All that’s bitter is not hexagonal chapatis

I have imagined myself fixing up a sandwich and a glass of warm milk for my daughter as she sits on the dining table just inches away. She is still in her gray and black school uniform, counting her fingers as she tries to solve the 4+4 sum that has been bugging her for almost two minutes.

“Daddy,” she says,”what comes after seven?”

“What did Teacher Lilian say comes after seven?”

“Eight,” she replies smiling.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

Anyway back to reality, my best friend and I are walking some friends home after a perfect afternoon (of feasting, gaming and roasting each other) that was ruined at the last minute by issues I’d rather not talk about. It’s just four of us. One is lost in his phone (a Samsung Galaxy A50-he’d kill me for not mentioning that), the other two are immersed in conversation and then there’s me, trailing behind them totally lost in my own miseries. Drowning my sorrows in music. A feeling that can only be matched by submerging yourself in a bathtub of warm water so that only your nose and eyes are visible. Heartbreaks, you know.

I know you are waiting for a sob story of how I got heart broken, but I refuse to give you the pleasure of laughing at my miseries.

Recent events have reminded me of how astonishing it is that you have to choose a person and decide that is the one who is going to annoy you for the rest of your life. Even more astonishing is this other group of people who would rather be annoyed by their bosses for the rest of their lives. I on the other hand can see myself leaving the annoying to my daughter and her ‘what comes after seven’ questions. If you are such feel free to hit me up so I can take you out for coffee, I pick a place you buy the coffee.

I am simply saying that I have no time for love. There are more important issues to focus on. Like how I’ll buy data for my next class(for some reason we are still doing that), what to eat for supper, where the money for supper will come from, who is going to do my laundry and wash my dirty sufurias, how Manchester United is stressing me out and so on. The kalittle love I have is for chapo beans and chapo beans alone. Food fit for the gods I say. I can already see some of your mouths watering at the mention of chapo beans. Yes comrades,I am talking to you. How long has it been since you had a decent meal, a day, two days, maybe a week. You can deny it all you want but if asked the skinny cockroaches in your shelves can testify of how long its been since there was more than just salt in that house. Yet you are busy worrying about the idiot that has broken your heart five hundred times.How many meals have you skipped to save up for dates? How many times have you carried a pan to your morning classes all in the name of cooking chapatis for him in the evening? He even loves the crispy hexagonal chapatis you make more than he loves you. Ooh and if you’ve not been told yet, he will leave you for someone who cooks better chapatis. Wait,how do you even make them hexagonal, kwani you cook with set squares and protractors?

Dude, at least save your money for better things. I know ni pesa kidogo, but you’ll still be a thousand times better than the ‘siwezi kaa kwa hostels Mimi‘ crew. Lakini comrades shida hua gani, who cursed you people? You choose to live on your own then the devil sends Delilah to finish you slowly with unleavened bread disguised as chapatis, and you won’t see it coming because you were expecting her to shave you. Before you know it you are enrolling your second born in kindergarten (he will be the creepy little kid who is always peeking in my daughter’s lunchbox), the chapatis have graduated from hexagonal to octagonal, you are technically dead, and I’m obviously too bitter to continue with this piece.

Let me join my friends cause sulking won’t get me anywhere…and besides, yashamwagika hayazoleki…

Enjoy your hexagonal chapatis!

Chiko.

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