I first met Waridi during the Masterclass I was telling you about. Quiet girl, Waridi. She had red hair, braids, I think, and a red sweater. I don’t remember. We talked a bit then I asked her about her blog. And she said, picturethis.co.ke
“You’re kidding. You know that’s my tagline?” I asked.
But I wasn’t really asking. I was ready to fight her for that name. We would present the matter to court if we had to, tears would be poured, and blood would be spilt. Then she asked me when I started this blog. She won.
Turned out we were in the same school, only, she was about to graduate and was in a different campus. So when we met a second time, the week after, she said she liked my work, that she wanted me to guest write for her.
“Only if you do the same for me.” I said.
She sent her piece. I was meant to post it in the middle of next week, and reserved today for mine. But alas! Anyway I wasn’t feeling it this week, so here’s the substitution.
She stood there, naked. The image that stared back at her was the woman she swore she would never become. She was naked because it reminded her of her lean yet fragile self, but mostly because she wanted to wish the shame away. She thought that if she could look at herself long enough it would give her the will to do something about it.
She has become good at ignoring it. Each time she wakes up it feels like it never happened. It was pain on top of pain, and it kept on going.
The moment you are disgusted with yourself it seems like all bets are off.
But today it was different; the- he loves me- reason was no longer enough. Him saying that he won’t leave her, he just needs time was now trite. She had stopped overcompensating; now it was about her. Walking away with what was left of her pride. She needed something, a scheme to exit, something. But nothing came to mind.
When she turned to look at him in bed, she understood why it had taken this long for her to realise what she saw in him. He was a charmer, charmed everything off her. He was her safe place, never made her feel like the other woman. But that’s just what she was. It was never just the sex yet, it always ended with that. Still, there was finesse in how it was achieved.
She sat next to him, remembering the first time it happened. He was accustomed to pushing her boundaries. It started simply, sitting on his lap, then lip pecking, and then it was a kiss, French. They held each other, a bit longer than normal. It was like a twelve step plan by the time she was in his bed. Like clockwork, like the most logical step.
Soon it was routine. She came over, he cooked, and they talked for hours about everything. And by the end of the day she was in his bed, she thought it meant something. She was completely into him. But he never said a thing about it, especially since he felt the same way, she thought. They weren’t just friends. Until the day she asked what they were doing.
He had a girlfriend. She thought it was a bad joke. How could she be so stupid, not seeing it? But how was she meant to see it? They had spent every day together hadn’t they?
“So what do you want with me?” she asked.
He walked towards her and held her. It felt ok, good, almost. She was used to it that much.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, even when I’m with her. Please give me time,” he said.
And in the silence that comes with emotional embrace, he slept.
They never talked about it again. She was his and her, his. She wished he chose her. She was breaking her own heart and taking it upon herself to fix it. He woke up, found her staring at him. He pulled her in for a kiss, and she didn’t push him away. This was the last time; she would carry that thought with her.
As he drove her home, she felt the cut deepen, the scar that he would leave in her once he was gone. But she would heal. She would teach her heart to unlove.
That night she got a text from him: Can I pick you up kesho?
She wanted to say no. She really did…