Smacking his sinfully chapped lips, whose size attempt successfully to remind you and me of a pair of Festive buns, he placed his ashy elbows atop the kitchen counter and cupped his round, beardless face, allowing his beady eyes the pleasure of watching her amble lackadaisically in her apartment.
It was one of the many conventional Friday nights that dictated inebriation as one of the many ‘necessities’ for relaxation after a long, tiresome week. Kupatia mwili pole or so it is termed. Many a times a safe return back to the various places of residence after a wild night out being more as a result of divine favour than kutembea kisoja in the cases where Shoebarus, Footsubishis, Legsus, Toeyotas or even Ishoezus are employed.
Absolutely stunning in her variegated evening wear, which revealed almost everything butter-coloured and lovely, she walked around the kitchen counter towards him and embraced his skinny frame tightly, snuggling as they stood next to each other. Stop chewing loudly, sir. Yes, you. Deciding to break the silence pregnant with apprehension that engulfed their particularly minimalistic surrounding, he cupped her chin in his rough, massive hands and in veritable submission she turned to face him, her glassy eyes gleaming with either passion or something inside so strong. If she was not passionate about passion, at least there was something inside so strong, right? And if that something inside was not so strong, at least there was something, anything, you know? You gerrit? Anyway, you can’t relate. Can you? Sucks to be you if you ask me. Focus on you, big bro.
Parting her glossy lips in slow motion, she inched her face closer towards his and uttered carefully, “What are we…”
It was at that moment he knew that Calculus wasn’t that difficult after all.
There comes a time when you have to put your decision-making skills to the test. But with every decision yet to be verbalised, you can actually feel Satan’s pitchfork poking your bum in preparation for eternal flambéing. So you decide to play along the lines of something similar to “Hii ni ngapi?“…“Wewe uko na ngapi?”
The old soul in him lacked the courage to supply, tapping his feet and holding his fist near his mouth in mock performance, “We are the world…we are the children…we are the ones who make a brighter day so let’s start giving…”
Had he been a staunch gospel fan, Sinach’s divine creativity would have come in handy. Indubitably, it would have been an empowering moment as he admonished her lyrically, “We are a chosen generation…we’ve been called forth to show His excellence…”
If irrelevance had been relevant then, he would have turned up the Bluetooth speaker volume and Taylor Swift would have shouted melodiously, “We’re never ever, ever getting back together…”
Since reminiscence lacked the passageway to reach the memory area in his then stupefied brain, courtesy of a rather preferred as rhetorical question in a-you only live once-minded generation, “We are marching in the light of God…” couldn’t have done the trick.
Kiss before you read and replace the pronouns with your beautiful real names, all three if you wish. But what are we, really?