A PYRO'S PRIZE

Well, I know, and you know, that I barely fit Mr. Right category. A disastrous commencement for a writing, you may muse. Quite right, I may concur with you. But t’seems  things aint the way they meant to be, so who cares?

I am a tired young man. I came to that conclusion long time ago, before the advent of the current sem, and association with a string of pooches around. Female pooches, that is. You know, the ones euphemistically christened as some kind of fowls and have, most of them, unabated generosity of dishing their miaows to teeth-clenching, blood-thirsty jackals.

 This is campus my friend, they tell me.

But I don’t get told like that, like some fat dumb kid with an acute sense of autism. Unheard of. That’s why in a seismic clamp of wizardly, since last semester, I’ve been hunting for THE ONE. That one chic that will reshape my amorphous lifestyle and change my maturity status.

THAT ONE CHIC.


You cant find a suitable partner in the same campus! Another advice from a friend, those who offer a lot without being asked to, but an advice nonetheless. As usual, I did not heed the verbose. Not with I seeing hordes of couples emanating from the same class, let alone the campus. John Doe and Jane Buck rarely leaving each others sides, and so do blah! blah! blah! and his oversized cougar.

What do I (not) have that these other guys (not) have? (all fuck-tors kept constant). Have you ever grown tired when one asks you, who be yua chic and eight names invade yua piteous brain all at once? That was a core reason of having a single sim-card, whatever that means. Also, it sounds sensible in this insensible world of we, ama?

That’s how she  came around, y’know, THE ONE. Sweet as an apple-pie, fantastic to sight. T’will sound a trifle desperacy if I explain a lot bout her, so allow me not to divulge further. Ok, how did I know she was THE ONE? Hang on to every word therenext, coz that’s exactly what happened:

The world between the library and the cafeteria halted. (Someone once told me of the r/ship between this occurrence and love-at-first-sight thing, which I don’t think it is of relevance here). It was only her and me. She gazed at me with the finest bluest eyes I’ve ever seen and her luscious, voluptuous lips were twisted to a lopsided grin. (I’ve since discovered she has brown eyes, but hey, that’s what I saw then). We danced a Hindu salsa to Mugiithi tune in the background. As they say, the rest became history.

She was good, really good. Kimberly was. She was everything, I swear she was. I even confessed it to my bros Vikta and Jacque, and you could see on their faces that I had gone bonkers. The intelligent jokes, her silky voice during  karaokes, her support in Open Mic and those sweat-drenching moments. I really, really liked her. I had - um, how do I put it - fallen head over heels.

When I knew about it, I didn’t react. That she someone’s fiancée, twas hardest for me to comprehend. I did not shout, rave mad or break a furniture. I just sat, my gloated balls deflated, defeated. I didn’t accost her with a hearty diatribe, that’s sort of kid-ish, and I don’t like the feel of it. Her pliant body on my arms, an irreconcilable memory in my famished brain.

All this sounds like giving dynamite as a door prize to a pyromaniac.