Suffice it to say, there is always that one. Where veritably unrelatable, regard that one pair of jeans, black brassiere or spoon. Fret not, brethren and sistren, if the shoe fits. Love (brotherly, in fact) was the command, never association.
There is always that one. I will say it again: there is. Your knowledge of each other’s existence began more like one of those endless conspiracies of the enemy, in this case the sole ettle being to create nemeses out of two effortlessly humorous souls (world peace can be doubtlessly achieved when both your senses of humour are combined), courtesy of your then sharp-tongued self. Ego games had never been your portion, and consequently, an apology saw you spend a not really silent night at your home getting to ‘know each other better’. By and by, visits became frequent, ad hoc walks were your favourite pastime, music played a huge part in your communication after comprehendable silence, closely followed by softhearted banter that had your ribs aching due to the endless laughter, love was in the air and star-one-eight-eight-hash was the way, but not the truth and definitely not a hint of foresight of life. Both of you had a thing for African jewellery because awesome, just awesome. Every onset of encounters with him always had your heart fluttering harder than Zazu’s wings (still does). Nikikutazama moyo wayoyoma or whatever H_art the Band sang. Vividly, you recall that one time you conversed for a whole night into the crack of dawn. What about? Zero in the brain. Though one thing for sure, you named your two children (not mentioning the names because plagiarism), a boy and a girl, whom you hoped for. The wild stories he narrated to you and his superb verbal mimicry skill still emerge from your memory in the wee hours of the night and you can’t help but burst out laughing because why not? A sense of humour so unmatched that it still lingers even in his absence. You found how you would think of something and he would bring it up in conversation later in the day beautifully weird. Psychic, maybe? Soulmates, or so you thought. Tears were the order of every opening day as you talked over the cellular and sent those goodbye texts with a dash of sweet nothings, but sweet nonetheless. He was the one whom you would outrightly employ the phrase, hiyo ni kazi ya shetani, whenever he decided to act up as he was the quintessence of perfection to you, disregarding the fact that a boob is a boob and not a mound of fat.
Cupid shoots one of his magical gold-tipped arrows at you on an ordinary sunny afternoon as you trot along the lanes in campus headed for the bedsitter apartment where you stay and a fine young lad swings by your side. Vibe, check. However, this only lasts for the first twenty seconds tops. He almost blows you off balance with a rather witty question you definitely have no answer to, but your wit miraculously steps up and so you decide why not? Your first rendezvous with him sees you drinking two mugs of coffee in his two-roomed apartment (indubitably sweet, but Kimani, you mentioned something along the lines of a cheese-incorporated dinner before i came here). (His real name is not Kimani). You later learned that that cheese-incorporated dinner was actually the famous Tropical Heat Cheese & Onion Waves Potato Crisps. One chilly morning found him asking you about God knows who of the African National Congress while all you were thinking about was a pending assignment pertaining the history of programming languages, which was at the expense of your visit on that particular day. Sasa nini ilinileta hapa and other thoughts of the sort bombard your mind but a deep breath and another miraculous witty response do the trick. However, it’s only logical that Mgala muue na haki mpe. In hindsight, he ignited in you the the urge to acquire knowledge beyond the borders of your country. In addition to that, his employment of the word ‘dealbreaker’ in a rather non-negotiable argument you once had inspired you to widen your scope of the queen’s language.
It is written that the enemy comes to steal, to kill and to destroy but whenever he crosses your mind, you confidently provide that the enemy also comes to confuse, but not necessarily in a hypnotical sense. Rather, by the use of i am a good person and other short stories. You absolutely adore his sense of humour, chivalry (in retrospect, an act) and generosity in all aspects concerned (you’ve got to give credit where it’s due regardless). He’s the one, you shamelessly lie to yourself, head over heels in love with him, grinning sheepishly at a WhatsApp text bearing his contact name popping up on your phone screen at four o’clock in the morning. Days go by and a pandemic deems it okay for humanity to simama kwanza tulambe glucose. The situation takes a southward turn in a shorter time than it takes to tell. You know better than to refuse to meuve. Ding dong! Guess who’s back, back again? Yes, you’re right. Many are the times you opt for all the options to utter exhaustion. You try to understand, but you figure out that you have to leave that to Omah Lay. Empathy eventually drains every ounce of strength in you. You literally feel it when Tarrus Riley sang something along the lines of your cup overflowing when forgiveness takes the shape and form of tolerance. Undeserved grace looks like a vacation would do her some rejuvenation. Well, (sighs deeply), but what is man?
Evening goes and morning comes. Same story, different character.
There comes a time in life when the only utterance left in you is “Mungu shuka na usitumane”. Because eiy!
Nevertheless, you can attest to everything they touched, whether for good or for bad, turning to gold, just like the Midas touch. Heaven-sent lads to some degree they were.
Anyway, next…
Bev
Manenoz 
Senseshonal
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