I have very few friends. If I was to die today, my funeral would look like that of a 2-day old baby- nobody apart from the priest and family. Unless my family invites their friends, who in turn invite their friends who might have heard of my name. The few friends I have are much more like me.
They don’t believe in love. They don’t believe that you should meet up a stranger and then trust them with your key in the name of love. Some of them believed in that, until their houses were swept clean. Now, the idea of letting a stranger sleep next to you day in day out in the hope that they don’t slit your throat while you are wet dreaming simply because you engage in coitus with them and maybe even have kids doesn’t sound appealing to them. They believe that anyone who isn’t family should not cross the friendship boundary, even if you are letting their juices moisturize your beards.
But I have that one friend. He is different. We will call him Peter, because that is his real name. Peter believes in love, and has even paid the price for it.
Here’s a little background info about Peter. He has something in common with Wayne Rooney. No, he doesn’t have the footballing talent of the Englishman even though he believes he would be somewhere if Kenya gave talent a chance. Nobody has ever seen him play, not even FIFA. Neither does he have Rooney’s money, but he believes that he will get there one day. The only thing Peter has in common with Rooney is that they both met their sweethearts in high school.
“Rooney met his wife, Coleen Rooney (née McLoughlin), while both were at secondary school.”Wikipedia excerpt
Peter’s sweetheart was a few classes behind when they fell in love.
You know how village romance goes. Occasional evening walks together that aren’t supposed to look pre-arranged. And you can only get to second base if either of you is home alone. Everything has to be timed to perfection. Letting anyone leave the house before asking what time they expect to be back is akin to taking the safety pin off a grenade- while it’s still in your pockets. And that’s exactly what Peter’s sweetheart did one day.
Allow me to digress a little. You might be wondering if Peter’s sweetheart doesn’t have a name. She does have a name. Why am I not mentioning the name? Consent. I asked Peter if he was okay with me telling this story, he was cool about it (I was still going to tell it anyway). But I haven’t asked the sweetheart if she is okay with it. This is because Peter won’t let me have her number since he believes she has a thing for me, even though she is totally into him. If Peter was to ask her to walk in sack clothes, she would do so without any thought about what the Dismantling Patriarchy Movement would say. I’ve never seen someone so much into someone more than Peter’s sweetheart is into him. In as much as my love life is shit, I can read other people’s relationships and correctly tell whether they are getting dumped or not. A cousin once introduced me to her boyfriend, and I told her he would bounce as soon as he hit it. That was the second last time she spoke to me. The last time was when she was telling me that the boy had bounced after hitting it.
Back to the story. Peter’s sweetheart sent him a text letting him know that she was home alone and he could come over. Like every dude at the prospects of a P, he let the lower part of his body make the decision for him. He went over. You know what happens when you take the safety pin off a grenade while it’s still in your possession? It gets messy, noisy, and there are casualties.
That is exactly what happened at the sweetheart’s home.
The brothers to the sweetheart came back home a little earlier than the two lovebirds expected. For the city boys and girls who will be reading this and have no idea how village romance works, here’s a little insight. In such situations, the storm doesn’t come immediately. There is always calm before the storm. First, you will be welcomed as if you are a very important guest they were expecting. They will ask your sweetheart to bring you something to drink. If you refuse their offer, it means you have already eaten their food. Wrong move. If you accept, it means you have been eating their daughter the whole time and hunger is now setting in. Wrong move too. Either way, you are royally fucked. There’s no winning there.
Then they will calmly trick you into giving up all state secrets. How you met. How long you have been seeing each. How you have been keeping in touch. How frequently you meet and the venue of your meetings. Bla bla bla. The more daring ones even ask what measures you are taking to avoid early pregnancies and STIs. Thinly veiled threats will also be occasionally thrown in whenever you seem to be hesitating with vital information. Since you are in foreign territory with no backup, it is in your best interest to be cooperative.
In Peter’s case, they pushed the conversation until darkness set in. Then they descended on him with whips and blows. His fight-or-flight reflexes told him that this was a flight situation. He took off. Then they started shouting “mwizi! Mwizi!.” The last thing you want is village mob justice, especially if you weren’t stealing anything. It is much better to have your balls dipped in honey then strapped to an anthill than suffer mob justice. So he came back to be whipped some more. Whenever his body needed a break from the whipping, he would run off then walk back when they would start shouting. When they had had enough fun, they let him go.
If they thought that the whipping was enough to separate the two lovebirds, they were wrong. Even more wrong than people who believe that Waiguru didn’t benefit from NYS 1. Because Peter and his sweetheart are now two kids into their love story. I don’t how long their relationship is, but they have been in love longer than Jubilee has been in power. Love wins.