Guys I lost my phone.
That statement might not mean much to you but to me it’s like your kid wandering off at a mall. The only difference is I’d want my phone back. Kids in between diapers, puking on your shirt and nagging for sweets kind of make you wish that they’d stay lost. At least for five minutes. That absence; before it turns to worry, before it turns to panic, those ten seconds of bliss, before you realize a kid staying lost doesn’t look good on the headlines. Heck, it doesn’t look good for you or your parenting skills. You’ll be the parent that lost a kid at a mall and you’d get stares. Even if they found the kid. And one day when they’re sixteen and broody and doing stupid teen stuff they’ll lash out. It’ll be over something as menial as dry chapatti and blue band traces left in the jam tin.
“Can’t people in this house use different knives?” They’ll say exasperated.
You being the parent. Dumb. Clueless. And every bit like your mother, won’t diffuse the situation. You’ll make it worse because that’s what parents do. They make things worse.
“It’s just blue band, why are you being such a little bitch!”
Okay you won’t say that even though they are acting like one. You’ll instead say something worse.
“What do you buy in this house? Blue band? Jam? Knives? Do you know how much they cost?”
“Why is everything about money with you?”
“Because I have it and you don’t. Have you tried buying jam with your attitude?”
If it’s a girl she’ll scream. She’ll grab her hair and stomp her foot. But this is your fault, you’ve been spoiling her ever since her tiny fingers grabbed yours. Besides when she’s not always been a little B sometimes she’s an angelic princess. Your princess.
“Why do you hate me?”
“What’s there to love? Name ten!”
The shock on her face is priceless. You savour the moment. You are winning.
Then in a fit of anger; tempers flaring, she’ll say it. Words to scar you.
“You should’ve just let me stay lost in the supermarket. I’m sure you wanted to. I hate you.”
You’ll pause. Stare at her long then raise your hands in resignation.
“Yes I should’ve. But no one wanted you. So you know what they did? They returned you to me and here we are.”
She’ll now stare at you like she can’t believe the words that came out of your mouth. You’ll stare back like you’re ready to say them again.
“I hate you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean on a scale of not letting you go to Stacey’s party to blue band in your jam; how much do you hate me?”
“Use it in a sentence.”
By now you’re just messing with her. This is probably the most fun you’ve had in ages. And she’s pissed. There’s like an unwritten rule that says parents derive pleasure from this. So you’re enjoying it. She’ll walk out of the room with her bread jammed, but with a little bit of the contentious blue band dotting the spread of red.
But now back to my lost phone. You know how you don’t know your phone is lost until it’s lost? When you’re not sure where between getting drink number four and arguing with a plus size Dora that you lost it. Plus size Dora is a story for another day but guys, I saw the fists of death. They were brown and padded with flesh behind an irrational female. Lucifer’s step daughter.
At the club I rarely, yes rarely, dance with strangers. They and I are like university assignments – properly spaced. So the chances that I was burying a boner behind someone’s posterior while they buried their hands inside my pockets is nil. I just realized at some point in the night that it was missing. Unlike losing a kid, I was immediately livid. I could feel the booze leave my blood and soberness set in like a heavy rock on my head. I started the pointless frantic search. Pockets. Couch. Pockets again. Random strangers. Bathroom. Behind the counter. Outside in the flower beds. Pockets. It was just nowhere to be found.
At some point I wanted to believe that it had just seen a pretty phone somewhere. Probably an iPhone and it had gone to try its luck. That after heavy rejection it’d probably be back and I’d console it. Tell it not to mind snooty iOS devices. That even though it’s cheap it’s the inside that matters. Intel anyone? No? That I’d love it regardless of the brand name. I’d tell it how I liked, loved, its camera and that I’d never had one like that before. You know? The basics. Make it feel like a phone again. Then we’d go home together.
But that wasn’t the case. Someone decided that we’d had enough of each other. That we weren’t worth a first Valentine’s. Yes. It was still new. So they put asunder what money and Jumia put together. Now I’m that guy that stares at people’s phones. It’s worse if their phone looks like mine; it raises my hopes. Then jealousy drives a stick straight through my heart down to my pancreas sparing my liver (so it must kind of have loved me) wondering why it’d look happy in hands other than mine. That betrayal is too much. Jesus has nothing on me, at least he rose again and Judas kissed him.
But fare thee well old buddy. If you can get a new owner I can get a new phone. Oh, and I’ll make sure it’s better. Better than you in every way. How do you like ‘em apples?