How could my house-help lover ditch me for mechanic?

By Kimathi bin Mutegi

I am angry my friend. Drat! I could murder someone, if only the fear of some bully doing some nasty unnatural things to me wasn’t so overbearing. I feel cheated, betrayed and thoroughly wronged. I am mad and so I spit. Spit on Flora and spit on women for bringing so much misery to my life. Never have I known a female that hasn’t caused me so much heartache. Even my ma, God rest her soul. If she wasn’t so blind to dump my ugly father who later became a wealthy politician for the broke father of my step-siblings, I would probably be writing this on a ipad or an expensive computer somewhere in an air conditioned office on top of some Nairobi high-rise building.

I wouldn’t be struggling to race against time in this dingy cyber cafe that, according to my analysis, has deliberately faded the key board letters so that you have to mis-type each letter and take as long as possible on their confounded machines. In fact, I would be writing this thing complaining about the chain of models that is working extra time to trap me into even smiling at them. I would probably be updating my Facebook status on the cat fight that just concluded outside a five- star hotel as these five very hot chicks tore into one another up over me.

I would be seeking advice from fellows on how to handle a harem of beautiful stalkers who are going to great lengths to try and get me to further my genes. Gem of my heart I would probably be writing wondering how you disengage from a clingy daughter of a wealthy colleague of my wealthy dad. But what did Ma do? Yep, left the guy that had potential for giving me all that and instead hooked up with the village looker that had no clue when the sun rose and set.

I have to write this because I was rejected by the girl that I thought was destined just for me. And what’s more, she is not some lawyer, or journalist, or even a nurse. She is a house-girl, rejected by a maid. Gosh, a maid! How could my Flora, the gem of my heart, the sugar in my cane, the ‘f’ in my food do that to me? I feel like crying. Unfortunately, I come from that part of the mountain where crying is promptly banned once a boy hits three! The last time I cried, I must have been in Class Two and it didn’t end up well either. I approached Ma with a huge gash on my foot which had been occasioned by my underestimating the sharpness of barbed wire.

An attempt to squeeze my small body through left a tear that would have made a doctor faint, according to my estimation. I limped to my father’s girlfriend crying like the devil and promptly displayed the horrendous cut on my foot, expecting sympathies and being rushed to hospital. Ma stared at the cut lazily, assessed the bleeding and told me to shut up or she would fill my mouth with saw dust. You probably do not know Pa’s woman but I had learnt early to take her threats seriously.

So I shut up and as she filled the wound with a mixture of salt, ashes and soil to stem the bleeding, she kept on telling me to get used to a man’s life. “A man’s tears fall inside, that you have to remember. You cry but no one should ever see them.” She told me as she tore a piece of dirty clothing from an old shirt to bandage up my leg. “Besides, you will have to heal a bigger and more painful wound some day to become an adult, so get used to the pains…” I do not think I have cried again ever since.

Now, I am wishing I could remember how to because I think I could do with one heck of a massive flooding right now. I wish I never went to visit Flora yesterday. Or I wish I had notified her before I went. But then again, that would have spoiled the surprise. Again, how would I have known that she was double dealing me, with the mechanic from the garage across their apartment? When I sneaked into the house, a packet of cold maziwa lala freezing one of my hands and a lump of ugali brown burning blisters on the other, her favourite meals, I expected my Flora to go weak in the knees and wobble into my willing arms.

I was anticipating a lengthy session of thoroughly grown up niceties at the end of which I would have all the toxins flushed out of body. Imagine my shock when I opened the door to the sight of my woman on the lap of some strange fellow, complete with oily coveralls, dirty fingers lost under the hems of the girl’s blouse. When I threatened to throw the guy from the second floor, he in turn ordered me out of the house lest he opened up my gasket and gave me an oil leak that would have me misfiring for the rest of my life. Picture my frustration when the guy stood up and I discovered he was bigger than Githongo, that fellow of corruption and whistles.

Well, Flora has not been picking my phone since. I have sent her all the please-call-me’s and still she is ignoring me. Wait a minute, I think that’s her message, and by jingo it is. May be she is apologising and clarifying that this was all a huge misunderstanding. May be that was her doctor and she has a heart condition or he was checking for lumps like they do on those cancer videos. Should I forgive her, will I? Gosh, I am trembling and accepting her tearful apology at the same time as I open the message…’pls STOP callin me my huspat wil b angyl…’ 



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