Short Story: Dear Yellow -Part 1

Written by Dora Achieng’ Okeyo

Twitter Handle: @herhar

http://www.dora-jodie.blogspot.com/

Dear Yellow,

Dear Yellow,
I hope this letter will clarify some of the questions you have about us.
It is eighteen minutes past four in the afternoon as I sit down to write this. I had often thought of how best to express myself, but the only answer I kept receiving was through pen and paper. I would have sent you a hand written account of my side of the story, but then you told me to embrace technology.
I love using my pen and how my hand glides on a blank piece of paper. I think we are a lost generation because we have missed out on the romance and magic of letter writing. Imagine waiting to hear from me in two weeks or more? Imagine how you would feel when you receive my letter and sit down to it immediately? I long for such an interaction, but you said “si kuna email na Facebook” (but there’s emailing and Facebook).
I wonder why we have Facebook, Twitter, Google+…of what use have these been to us, rather than creating a distance. I can recall, I sent you a three hundred word message on Facebook and your reply was ‘lv u mo.’ Yellow; you have no idea how disappointed I was. I had opened up my heart to you and there you were, maybe in your room, contemplating the next Manchester United match, and so you quickly pressed some keys and clicked ‘reply’ without a second thought.
I was not disappointed let me admit, I was irked! I could have given into the social dialect and said “Nkt!” but then we would have been the same. Yellow, I want you to write it as you say it. Write “I love you more” not a selection of words that cannot be found in a dictionary!When I asked you about it, you told me simply “si you know I don’t always have much to say.”I immediately asked you, how last week’s game was and the monologue lasted ten minutes!Yellow, let me take you back to 2008-the month was December. Can you recall the date? Let me ease the pain of doing so, it was the 18th. You came to our house back in Kisumu. It was a sunny day with the heat soaring above thirty two degrees Celcius. You were with your elder brother and his friend. I had just come from Kibuye market and my feet had collected every particle of dust it could on my way home. I was glad to see you and we hugged for over a minute. If I am right it was almost two minutes and some few seconds. I sat down next to you and started asking questions. We hadn’t met in over two years and I missed you. You told me you were studying Engineering at Moi University and that you were fine. I wanted to hear more about you, but you suggested we go out for a few drinks. You waited patiently as I took a shower and got dressed. I had my black fitting jean trousers from Enkarasha and a blue blouse with white polka dots. Your brother-Joshua, said “You look beautiful” and I blushed. It was so embarrassing that I blushed with my arm wrapped around yours.
I was but two decades old.
We walked into a bar & restaurant and ordered drinks. I asked for soda and you all started laughing at me.
“What? I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Sure, but that’s cheap take at least an Alvaro, in fact take three of those.”
“So, I hurt your ego.”
“Yes!”
“Okay,I will take an Alvaro please.”
The attendant went to the counter and came back saying they were out of Alvaro. I asked which soda they had and she said they had Coke. I opted for two cans of Redds. We had a wonderful time then talking about the old days.
You might not recall this but I do. The first time I met you was back in 1996. You were the new kid-fresh from another lower school. You had joined our class with your sister-whom you led us to believe was your twin. I liked your sister. I loved her big chocolate eyes. She also had a neatly pressed uniform and she smiled a lot.
You on the other hand were quiet. You sat next to the stammerer of the class. You never raised your hand to answer any question. I liked your eyes then. They were dark and mischevious. You were like two people in one and I labeled you a pretender. We never talked much but you knew I was in-charge. I was the class monitor and you respected that.
We shared seats for the fisrt time in class 6. This decision was thrust upon us by the class teacher, who felt we could make a good team. I still haven’t forgiven her for that. She had just opened a Pandora’s box-if only the short plump woman knew!
