the chosen butts and you draw pride from that. You don’t stop to question why even with your chosen butt you can’t seem to get a guy. You further find secret pleasure in the fact that the only reason your rant get attention is that you are female. Life isn’t so bad – if a guy wrote about his butt been touched what kind of attention would that attract? I guess the kind that likes guys’ butts and that’s not the right kind. What does a Christian guy do when he has his ass spanked? Does he turn the other cheek? You realize you are only funny in your head and know you would choke if you were in a group of people. You’ve always been socially awkward and most times colleagues would avoid you mistaking you for a prude. You’d hear them whisper hushed tones “wachana na yeye atakuombea” – you even tried wearing your skirts shorter and tighter. You get a goodnight message from Charlie and almost throw your phone into the wall.
Now it’s way past two a.m. and the building is quiet. You hear the odd footsteps in the corridor from that guy that’s always away from his wife and kids. You think how you never want to be that wife that drives the husband away into the late hours of the night. You figure the oversized t-shirt won’t help matters and make a mental note to buy a sexy night gown. The lacy kind that end a few inches sooner above the knees. You picture yourself in the silk pink rob with black laces and you like the idea. You might just invite Charlie for asleep over and test the waters – he might drop that brother act faster than you would your knickers. You say goodnight to your apron wearing, Bolognese cooking, butt loving, bed making, foot rubbing and imaginary boyfriend before you sleep hoping the next day will be better. After all, they say it’s a girls world.