The Interview

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I remember you. From Campus. Though blurred, at least I’ve met your face somewhere.  In one of those corridors of knowledge maybe. Halls of wisdom.

From that night. Yes. Those locks. How could I forget them. You kept fiddling and rolling them all through. I said I liked them. Short as they were. I loved them. I told you I did. Genuinely. You shrugged, laughed away the joke. Sarcastically. Then you looked away. You didn’t even respond. As if you knew I didn’t want a reply.

Why could you respond though? You had it all going. The aura of importance all around you. You were the talk of the party. The reason all the ladies were twerking their asses off. Displaying more flesh than their Mothers advised.

I hated it. Like you were some god. And the twerking was all sacrifice the ladies could offer to appease you. Burnt offerings. And you blessed those that found favour in your eyes with spanks. They giggled and twerked even harder. I couldn’t get it.

I was just two weeks old at Chuka University when my roommate daisy tagged me along to this party. Fresh. Green and pure. Mother Teresa. All this was new to me. Sin. Abomination. My mother’s instructions lingered in my mind every 3 seconds,

“úmenye Kambí wathií guthoma. Don’t let these boys use you. Your man is waiting for you outside there after campus”

Every one of these reminders brought a fresh surge of anger. At you. At the way you used the ladies here only to pay them with hard spanks. Slaps on their bare asses hard enough to calm a bull on heat. I actually got angry that you did not respond to my compliment. Angry at Daisy for bringing me here in the first place. Angry at God for this lost society.

Then I met you in school. Monday. In your usual arrogance and air of importance. Your cigar in one hand and liquor bottle on the other. Who takes beer at the beginning of the week? Who was I to question you though? Mere fresher who’s not yet even discovered the shortest route to lecture theatre SGT1? so I stayed silent. Saved it for another day.

In the class, the lecturer knew you. And all through the lecture, you gave me no peace. Noise from start to finish. I couldn’t take it. So I politely asked you to tone it down or get out. How could I forget you? You had something better for me.

“Or what? Ama utanifunika na hio dress yako ya mafiriri?” You asked.

The laughter that followed. You will never know the embarrassment I felt. Like a bullet shot right through my soft heart. Pain with every giggle. Heart-wrenching. I wish you knew what that dress meant to me. How I had used up all my savings to purchase it. And days later, I cried my eyes out because I couldn’t wear my favourite dress any longer.

Its been five years since then. Every time I see girls whining and grinding in music videos, I see you. Every time I see a lady in a mafiriri dress, the pain comes all over again. Am working on it. Day and night. Counselling sessions sometimes. Just for you.

Here we meet again sir. You look different. No locks, clean-shaven head, No jeans, blue suit. I can tell you remember me. The way you keep avoiding my eyes.

“Would you like us to move the interview to the afternoon or shall I have your papers now sir? ”

Thank you for the shares guys.