She is wearing a red suit, stiletto heels and a nice pixie cut. Everything about her oozes elegance. Her articulation of words, the brightness of her smile, how she nodded with approval, and her hearty peals of laughter quickly turned to the infamous ‘girly creeper’ dance when she struggled to find balance on the floor. She’s like the sun; she brings shine and light to every room. I fall deeper in love every time I see her and it irks me.
She was seven when I wrote her a cheesy letter about the colour of her lips. I brought her a piece of cake, her favourite. I was surprised to learn in one of her interviews that she likes salted caramel now, and red velvet spongy cakes no longer change her mind. At seven, she liked dancing and singing off-beat too. To date, my favourite look on her is how a smile forms on her face while she’s clapping, her teeth exposing the joy raving through her body. It’s the face I see every time I’m in the studio, writing my award-winning songs. It’s time I admit she’s the charm. She’s the inspiration for my music. Her smiles help me string words into lyrics, perfect rhythms that echo the love I feel in my heart.
During my theatre days, I used to cover popular artists and I remember how I embarrassingly started singing Isabella by Sauti Sol all over again because Habiba rose up from the crowd, grinning widely, clapping her hands and instead of my knees, my voice went weak and my eyes blinked till tears rolled. She wore a beautiful print dress with hues of brown, beige, and dark chocolate that snatched her waist to perfection. I could feel my soul seeing and imagination wilding control over my mind. Music brought her to me. It opened up her heart, her soul and her body to me and I travel every inch of her being with my voice. My soul swells and bursts with her beauty. Music makes her mine.
“Habiba, we have a surprise guest for you,” the emcee announced on the microphone. She looked surprised and a little bit tired. She had been responding to questions from the press about her debut book, Choura, He stabs me. She wrote the book to honour her father’s memory who passed away exactly eleven years ago due to stomach cancer. The book, an anthology of stories, narrates the destitution widows and young women deal with after losing their significant others. A particular story about a lesbian couple whose partner couldn’t financially help the love of her life because her government and insurance companies don’t support same-sex marriages moved me the most. I hope she could give us a sequel, after my performance tonight.
The band went on stage first to perform her father’s all-time favourite song. A Luo Benga song titled, Isanda gi hera which closely translates to you trouble me with love. The band practised day and night till they got the perfect rendition of the song. My heart busted a few moves when her face lit with a smile the moment the instrumentals rented the air. She was on her feet, slow dancing to the song, telling everyone “that’s my dad’s song!”. Her mother nodded with approval as she too took to the dance floor. She was rubbing her eyes at the end of the performance, it brought tears to her eyes. She’s a crier. Movies move her. Especially when children lose their parents when the cast adorns black attires. It’s as if she discovers something new, or longs for him a little too often, and it spills into tears, she’s still very vulnerable to love. Her father’s long-gone love.
He died when she was fourteen. She collapsed in her aunties arms by the graveside when her father was being laid to rest. I was standing across from her, and I remember stretching out my hands to hold her. She was too strong, yet broken. I wiped the dust off her dress and helped remove her shoes as she wailed uncontrollably. She had seemed pretty put together when addressing mourners barely an hour ago. She moved people to tears, telling them how he liked to play hide and seek, having them throw a music festival in the house with football jerseys as prizes, taking pictures of them and how he made Habiba and her siblings sing happy birthday to chickens before they were slaughtered. They made him porridge on Saturday afternoons when he spent time with them. He made them egg rolls on Sunday mornings, their favourite after Sunday school meal. She burst into fresh tears at the burial, when she sang the ‘early to bed and early to rise song’ he stood on the bedroom door and sang for them every morning.
My heart laboured seeing Habiba dealing with her father’s loss. We had anticipated that he’ll get better as she bounced back from her battle with leukaemia. She was twelve, and her waist ached. Then, her finger ached too, so she was wide awake most nights, plaiting dolls because she couldn’t sleep from the pain. The diagnosis troubled me. Cancer. At thirteen, cancer meant death, treatment or not. I lived every day with the fear that we’ll have an emergency assembly one day and the principal would announce her sudden, tragic passing and it troubled me, beyond imagination.
Her bald head scared me a little. Her friends said it was due to the chemotherapy treatments and that it would grow back if she healed. I escorted her brother home from school every evening just to steal glances at her, but she often hid away in her room when she heard our voices. She looked beautiful even in her struggle, I just wanted to tell her that. She was declared cancer free three years later, a relief. It felt as though I had lived so many lives in such a short while. I’d written the poems she never read, prayed more often and watched every movie; finding ideas of how to express my love to her. On some bad days, the movies I watched riddled me with fear, and the fear encompassed me for too long. When she healed, I thought I had all the time in the world to love her, but I was wrong.
“Everybody, please welcome to the stage, Ian Muziki!” the emcee announced and the audience roared into a round of applause. I’ve gained fame, popularity and a seat at tables I’d only dream of, but the one person that unknowingly inspired this doesn’t seem to appreciate it. Or she does, but it’s just not good enough for her.
