While I was away on that long deserved break, on a warm afternoon seated on a slanted chair outside the digs, I put a cap to Gone Girl- by Gillian Flynn. Wonderful book. Thrilling. Psychopathic. Beautifully written.
As soon as I was done with it I ached. I got this painful craving to talk to someone about it. I wanted to sit down with the author and tell her to show me her demons. Most of all, I think, I needed a stiff drink.
I’m not going to tell you much about the story. I’m not even sure I can talk about it well enough to serve it justice. I’m still recovering from it; it’s too soon folks, too soon. This isn’t about the book anyway.
But there’s a crazy woman in there by the name of Amy. You’ll like her quickly, she’s smart and funny and fun. And then later she’ll slowly roll you into a ball of skepticism with her jagged heart. She’s vengeful, and she always gets what she wants. She’ll haul a chunk of questions to your head; do we ever really know anybody? And the guys’ all time favorite- what do women really want.
Nick is the ill-fated hedonistic lad that married Amy. Amy disappears from home one day, there’s blood on the kitchen floor. All the evidence seems to point to Nick. He denies it, obviously. But he also has a secret, a smelly bone that Amy discovered before she went missing. What unfolds is for you to find out. Read the book.
They made a movie out of it, I haven’t watched it but I bet my lungs it isn’t as nearly as good.
Anyway, the story mirrors how reckless and stupid us guys can be. How clueless we can get when it comes to understanding the female order. The unending mystery we face trying to know how they think. How easy it is for them to see through our bullshit. And how manipulative they can get.
That last one is the reason I found myself part of this Game of Thrones party. Manipulation.
“Seriously? You’ve not watched Game of Thrones?” She asked.
“No. I just don’t think it’s something I’d like.”
“You have to watch it aki.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass”
“Are you okay?”
“You don’t look okay.”
“Ugh, I said I’m fine.”
“Baby, do you want to…”
“No, I have a headache.”
I was finishing up on the first season a couple of days later, hehe. But do you see what kind of power was bestowed upon these girls?
I got hooked to the show though, needless to say. Suddenly I could tell who comes from which kingdom and all. I especially liked the dwarf, his wit is unrivalled. In a show where everyone else seems to be five minutes away from death he looks elusive. But I digress.
The point is, there was no way I was going to win that small conflict up there. And there aren’t many of them you can win. Unless she lets you. Your duty as a guy is to know which battles to pursue. And to know which ‘I’m fine’ is genuine. Just keep it in your head that every mistake you make, everything slightly offensive you say goes to the black book.
It’s a thing. All the wrongs you’ve committed are noted down here. To be brought up the next time you’re headed to the dog house. You’ll never completely skew things your way my friend, because in the grand scheme of things, you’re clueless. You know nothing, Jon Snow.
The top cat of a huge publication suddenly popped into the editorial room one time. He was excited. Then he asked, “Who the hell is this kid? I think he’d be a good fit.”
A few days later I got an Email, about a meeting with the team. And that was why, on a chilly Friday morning at around 9:30am I squeezed myself out of a small matatu at Westlands clutching my laptop bag. The meet was set for 10 and the weather was doing nothing to ease the throbbing anxiety in my gut.
Many deep breaths later I will make my way to the obscure office building. It’s nifty, smells nice. I will meet a guy called Muindi, you might remember him from here, a good sport, the one that threw my name to the director in the first place. We talk briefly, and then he hands me over to a kind heart called Kat, the senior mwandishi who shot me the Email. She’s meant to hold my hand as we walk into the Director’s office. I can tell she’s rooting for me.
The director is standing behind his desk, which has a massive screen sitting on it. Across from him is his partner, spotting a blue jumper. Kat makes the introductions. By this time my palms are drenched in sweat. A lot of it is trickling down my arm pit.
I’m thinking, can they tell I’m nervous.
I’m thinking, that roll-on deo was a fake
I’m thinking, please give me the job mister.
The director will ask me a few questions, picking my brain on things. Like why I think schools are getting burned all over the place. And then he starts to read me the riot act. “I don’t want you to be a desktop journalist, and that is something we will fight about eh?”
I’m nodding. I nod about 100 times, and I’m thinking, how flattering.
His partner steps in now. He looks like a guy who would buy you a beer. He tells me what is expected of me and all. It’s a tall order but I say I’m up for it. “This won’t be all about the writing, it’s about going out there, getting the story, being curious.”
Later, alone with Kat, she tells me, from the look of things, it looks like I’m on board. And that I’ll be getting the call back soon.
Remember last time, when I said I’m stepping up the writing? Well this is how it starts. Hopefully they’ll slap me with a solid contract. Hopefully this gig will shelter my art. Wean me. Grow me a thick hide. Teach me how to pinch stories. Take me beyond the wall (Game of Thrones anyone?), and show me a whole lot of other things I don’t know about.
You know nothing, Jon Snow.