I had been a monitor two years so I knew my role, you on the other hand had no clue. You were the prefect and you had to take charge of the class. I was working as your assistant. You did what every organization does to the intern and left all the work to me. The class would be making noise and you’d do nothing. When the teacher would show up,you’d direct him to me for the names. I always did your work. I did it because I never liked to leave any stone unturned. You used this against me Yellow and the result….wait, I will get to that in a while.
I was in the school dance troupe, Choral verse, public speakingteam and also a debate member. It is in this year that I constantly emerged the best speaker. Do you recall what happened in the third term debate between our stream and six blue?
We were two points down and we needed to level the score, then Esther came up on stage and can you recall her introduction? She stood up to say “I’m Esther, standing before you as happy as a lion…” As happy as a lion, seriously? The whole room laughed out loud. The teacher had to call for order ten times before we proceeded. She broke the tension in the room with that. Later on, she told me she wanted to say “as happy as a king, but she couldn’t remember the phrase. I thought we were very stupid for having laughed at her. All of us had crammed the similes. We knew only a king could be happy, but what of a lion? Couldn’t a lion be happy as he lioness brought back a hunt?
I still think of Esther each time anyone says they are happy.
So, I had said we’ll talk about the turn of events due to your oppression. I was diagnosed with stomach ulcers the next year. The Doctor asked me, “what’s stressing you yet you are a child?”
I would have gladly answered “Yellow” but was in too much pain to talk. My lovely Mother could not understand what was happening to me. I could also not explain it all to her, but this sudden bout of anger was within me. I felt like a walking volcano ready to erupt!
If you took the time, you would have realized: I was in school by 6:30am, had to clean the board after every session, I exchanged old books for new ones at lunch, had to walk home for lunch and be back to school for dance practice, I had to supervise the class members who cleaned the class, had to go get our Class teachers’ daughter from school. I was doing everything for the welfare of others and not mine. Why do I say I was oppressed? I was oppressed because you knew your roles were to maintain order in class, assign someone to clean the board and supervise those cleaning the class-but you never did a thing.
The pressure I had to endure that year almost killed me!
I am glad I graduated from primary school to secondary school. I had this never ending crush on you which made me hate you more Yellow. My sisters would laugh at me each time they saw us in school. It was a taboo to hold a boys’ hand let alone talk to one for two minutes in school. Do you recall those who were discovered by the class teacher and they were whipped?
I wonder why they thought feelings could be undone by whips. I felt sorry for them. You and Joel laughed as the boys screamed. It was funny then-you always laughed at everything! What was amusing about someone’s pain?
I went on to high school in another district. It was the only place without a trace of civilization. I found out that my new school was in the middle of a sugarcane plantation. We had a navy blue gate with a watchman who never stayed at his duty point. He was forever eating githeri in the dining hall. Our classes had broken windows and I happened to learn that potholes not only existed on the roads but also in classes. My new school was Catholic. I had to wake up by 4:00am and shower on a slab with over three hundred girls. If you applied soap on your eyes-you’d reach out for an empty soap dish. I was told I had to buy toyo not Cussons-to stop them from stealing my soap. I had never used toyo-I used it in my second year of school, never have I missed the scent of Cussons like I did in that year.
It was the same year that we met. I never knew you were studying in out alleged brother school. It was a law that all the girls in our school had to date boys from your school. You were the best guys around, who knew how to keep ladies company. The other boy school was not lucky. They were kicked to the curb because they turned down a symposium. They learnt what a woman’s scorn is. All the girls who had secret admirers and boyfriends from that school dumped them. They had to settle for second best.