I’ll be performing Nyashinski’s Malaika tonight. The song describes Habiba in a million ways. The vulnerability she shares with so much grace, how she concludes her sentences with a smile, the way she grins at babies before sticking her tongue out, the voice of reason in her work and how she claps her hands before she starts singing along to a song she enjoys. Most importantly, it’s what she means to me, an angel.
“Ian, why did you prefer to perform a cover song instead of an original song by you?” It’s Moipeei, a popular entertainment journalist and you know they never lack questions.
“Malaika explains the kind of person Habiba is. I hold her in the highest regard and it’s laced with beautiful memories from our childhood,” I respond. At this time, the audience is quiet and all the attention is drawn towards the stage. Their faces are still beaming with smiles from the stellar performance I just gave. It’s beyond human understanding, how music weaves emotions, cultures, experiences, fears and people together but it’s insanely satisfying to be the weaver of these things.
“Habiba is a great friend, I’m lucky to have known her for the best part of our lives. I wrote her cheesy letters that landed me in trouble because she reported me to my grandma. I bet that’s unforgettable,” I answered.
“Are you dating Habiba?” The audience is so eager, the murmurs in the air are enough proof. I turn my head towards Habiba and she’s smiling.
A familiar smile.
The same smile she gave me when she was seventeen and I sang Malaika for the first time for her. The smile made me think she was in love. A smile I confused for consent, and kissed her passionately, eyes closed, thanking the heavens for the sound of my voice. Until she pushed me back, her eyes bewildered with confusion. When she said she was okay after the awkward kiss, I treated it as a yes. A nod to a relationship that ended before it began.
“Not yet. But you could find that out tonight,” I say, my gaze fixed on Habiba. She smiles disapprovingly, and I assume it’s because she’s underestimated the lengths I could go to prove my love to her.
“Ian, are you saying we should stick around for surprises?” Moipeei asks.
“Actually, I don’t think we should wait any longer”. I turn my head to Habiba, and I can sense the fear on my breath. My eyes are blinking, and they can barely look up, to meet Habiba’s watchful gaze.
“Habiba, may I?” she nods, but her facial expressions scream don’t do anything stupid, so doubt is all that’s left in me, love must have vacated with the wind.
This is exactly how I felt, twelve days after we first kissed and she started being dodgy, only to find out that she actually had a boyfriend. It made sense, why she didn’t pick up my calls, how she vanished behind doors and why she only responded ‘goodnight’ to my long, sappy texts asking why she didn’t do this or that. Heck! I even started to question if the messages had been delivered or not. Everything made sense when I saw her with Junior that evening, holding hands, laughing and sharing a bottle of coke. From nowhere, Junior waltzed into her life, charmed her and made her forget about me, that’s what I thought. Until I confronted her at the theatre three years later and confirmed that they had been together before the kisses happened. Habiba had been stringing me along for twelve whole days. The betrayal!
I was a desperate teenager, so I bragged to Junior about the kiss we shared, hoping it would end their relationship and give me leeway. It did, but somehow, she just doesn’t see that I have been waiting, hoping and preserving myself for her. She went ahead to date a light-skinned, skinny dude that was vested in her behind. Then it was her school’s president, the guy looked ravishing in suits, that’s hard to admit, but his heavy Luo accent tickled me. She dated too, a divorced football sensation with a daughter that quite frankly disliked her. My guess is as good as yours, these relationships never worked because I’m her soulmate, but she refuses to see it. I wish she would see that I have been waiting for her. But not any longer, tonight, I take matters into my own hands.
The second time I asked her to be my girlfriend, it was stupid. I crafted the popular, ‘Netflix and chill’ text with some sweet childhood memories that brought her to my place.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Ian”.
When did I ask why “I need to work on myself and my mental health.” Good enough reason don’t you think? But then, there was someone else barely two months after that conversation. Thankfully, he’d moved to Germany permanently. It irks me, that she confides in me, goes on trips, laughs, loves and spends time with me, but not enough to take things to the next level.
This time, I’m doing it with a song. It’s an original. I wrote it at her birthday party, watching her dance, whipping her hair back and forth, drunk and dominating Karaoke. I’ve been conflicted, about whether I should release the song or wait for the perfect time, like tonight. But there’s never a perfect time for Habiba and me. Because the short, egotistic, developer guy that sends her Shrek memes, her favourite cartoon, is rubbing her right hand, smiling with his teeth, before planting a kiss on her lips. Once again, someone else arrived before me.
I look at the eager audience. Can they hear it in my voice? The comparison in my mind between the men in her life and me? Will I forever be the man of her dreams, just as she’s the girl of my dreams? Will reality ever slow down to marry my dreams to her reality, it sucks! Daydreaming sucks.
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I Got Out Of The Friendzone And Dated My Best Friend For One Month
My Best Friend Fell For Me And Now Our Relationship Is Ruined