My clandestine Valentine

All I am saying at this stage is… there was a side-splitting play, lots of wine, a splendid sunset, floating away on a pond, great lighting, lots of small talk, a bit of walking, great art gallery with beautiful pieces to boot and right where I couldn't pronounce ‘silhouette’ was a straight out of the movie shut-up-and-kiss-me moment… whether it happened or not, is however irrelevant.

Now let’s jump to the after effects; I woke up the following morning to soundless music, the coffee mugs dancing on the shelves, pancakes swaying their hips on the pan and “um… um is my coffee SPEAKING to me?” Funny thing is, there was nothing telling in the silky morning air, but love was definitely laced on the sun rays piercing through the leaves of the enormous fig tree outside my kitchen window. As the warmth hit and spread throughout my face, I couldn’t ignore the images in the azure sky partially in hiding, images of a seraph thrilled by the sound of the Nyatiti playing “My moving home” in a dialect I couldn’t comprehend. The hilarity brought about by the costume-clad chaps under the bright lights of the stage tickled the Seraph much to my amusement and I never had such a lovely time watching a stranger laugh so hard, never.

This being is, easily the most fine-looking thing I have cast my eyes on in a long time, their laugh so gentle, stature so elegant, impeccable eloquence, exudes positive energy from every pore on their skin… incredibly erudite and did I mention that they look not a day older than 27 years but is as wise as a sage and as composed as a harp haha! (he is so beyond fine that I not only need the Englishmen to sit and create me an adjective for this person but also for Shakespeare to resurrect chap-chap for we have work to do!).

Unable to withstand the intensity and the blinding glow of the moment I turn away and smile with my heart albeit not furtive enough to cheat the woman in the kitchen busy brewing the coffee. Both the woman and the kettle are wearing a knowing smile, I can see their faces, the mischief, their asking lips twisted into a question that I am not ready to answer, no I will not dare say a word. For I have not the response. At this point, I take a swig of the dark fluid sitting motionless in my cup and resist the swallow if only to keep the secrets of the magic of the previous night from spilling.

Walking out hurriedly, index finger wagging behind me the woman in the kitchen is caught in a stutter “…I was just going to ask if you want some cream with that,” she lies out loud supporting her weight with the door frame. I can tell she is genuinely happy for me; she can’t thank heavens enough that I 'finally' healed the wounds of a disappointing and daunting past. She is holding back the excitement lest I slip back into the morbid habits of video games, slothfulness and suicidal imbibing. She blows me a warm kiss, full of a mother's affection , still I'm not telling.

The couch holds out its warm loving arms to receive my bony frame, he has been with me through the dark days of nursing a broken strange-muscle and I can tell he is over the moon that I didn’t walk in with a slab of cheese, a box of Kleenex and a bag of cheerios. The way he sinks back as my buttocks find a comfortable spot sounds more like a sigh of relief than anything else, I pat him gently and whisper, “It’s over buddy. The days of grief I mean.” I could swear I heard a muffled chuckle.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have got to stop right this minute before I jinx this any further and also because I need to pencil in lunch for coming weekend.

That would be all :-).

The Monday that killed the weekend.

I have on my coffee table a 200pg report that needs not only to be read and understood but also to be analyzed. On my desktop sits a folder full of raw information begging to be thoroughly read, organized and summarized into a 3 page dossier on a subject I would normally care less about (Anthrax). On my office desk at work lays a 13page report needing to be typed by yours truly. Strewn on my dirty beige carpet are newspaper clippings of job-adverts with just around the corner deadlines. Somewhere on this couch, trapped between my bony bottom and the cushion is my mobile phone incessantly buzzing and trilling; messages to be replied, phone calls to be returned , emails to be read and reminders either to do this or that. On my kitchen table is a pile of bills all calling for some kind of attention which I can’t look into right now because as you may well know bills come in before the check from your employer. Why is that anyway? I’m sure the universe has an explanation.


All of the above messy shyt needs to be sorted by Monday; that is the day after tomorrow and that is also why I am home at 10a.m, in pajamas on a bright sunny Saturday! Normally, I would be out riding in an old, small but amazing Suzuki with my new friend Chuck (who thinks driving at 140kph on a wet road without safety belts is pretty adventurous- I agree) or out in the market trying my hand at the grocery business or whatever it is organized people do over the weekend. However, its urgent that I put my life together or soon you’ll be hearing from an in-between-jobs-30-year-old who lives with her mother!


Procrastination is one of my numerous impediments to a joyous weekend and the reason I have the 200pg report I borrowed from a private library 2 weeks ago in order to be well prepared for an assignment coming up soon and probably the reason I am writing this unimpressive article just to avoid looking into the report. I need to be well read not so much because I love working on projects I know nothing about but because I need the remuneration to offset the above mentioned bills. That I am jobless is the reason I am unable to pay my bills and the reason you will read this and other articles long after they were written seeing as my internet connection was recently disconnected (just incase you were wondering, it was a staggering amount, that my monthly allowance couldn’t easily offset).


Regarding the 13pg typing job; this is my lame attempt at being likeable at the office so I take up the typing job though I know I’ll be unable to finish it because I am already swamped. Why I would do that is because I am aiming at Intern-of-the-year award, we are talking future prospects. What are the chances they will miss me after I am gone? Miss me so much that when I throw in an application for a job the boss will rule in favour of, yes, me! Ok that is my game plan, which officially renders me a buttpecker! No other way.


So now to the 3pg-Anthrax-dosier, well, that is supposed to sort out another aspect of my life which I tend to ignore but is equally important seeing as I don’t want to end up as the old-cat-lady who left ALL her wealth (don’t forget hard earned from a successful career) to her 67 assortment of cats (I hate cats and reptiles, mostly reptiles). Well, not a single dime to charity because she is bitter at her choices; strange how this epiphany comes at a point where she can do absolutely nothing to the situation! Ok, back to the point, Anthrax! I mean Chuck, this nice awesome guy I met a while ago, and I know I said he is my friend but that’s what he thinks I have a different strategy. Don’t give me that look; it’s hard to find love. Sometimes it calls for one to create a situation for love to happen. Shoot! Now I sound like the women who trap men, whatever! Story for another day.


And that brings us to the abrupt and untimely end of this funeral, R.I.P Mr.This Weekend, you will be missed. Hope to catch your bro Mr. Next Weekend, I have a good feeling *wink*.

Ps: This post was unearthed from my offline blog. Dated October 24th 2009. FYI: I have become more organised (the magic, as i found out is not in being less engaged, it is in not procrastinating) and Chuck turned out to be sadly, a JERK! yeah.