Trimming Weeds

I took a short undefined hiatus. I had to. I had a deal with myself that once I had hit a certain number of views I’d take a break to let it all sink in, this blogging thing. Now that it’s all sunk and tucked in, I’m back here in the garden, trimming all those weeds and grass that had grown.

***

She has me on the most entangled web of my life. Saying yes when she means no and the opposite. Saying she’s not mad when she explicitly is. And worse, acting fine just to later burst out an endless list of wrong doings I’ve done the past few weeks. Petty things I thought we just rubbed off normally. She’s an enigma, this girl.

I am not the type of guy to understand the coded language. I understand primal (male?) uncoded language. Unless it’s body language then that’s a story for another day. When I say I want meat, I mean meat. I don’t care if it’s fish or beef or chicken. It could be a small Malawian hare facing extinction for all I know but as long as it’s meat, you’ll have made me happy. That’s how simple we are, us men. We call a spade a spade. It’s why we can’t get away with anything. We cheat, we’re caught. We can’t call bluffs. Not like women. They can get away with murder. They’ll observe you as you eat your meat (no pun intended, ladies and gentlemen) and see what you were doing at work at 3:17pm. They’ll ask you a mere, “How was your day?” and from how you answer she’ll know how much airtime you’ve used up that day. Some kind of gift they have. I swear, It’s a conundrum. They’re too powerful.

Back to my kaissue here. She’s amazing. I love her. I’m sure I do. But when she starts with the mind games I’d rather watch a Man United game, it’ll get me less disappointed. Like one time, we were supposed to go out. But as per the usual, something comes up. There’s always something. Strings attached somewhere are always being pulled. She’s more than 2 hours late. She hasn’t communicated a word. I’ve cut my ego and texted her, called her and threw in a WhatsApp text but nothing. All go unanswered. Being the irritable and impatient arse I am (which for the first time is justified), I decide to go to my place, you know, catch up with the good ol’ Orphan Black. And then she texts when I’m in the mat. Ati “Kuja to my place we go.”

In my life, I’ve never been angrier. Maybe the time the high school watchman touched my member claiming he was frisking me. That’s a close second. I wish she threw in an, I’m sorry I missed your calls. Or even forget the ‘I’m’. But just apologize. She didn’t (hasn’t). I ignore the text. A few minutes later she calls.

“Kwani where are you? Btw sorry I missed your calls and texts.”

“Niko kwa mat.”

“Heading to?”

“My place.”

*Dialer tone*

I call her back because we(I) are like that, weak. She ‘busies’ me. Now of all things girls do to alert you they’re mad, two stand out. One is responding with the repugnant “K.” With the full stop. The full stop adds to the drama. To show she’s done, a threat of sorts. The other is rejecting your call. Former hurts more though. So I knew she was mad. And some bit of terror set in. Suddenly I was in the wrong. Me, who had waited at a café for almost 3 hours was on the wrong. Me, who had called over 10 times was on the wrong.

I call her roommate. She doesn’t pick up. Now I’m sure she’s livid. When they all gang up on you, know she’s mad. I resume my playlist, reach home, bathe and watch Two and a Half Men instead. All that time knowing I was the one to reach out, just not sure when. But really, was I on the wrong? What would you have done?

P.S: Because love is a beautiful thing, Gasheri, her friends and I have been working on a short e-book on love. Nothing serious. Just a collection of love articles to get you to be a hopeless romantic like Ted Mosby. It doesn’t ring a bell? From How I Met Your Mother?

The e-book comes out on 7^th of this month. Watch out.