Dear you, you who broke my heart
You who dumped me the day you grew breasts, you who who’d kiss me with eyes open and I saw nothing awkward about it. You who I walked with from estate to estate, trying to floss your little butt to the village boys. I hope it’s grown bigger, or larger…or huge, huger whichever. But not so big, coz then it’ll be unproportional, so unproportional to your small breasts. The small breasts that stopped growing the day you dumped. They miss me, nobody touches them like I used to, nobody cups them in their hands like I used to. Any man that touches them just plucks them both and he calls it an orgasm. Tell them I miss them too, your small breasts, especially the one on the left side. We were just beginning to develop a bond, you know this bond where it used to erect whenever it heard my voice. Wait, what am I even saying? Do breasts erect? I guess so, I’m sure they erect…or what do we call this thing that they do where they used to bulge outta your bras whenever they saw me huh? I still see them bulging and screaming halleluya, screaming for me to hold them. They miss me, I miss them too, tell them both.
Everyone feels sorry for me. I am now accustomed to hearing the consolation that I will find someone like you. I begrudgingly nod in agreement, but at the back of my mind I know that is stupid thinking.
No one can ever replace you. You had been my chosen one. I, without a doubt, know that from the day you dumped me, any other girl I tried dating would be judged by the standards you set and that would give them an impossible handicap, like trying to bet for a Chelsea win in sportpesa.
I still remember the day I tried to teach you how to steal watermelon from that guy in the market, but you said no. And I knew you couldn’t steal from him either, you’re not William Ruto.
Or when you tried bribing me to tell you about my friends affairs behind their backs, but I said no. As a man I couldn’t talk about other people’s business, am not Maina Kageni, I think during this year’s mother’s day I’ll send him a happy mom’s day card. Over here we say “ako na umama sana”…which when roughly translated even me I don’t know the meaning.
But we still had fun in our crazy ways; like sitting on the kanjo seats in town all evening, waiting for the those Naswa TV show guys to walk by, or fighting over a bottle of Fanta kubwa and seeing who’ll drink the most of it, or going to watch those Arsenal matches. Damn I loved seeing the look on your face as you got yourself drunk on a can of Guarana. I still remember how loud you laughed whenever Giroud missed to score a goal. But that’s all he does, the guy never scores. #WengerOut haha. But he scored a few goals, and all those times you’d kiss me. You’d promise to give me a kiss for every goal, and I’d sit there and tighten my butt every matchday, hoping we’d score five goals for five kisses.
Remember the promise we made? The promise that once we win the league, we’d turn our attention to curing cancer, bringing about world peace, and helping the society get rid of its greatest menace; these Luhya people who sit on buses and listen to music through the loudspeakers of their phones instead of using their earphones. It has become a global crisis and I think the UN should do something about it soon. These Luhyas will kill our eardrums. Remember the promise huh? Or how we’d planned to do our funny wedding on the sandy beaches of Mfangano Island dala. Probably it would have been the worst wedding ever in history. Ok, maybe not the worst. Khaleesi’s wedding in the Game of Thrones was definitely the worst in history, ours would be the second-worst. But we didn’t care. All we wanted was to get married and have kids. You’d be the mother to our five children; three boys and…and another two boys.
You knew everything about me. Like how am allergic to cakes, or my fear of cooking ugali. And how I always became easily irritated when hungry. Its only you who knew how much I loved the missionary, damn I so effing loved it. I think am the only man who loves it in the history of all sexually active men.
I even told you about how when I was seven years old, I watched two rabbits kiss, and how they kissed for so long that I got an erection, an erection at seven years of age.
You’re still the only girl I’d call with her nigga-name and you wouldn’t get mad. I’d be like “Atieno yoo..” and you’d be like “eeh, wotiss”. No nigga ever called you by your nigga name, but you let me. But again I couldn’t let anyone call you by your nigga name, I was way too jealous. Yeah I used to get jealous even when your daddy called you. To me any man talking to you was a threat, you were mine and am the only man I wanted you to be talking to. But still you kept close some of buddies, and I got more jealous day by day…seeing how your face lit up with excitement whenever you received a phone call from them made me sad, and angry at times.
I still don’t know why I fell for you. Nobody ever thought I’d ever fall in love some day, but for you I did, and I fell so hard I looked stupid. I tend to be choosy when choosing a girlfriend, I look at the little interesting things that matter; like the length of her nose, the size of her left thumb, the wrinkles on her knee and other weird stuff, but for you I threw all that away. I just chose you.
But you left, you left me…sad and lonely you left.
And these days all I do is wonder if you bending over backwards for someone else
Wonder if you’re rolling up a backwoods for someone else
Doing things I taught you, getting nasty for someone else
Holy crap! I just quoted Drake, I think am going mad. Or am just retarded and cant think of real lines to put here. Anyway a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do right?
Away from Drake and his ape-like dance moves, I hear you got yourself a new nigga, a new me. But he can’t be me, maybe he’s better than me, maybe worse…definitely worse in bed I hope. He probably just goes for three minutes and he gets exhausted.
I hope he buys you flowers, hope he holds your hand,
Gives you all his hours, when he has the chance
Take you to every party blahblah blah
So now I think I’m Bruno Mars? I am getting emotional, too emotional. And I need to stop coz whenever I get this emotional am tempted to run for the Nairobi governor’s seat. I think I can battle it out well well with Waiguru. I think I’ll make a good governor, first on my agenda will be to do away with all that idle sitting around Mr Price and the Archives. Next I’ll build a special lane where all these ladies who dress in these tight nylon clothes with the flag of America printed all over can walk coz I see them as a security threat. I always think those trousers can explode and blow up anytime they fart in those things.
Which again brings me back to you.
You never wore such clothes, maybe nowadays you do. You hated them, you were the ordinary-jeans type of girl, and on your feet you’d have a pair of nice converse rubber shoes that matched with the Adidas-branded jumper that you used to put on for the cold. You were simple, no make-up, no eyeshadow, eyepencil, eyeball, or those funny things most girls put on their faces…no fake hips, fake tits, fake lips, fake hair, fake fingernails, fake buttocks and those fake accents. And I loved you that way. You were beautiful just the way you were, I hope you still are…maybe.
I know I had sworn never to write you this long letter or whatever it is that I’ve written. I was just going to wait till the day I’d be on my deathbed getting my last words and surrounded by friends and family. That’s when I’d tell you all these things and die immediately after. That way you’d be left sobbing and regretting why you dumped me. But then I thought to myself that maybe I won’t die on my deathbed. Maybe I’ll just get run over by a drunk driver somewhere in the streets of Soweto or get shot during the next Alshabaab terrorist attack on our country. And so that’s why I decided to write you this.
I hope he buys you flowers, I hope he holds your hand
Gives you all his hours, when he has the chance
Take you to every party coz I remember how much you loved to dance
Do all the things I should have done,
When I was your man
Shit! Am not Bruno Mars!