Celebrating East African Writing!
I was dressed up to the nines, it was Valentine’s Day and I had a date. I had spent most of the day in the salon: manicure, pedicure, long Isabella weave and eyebrow trim. The secondhand silver dress contrasted well with my dark skin. I wanted to impress him. He had said he would pick me up at 7.30pm.
Fast forward to 8.40pm, he still hadn’t shown up. I started pacing around my small apartment’s living room, praying that it would not be another Valentine’s Day gone sour. I kept glancing at my phone, hoping for it to ring. He had not even sent a message to tell me he would be late. The nerve!
Just when I decided to give him 10 more minutes, there was a knock on the door.
There he was, sweaty nose and ears. His eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of alcohol. His jeans had a layer of mud at their hems. It had not rained for three days. Where was the mud from? His shirt was creased and the overcoat looked like it had been used to wipe floors in a pig sty.
‘Sasa baby,’ it took a lot of strength to stop my hand from slapping his mouth but it did slam the door on his face.
I would not have remembered the date, if it wasn’t for Jack. We were seated on unusually high stools in a small town pub and he was asking for my opinion on something to do with buying chocolate and roses or carnations for this girl he had been trying to ‘woo’ into his three by six bed. Just then, the alarm on my phone sounded.
Pick up Nancy – Valentine date.
The bad thing, I was two hours away from town. The worse, I did not have a set of clean clothes. I was still in the dirty jeans that I went to ‘scout’ for a shamba in and a coat that fell on the path of a drift of pigs. The best or maybe worst thing, in retrospect was that if I tried really hard and drove faster than I normally did, I would get to her apartment an hour late; just an hour.
My pick-up sped. My brain asked me if she was really worth the over speeding. My conscience snubbed my brain.
I finally drove into the parking lot of her apartment complex.
I took two stairs at a time and nearly banged my head on her door. She heard the commotion and opened the door. I suspect her ear was stuck to the door.
She was in silver. Not any silver, but one of those mushaino dresses that she buys at the 50bob guys at Gikomba’s, Soko Mjinga and insists that they are haute couture formerly owned by people who know what haute couture is.
I had to pull my eyes from her horrid dress and try to maintain eye contact, only to see the hair on her head; a new weave. When we first met I had hinted that I do not understand why women opt for artificial hair, when they can go natural. That hint was meant to make her stop wearing weaves. Make her understand that I am team MAWE (Men against Weaves).
Maybe, I should not have gone to her apartment after all. The rush was not worth it.
No sooner had the words left my mouth, than the door banged on my face. I stood there wondering what I had done that was so wrong.
This month is the red month; Valentine’s Day, love and romance. Unfortunately not all of us have rosy red lovey-dovey dates on Valentine’s Day or any other day for that matter. Do you have a Worst Date Ever story that you would like to share with us?
Send it to firstname.lastname@example.org as a Word 97-2003 attachment by 17th February 2012. The word limit is 600-1600 words. It shall be entered into the Worst Date Ever! Short Story Contest and the winner will get Dr.Chris Hart’s book, Single and Searching and Kshs. 1000 worth of airtime.