You came to school that year-it was the first time I was seeing you since primary school. We did not say much, but seeing you was enough proof that a crush could last a while. You were talking to my best friend-it was the words you chose, I saw you as a man then. Don’t get me wrong here, but your voice drew me nearer. When she left to grab a book for you, I shivered. I was in a navy blue school skirt, and red house tee-shirt. You were looking at me-I felt your eyes on my neck, down to my hips and I blushed. It must have been innocent-but I felt good. You asked me about my new school and whether I liked it. I told you I had been there for two years so my opinion did not matter. You laughed and then stared right ahead at your bus. I stole a glance at you-you were so tall. I hated being fifteen then, it was too much joy to take. Yellow, I never finished doing my laundry after you left. My heart was on a high I couldn’t stop smiling. My friend talked about how much you had changed too. It took me four years to realize that she too loved you.
The next time I saw you-I was defending you from the wrath of a girl who had nothing to do with you. You had also received a letter from a junior in our school declaring her love for you. I wish you knew how sad I was then. You read the letter in our presence and I pitied her. She had laid her heart bare only to be mocked by her beloved. Yellow, I still believe that you did have an affair with her. I am not being a drama queen. A girl would not tell a boy she loves him unless he leads her on. I know you had an affair with her, I just wish you wouldn’t have read that letter before us.
You sent me a card to wish me well in my final exams. I had a boyfriend then from the enemy camp. I’d receive letters from him and I’d be high on love till dawn. They called me by his first name. We were named one of the best couple and I relished the thought. Your card-was purple and it had a teddy-bear bearing flowers behind his back. The words were in golden italic “best wishes for my best friend”
You wished me well and I sent you a letter to the same effect. I had a crush on you and it was growing into something more. If only I knew it would be destructive then I would have let the enemy flatter me.
Yellow, our friendship grew till that day-December 18th. We went out with your brother and friend. I danced the whole night under the influence of Sprite. In fact your friend said he’s never seen a girl take soda the whole night while clubbing. I told him I was not just a girl.
Your brother after taking one too many told me that you had a crush on me. He asked me what I would do if he kissed me and I said I’d slap him senseless. He then asked what if it was you and I looked away. How could you love me? We were good friends wasn’t that enough? You were tall, with looks that could dazzle any lady and your voice-was richly deep. I was in love too, but scared of admitting it then. He kept telling me things about me that you noticed and I felt uncomfortable. I hate being around your brother especially when he’s drunk.
We had late supper as the alcohol sunk in your veins and then made it for another club. Your brother retired home-he was too drunk and sleepy.
I cuddled in your arms in the back seat of the taxi. Your friend looked at us and said we had to stop acting as lovebirds. I smiled and you chuckled. We danced some more at that club. I had never seen ladies wear nothing but pieces of cloth. I saw them flirt with men who bought them drinks. It was almost 1:00am and I couldn’t keep your brothers words out of my mind. I asked you if you liked me. You smiled and took a swig of that beer. I felt safe and warm in your embrace. Yellow, we talked about life back in primary school and high school. You said you had always loved me but were scared of what would become of our friendship in-case we broke up. I admitted that I liked you too and you kissed me. It was the first kiss from a love as tender as eight years old. I loved that kiss. I loved it not because it was from you, but because it was a declaration of feelings that were long overdue.
We became a couple officially that night.
You asked me for a chance and I gave it to you.
We never ushered the New Year together and I was superstitious. You know that those who usher the year together will always be together throughout the year. I wanted you to kiss me that night, but as the crowd shouted “happy new year!” you were nowhere to be seen. You told me you were having drinks at some bar downtown. I cried that night; my tears went back inside and the pain eased by dawn.
The next morning I dawned my beautiful dress and made for your home. It was your birthday and we had to wish you well. You hugged me tight and said, “you know I’ve always loved you.”

