MOVING ON

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Cate has been my friend for the last 10 years. I met her as she rummaged through my suitcase on my first day of Campus. “Thief,” I thought. (We were new roommates.) She looked up at me and the shock of being caught fell from her face fast. I like such folk- guys that wear their feelings far from their sleeves. Then she shrugged, sat on her bed and said, “I want to know what you are about and I have little patience.” Thus the friendship was sealed. Over the 10 years, she has not lost any front teeth. You keep such folk. We are both currently dating. Old folk, this means we are going for dates. Some days we meet up and laugh so hard about some of the incidences and when we go silent, well that’s when we’ve meet incredibly great or bad dates. So I’ll write about some of our experiences in this new category. Laugh or cry with us but try not to be too harsh oh life judges. ey?

I rarely think about him. True of God. Not until now and it’s because I have to write this piece. I don’t know if I miss him. Largely, I think not. I have never wondered where he might be or what or who he is doing in his life. It feels like a rapt memory by now, a déjà vu of sorts. Like it never happened. Until someone talks too much about Rwanda. And that’s rare. Not with France as the new terror hotbed, or Swaziland’s Mswati getting a new babe complete with shy peckers. How about the fat kid, the US with its daft as brush CNN? There are a lot of countries out there competing for attention and Rwanda is way too poised to garner attention most days. Well, until this week. If you’ve read anything online, then you’ll know why my Rwandan memories were jostled.

He was the only man I ever loved too much. Too much is wrong.

His name was Jacques Ruti. Of course it’s not his real name you jackasses. I remember meeting him circa 2009, one evening when visiting a friend’s room in campus. My first thought – because my life is largely a musical- was Sean Kingston’s “You’re way too beautiful boy, that’s why it’ll never work; you’ll have me suicidal, suicidal.” And so a week or so later when he asked for my number, I declined. So he asked my friend. Folks, for the next month, I learnt what ‘being pursued’ must feel like. Allow me to digress. When a man genuinely wants to hold your hand whether you like it or not, like he has to hold it to survive being around you, or when he saves one look and only uses it on you, or when he opens your every door, even the matatu ones, when he teaches you to use knives and folks on your first dates without any condescension on his part but a genuine desire for you to share in his aristocracy, you feel like you’ve lived 50 shades of grey. Yes, really.

A month after the meet up, we sat watching Russel Peters. He took one large breath, picked the remote from me and put off the t.v. He held both my hands and told me he had fallen in love with me. Now, I wish I was making this up. I am not. You’d expect joy, right? No folks, my head reels on a different axis. For a whole minute, I genuinely thought how amazing it would be if we were brother and sister. Hear me out. If that was the case, we’d be together forever. No drama, no jealousy, just love. Right? Because for once, I’d met a man who actually believed love should be the most intimate of risks, not a carefully-worded veil of ambiguity. Cynicism he lacked. A dark horse, enigmatic like the Mormon faith. How then would I survive the impending heartbreak if I yielded?

Then he kissed me and all thoughts of brothers and sisters just wafted to a distant land in Lokitipi. Ergo, I started learning Muraho, bite se, ndagukumbuye and all those pedestrian phrases. Even the ones that make loins stir.

Folks of the wordedveil, any tete a tete regarding Rwanda always evoked images of beautiful women. It is true. Hi Nadia. Their asses are carved by God and good genes. Faces so long and so smooth you think of chocolate milk. Poise so graceful you think the country is a kingdom of swans. But rarely do they tell you of the handsome men. Ladies, Rwanda will give you rows, no crowds, no parades of tall, handsome and French-speaking men. Most of them really are. And so cute how they speak bad Swahili. Especially if in their sad history, they grew up across the gate at Gisenyi in Goma, Congo. These men and their shoulders will carry all our problems, broadly.

Their insane sense of organization is apparent even in the way they plant crops. Every region has a designation. You can’t go mixing sweet potato and beans. Non, C’est pas vrai. And so was the ex. If we got downstairs and he noticed some dust on his shoe or a crease in his shirt, then we’d have to return and iron out the mess. He like most was calm, respectful and readily friendly. I didn’t get that they all hold hands. So one evening at a dinner with his friends and cousins visiting from Kigali, we went to Intercon and by God I was ready to kick some ass after watching him holding everyone’s hands the entire evening. Not until the lot also started and kept holding my hand until late that I understood it’s the norm. They even sang for me, “Maso Inyana…” which means ‘eyes of a cow’. Cows are to Rwandans what money is to Kuyos. If you are driving the winding roads to Butare and come across a cow on the road, please hit a tree. It’s the rule of thumb.

