Hors d'œuvre

We somehow winded in Gents, everyone occupied and pre-occupied in piss-tillation processes. He turned to me and cordially asked, "are you the chef?"  What the fuck? 

"No," I answered, a lil'bit defensively. "I've never been a chef!"

"Um sorry," he managed before zipping his fly (perilously fast, I thought) before bolting out of the washrooms. It took me ten good minutes to know what the incidence was all about. I and Alexandria had been invited for a party at one of her friend's crib in Kileleshwa. And all her friends identify her with her ex, a certain chef with ArtCaffe, Westgate.

We were three months old then, this friendship thing, and it struck me odd that none of her friends knew she was newly engaged. I am not the insecure-kind of guy. In fact, i rarely give a shit about anything to do with ladies, and inconsequential esartz mockery that can be resulted by their behaviors. But deep, deep inside me i grew worried, and asked politely why I had been mistaken for a chef.

Alexandria is smart and has a nice mouth. When she speaks, she speaks from her heart and words comes out of that nice mouth in form of lyrics. She is magical and lovable. So, she tells me that she seldom advertises her relationship status, divorced or otherwise, unless under perceived circumstances. I hope you understand, John. Of course i understood, and i shook my head to that effect, because i had to understand. What else was there to do?

So two weeks ago we spent at her parents. it is a large family and during dinner we all surrounded the canape table, afterwards digging on every available edible substance available with relish. I gave thumbs-up to the person responsible for the culinary perfection, to which, a certain aunt quipped, "I believe you would have been marvelous, too."

Five minutes later, a cousin took me aside and apologized for the aunt's malapropism, citing that the family were still in the knowledge of Alexandria dating a certain chef. I was, for lack of better words, shattered. Three months of dating, three fucking long months, and someone mistaking me as a wearer of those silly hats and gingham trousers. After putting it categorically, in not so subtle words, that i was an Actuarial student in a local varsity, and i would never attempt to cook anything to save my life, did the world around us tilt violently.

It is dis-heartening to learn that you can comfortably learn to give your heart, however skeptic you can be, only to be grazed with uncertainties and bales of stinking excuses. For someone who is afraid to be identified with you in social gatherings, or joints, there simply can never be radiance that can be illuminated when you are together in a room alone. I am trying to imagine a rugged fella smelling of garlic and onions make supper by chopping lamb pieces and mashing potatoes, adding shallots and vinegar to a skillet, then throwing knives at the wall before making love passionately to my Alexandria for six arduous hours. Then he takes a night shift at Artcaffe!

P.S. Alexander Davies, if you are reading this, hata kama umenitoa facebook, just know that opinion of friends counts on your level of intelligence. Just that I once thought you was bright. Nothing personal.