Watch out for part two on Tuesday 22nd May …

Opinion: Casanova and You

Written by Mukorino Precious

Let us imagine you have recently fallen victim to the charms of a bad boy-a regular one at that. And yes you have questioned yourself about it-no, you never thought anything was the matter with you-you are, after all, an intelligent, beautiful African woman –he should have felt lucky to have you by his side-You will probably nod to each point hereafter…

Confidence
Dick, not his real name (ahem) is the epitome of charm and confidence-confidence that in fact borders on arrogance. And am not saying-“Look out for confident men!”-no! Because the player’s confidence is one of its kind. He’s suave, conceited, haughty, but charming at the same time, effectively ensuring that you are swept away completely and only notice the charm and confidence that oozes out of him.

Romance
He will be the Kenyan version of Carlos Alberto Alejandro (ama who’s the hottest dude in the soaps right now?) He will open car doors for you and constantly ask if you’re comfortable. He will drop you home every night then call to say he has reached home safely-he will charm the socks off your friends and even tip the waiters and watchmen just to top it all off.

He will whisper things like –“I have only known you for a short while yet I feel like I have known you all my life.”

He will also text you every day and calls you often, just to make sure that you never forget his face.

He will add heavier meanings to names like sweetie, my dear, just by the tone of his voice…

The horns begin to show…

This is around the third month or so of what was supposedly a relationship… (But suddenly, you realize that you have probably just seen him six times in three whole months!) when you sit down with your faithful but brutally honest girlfriend to analyze the “Dick situation”- and your friend lays it down for you by asking a few candid questions like;
· Why does Dick (the) calls only once a week? Kwani the rest of the days who does he call?
· Why does The Dick not ask about you, your dreams and passions, your family?
· How come you are always meeting at rave joints-why don’t you do coffee or tea or even supper at his digs or something?

Meet my ex-girlfriend…
On the day that you meet his long term girlfriend at a bar in town (Who will come say hi and then go away to start bitching about you to her gals because she’s too gutless to confront him), he will introduce her as his ex. Dick (the) will claim the poor gal still has the hots for him, as you nod in understanding because this man is hot enough to elicit hot feelings. He even gets away with it , but not if you bump into the ex in tao one day by sheer luck/ fate/whuteva and the conversation goes something like;
Ex-G: So How do you jua The Dick-he your boyfriend?
You: The Dick? No, he’s just a guy am seeing. My cousin introduced us.
Ex-G: Funny you said that, because he is my boyfriend, has been for two years. I am in love with him-what will you do now?

You will then take a few minutes to absorb the current shocking news –as you watch the heartbroken gal tell you that this was not the first time she had busted him but that-“I just love him so much, I can’t help myself”

– The Ex-G is the woman that gives bad boys their name!

Back to my ranting and raving. Who comes up with these labels anyway? Labels that make men stick out their chests yet they were probably just caught at the wrong place and time with their pants down and then some imprudent fool came up with the nonsensical title.

Short Story: Her Imaginary Boyfriend

Written by Faith Oneya

First Published in the African Woman Magazine, November 2010

She has, as have millions of women before her, suffered from loneliness, to the point which any sort of attention from a man would do, even if it was a once in a month text that said:  You are so lost.From a man who was probably just horny and drunk and to which she was likely to reply It is you who is lost or  a similarly mundane text  in the hope of starting a stimulating, romantically charged conversation.

There is, of course, the occasional date that tells her he has Deep feelings for her which confuses him  and her long-time plutonic friend who has declared his Boyfriend intentions but with whom she just cannot get it on.

This is her dilemma-the certain knowledge that there is no such thing as Mr. Right and the deep appreciation of the fact that beautiful feelings for another are nurtured, grown, and not born at first sight.

Now, this may have sounded like a very rational statement, from an equally rational person (which she was) but the heart wants what the heart wants and she found that she went into supposed relationships with an incessant and irrational need to fall deeply in love and live happily ever after. Like Cinderella. A black Cinderella. A Kenyan. Instead of a carriage? A Mercedes.

This could have been the price she was paying for reading romance novels at an early age, of losing herself into the strong arms of the heroes and becoming the heroine whose body is worshipped. It was a price she was willing to pay because she wanted to feel love that would frighten her, and leave her desperate and in awe. Like she imagined she would be in the precense of God.

This is why she is sitting in her comfortable chair (Everyone who came to her house said she had the most comfortable sofa sets) with her cell phone in her hands – there is such a man in her life. The romantic (if there is any) in you may want to sit up and read further, and possibly pat her virtually on the back for the romantic persistence and eventual triumph. Not until you hear that this is  not the guy that makes her  toes tingle and leaves her desperately wanting and needing him more whenever he is away from her. This guy is the type that tells her he’s Confused about the deep feelings he has for her and would like to take it slow.