Here is why we broke up, except for the marakara legless (unfounded arguments), I was starting to lose weight. True of God (licks soil). He detested it. Petite quio? He liked/s them large or larger. I hear they are warmer, if you know what I mean. See how Cherotich is losing weight and how we all follow Jane Mukami and her 21 days of change? Not the ex. He was a whole different kettle of fish. This one will dump you at your first mention of clean eating. Health is wealth? No, Fat ass is wealth. The two years we dated, I only got flowers once. The rest was packs upon packs of Snickers, Guylian, Ferrero Rocher and deep fried chicken. I should have smelt a rat. So about two years of bliss later, as Kate and the Prince got married on TV, Ruti and I were breaking up on the couch. And how we broke up is still epically romantic. He came into my house at about 11 a.m where we started weeping together. Okay, I wept more and he shed a few tears. We kissed a little and said goodbye. We then held hands to the car, kissed and hugged again before he disappeared to a fat girl’s arms. Thing is, I understood. Really, to each his own. Then I wept for the next three months.

Here’s what, we are moving to a fat girl’s arms too.

WordedVeil won’t suffice anymore. She is losing weight too fast and I am worried her bum won’t be something to look at in the coming months. She won’t make us come. Here. We need a fresh fat ass errm, I mean start. I am unsatisfied with the way I’m constantly trying to customize material to fit our style and am starting to feel trapped in marakara legless. It’s starting to feel icy and we need a warmer sensation. Like you would when trapped between hot fat thighs. We need more room to grow into. We need to cuddle up to something jazzy, something larger. It’s starting to feel dodo-like dead and we should evolve to a sexier, curvier, roomier place. Clive suggested that I fire my IT guy since he doesn’t get notifications when a new post is up. Well he is fired Clive. He lost weight too anyway.

I hope to see you on the other side. Months after I last wrote I still get new followers. Thanks JKariuki and the rest. These are the guys that made me yield to Yego. Not the Javelin guy. Our new IT guy, he called a few months back and said, “aye lady, I will move you for free”. So a heartfelt thank you to you Yego. He’ll do most of the heavy lifting and throw stuff to the new site. We will call it WAMBUIVEIL. It’s like moving offices. The lifts play Blaque Ivory and the view is much better. No one is losing weight there. Unless you decide to, then we will support you (using hashtags). I am still ambivalent, still shivering at the wit of older, hehe, wiser and more dedicated writers but still glad you give me a chance. Thanks to all you ghost readers too. So let’s sip some coffee, sweep eyes across these pages in one last stare then move on up. Cool?

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15 comments

  1. Wambui, Helloooo from Kigali!!! I lack proper words, but thanks for spelling out. Life goes on even when we never thought so. Let’s spend more time BEING, not DOING.

  2. I discovered this blog when it was highlighted by the big fore-headed man some time back. And then it went dead. Till today when I received a new notification in my inbox. Just give us a heads up when WAMBUIVEIL is unveiled.

  3. Thank goodness I got a mention else I was starting to lose weight at the rate of ten kg a second.. We the ghost readers association are following your fat ass around…. Lose it you lose us..

  4. First off, Wambui.. I have issues with you!! Remember when Biko mentioned this blog and I ran off feeling like I got another treasure to dig! The rest of that week found me here consuming material about Jason n TRM’s lousy security (Ugandan but after that article I stopped going to TRM when I visit Nairobi cause no one can trust it, not after that story), Kirinyaga where you dont hit an ass, and several of your stories. After leaking the plate dry, Wambui Gichobi decided she wont be serving any more! !! Glad you posted, just wish it could get alittle bit of consistence. Maybe once in a fortnight? That would give us something to always look forward too more ..

  5. Oh, good. You do know that part of this does sound like a resignation letter, eh? And, all the articles are moving with us, right? See you there

  6. Thank you very much for picking up the (new?) laptop and hitting us up with this. Loved it much. Much. No running away again! Kenyonyoozi Brenda has put it succinctly, and I shall say no more. Just let us know when the move is complete. The attic is mine!!!

  7. I have said it here before, women who read,,and who love writing, they fascinate me, I get smitten by a woman with witty words, wether on a diary or a blog, it just gets me yearning for some more,,women who make love to words,,,,its romantic

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