I received a Facebook friend request the other day. Just like always, I tapped the ACCEPT button without looking at who I was accepting as a friend into my online life. Minutes later, “Thanks for the add”. I ignored that. It was a lazy Thursday, and I was listening to old-school music. Then P Diddy came on, ‘I need a girl to ride’, damn! I had missed this song. I quickly updated my Facebook status with the lyrics. That is where this story actually began!
My new friend, the one that texted me commented, “Wow, I’m hear!” This is not what I expect in this era, especially on social media. You can’t say ‘hear’ instead of ‘here’! I clicked on her name to stalk her. No photos, no posts, nothing. She had just joined Facebook. I inboxed her, and the game started.
She replied, and I withstood her awful grammar. A dry spell can make you do anything, I am a witness. She had just come to Nairobi to stay with her aunt. I assumed that maybe, she was coming to join college or something. So I asked where she was going to college and she replied with the usual, ‘Tutaona tu…”. I did not press further. My data bundle was warning me that any time I’d go offline, I gave her my number and asked if we could text. Of course, we could.
“Si ulisema you need a wyf?” the first text from a strange number came. I knew it was my Facebook new friend. We won’t be calling her ‘new Facebook friend’, let’s call her Caro. I knew it was Caro. So I replied, “Yes”. Then she began bombarding me with questions. I didn’t tell her that those were lyrics to some old song by Puff Diddy. Neither did I tell a single truth in those answers. She asked why I wanted to marry and I said it was just a feeling, that I was lonely.
She didn’t even ask about love but rushed to tell me how she was bored at her auntie’s place, “Aki nimepoeka”. Bad, but still…
Caro told me how she would stay indoors all day and she was only allowed to go to church on Sundays, and maybe take a walk to town until the evening when she was expected back. Calculative me I read her mind and I led the cow to the butchery. We agreed that on Sunday, she’d walk beyond town. I’d send her cash on that day and while she’s in town, I’d tell her which vehicle to take.
On Sunday, early in the morning I woke up and cleaned my house. I hid all the dirty stuff under the bed and ensured the house looked decent. Then she called me around 9 am to tell me she was in town. I sent the money, then went to wait at the stage a few minutes later because I knew she was about to arrive.
At the stage, I went and sat on the balcony of this barbershop that was just opposite, and as she alighted from the matatu, I immediately switched my phone to silent mode. I looked at her keenly as she looked around while calling my number. I don’t want to describe how she was. How she was dressed was enough turn-off.
Braided hair, not bad. Yellow blouse, pink trousers and black sandals. This lady was not living with her aunt. She was a house girl who had her off day on Sundays. I went into the barbershop, sent her money and called her telling her to go back home, we would talk.
“Haiya, kwani Eli ni nini?” she began, startled. I knew she had taken all her time to prepare, a whole morning, or from the previous night, or a whole week, but no.
“Hapana. Sitaki. I’ve changed my mind,” I replied.
“Hutaki nini?” she insisted
Sitaki kuoa, si I wanted to marry?”
“Sitaki malliage,” she insisted.
I hung up, blacklisted her and went to the balcony to watch her catch a bus back to where she came from.
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