Her fauvorite relationship guru Greg Brenhart of the infamous book “He’s Just Not That into You” would definitely be proud of her if she concluded that this man was just not that into her and stopped wasting her pretty. Greg would also recommend that she delete her pseudo-boyfriend’s number from her cell phone immediately-however; Greg has not considered the fact that she memorized the number by date three! Greg also swears that no man is ever “confused” about anything. She is armed with these words of wisdom so she should be okay.

Her imaginary boyfriend has not called her in a month. Their last conversation ended with Let’s talk soon. She should have asked for his definition of “soon” but she did not want to sound needy. She should end the relationship. She can’t.

It is the curses of women like her.To always give the man the benefit of the doubt. She is built to endure all the heartache and bullshit that the man dishes out as long as he keeps our hopes up that he might actually give a damn about her. That is why her imaginary boyfriend will stay for three months without calling but on the day that he calls, she will engage all our mental and body strengths in trying not to pick up on the first ring!

She still does not have words to tell her pseudo–boyfriend-that she wants to break it off. This is the rational thing to do. But how does she define “it”?”It” certainly was not a relationship. He had six whole months where she blessed him with her presence in his life without his ever acknowledging that there was anything going on between us except for a feeble: I am so confused so she cannot very well start with the classic It is not you, it is me.She wants to call it quits because she knows she deserves better, and she spends thirty minutes trying to think of dignified exit words. She engages all her linguistic energies and settles for:

We are both pretenders. I pretend to be okay with the way you are treating me and you pretend that there is nothing wrong with the way you are treating me.

She adds ellipses in the text for dramatic effect and to signify that they have unfinished business. She hits the send button with  a smug little smile .Her  satisfaction turns into desperation in the few hours that he takes to reply, declaring he had no idea what she was talking about. In his text, he says:

 Could we just stop this nonsense? Why are you getting emotional over nothing?

Her mother had warned her about men who would cheat on her, and of how much it would hurt. Then, she had thought: But I am not you, mother. Her mother had warned her of the men she would love but would not love her back and she thought: I am not you. Her mother had said nothing of the men who, for a few hours every week, made her feel like a queen and treated her like a leper the rest of the month. She did not prepare her for her own weakness.

Her eyes water. Her lips tremble and her hands shake (You know, like in those silly Mexican soaps where the girl’s lips are always trembling before she cries). She goes over the text again and again hoping for a sign that he cares but she finds none. She curls up in her comfortable chair and weeps for herself and for millions of women like her-because she knows she will be going back to her pseudo-boyfriend tomorrow when he tells her he has to meet her and asks her out for a drink and takes her back to his house. (Not necessarily in that order).

He calls her two months later. She desperately holds on to the hope that he might have changed. Maybe gone on a self discovery journey somewhere in a Meditation facility in Runda or Westlands and realized that she is the love of his life. He wants her to cook him dinner in his house. She jumps at the chance to go to his house.

She wants to confront him about the text. The words are trembling on her tongue (Again, like in the Mexican soaps) She wants to tell him of how much he hurt her. She wants to tell him that he is not good for her, that she is unhappy. She wants to ask him if he has another woman. She sighs heavily.

What is wrong? He asks, looking mildly annoyed. She searches his eyes for a sign that he might care… She finds none.

Nothing, she replies.

You need to leave, I have an early morning.

A knife twists in her chest. Her eyes burn and her legs feel heavy beneath her. It occurs to her that people should be in a sitting position while being rejected. That way, there is half a chance to gather your strength and walk away with the remaining (if any) part of your dignity intact. That way, you have a few seconds within which you can gather your wits and salvage whatever morsel of pride there is to salvage.

The matter of leaving should not be a big issue. He has kindly explained that he has an early morning. Why does it feel then that if she put her foot across the threshold, she would wish she had folded her hands around his feet and begged to stay? Do not play games with men, her mother said, and always be your true self. She does not know what her true self is.

He walks her to the bus stop. He could have driven me home, but he has an early morning, see. There is no public transport on the road. It is late, and most of them are parked for the evening. He flags down a taxi, negotiates the fare, and tells her to leave because she would not get any means home if she stayed.

I will call you, he says.

She pretends she has not heard.