Dear Diary

Wanja Kavengi has taken over my life

Dear Wanja,

Nime-catchi psychosis. You are my inspiration. You’re in my head, like a demon with a keyboard, typing so fast there’s steam coming out of my ears. I will explain.

So this guy asks me what my plans are for Easter. “What are you doing for Easter?” he says to me. And I say to him, I say, “Well, I’m going to burn to ashes on Friday and change my name to Phoenix on Sunday, because yeah …hashtag EasterTings.”

I give him some time to catch a clue but he’s drawing a blank. Five, maybe six seconds later, I decide to take a different approach. “Well, what would Jesus do?” He wasn’t impressed. Didn’t think I was funny at all, because what did Jesus have to do with it?

“As in for real, mpangoz?” he says. That ‘z’ at the end of ‘mpango’ killed his last chance dead and there was no hope for a resurrection. “Uhhm, huh. That’s a tough one. I’m going to be doing something but it’s not going to be you. Be blessed though, as in for real, be blezzed,” I say to him.

To be fair, it was late at night. I was tired. Was just about to leave the office when he waylaid me in the lift. Had just gotten a text –  in all caps – from the nanny saying, “MKATE IMEISHA NA MAZIWA PIA!”

When bread is finished and milk also EasterTings are thick. But hey, it was Thursday night and I had just gotten paid so I figure why the hell not? I’m going to avert a domestic crisis and go shopping at the petrol station. It’s not for nothing that they call those places ‘convenience stores’, because what could be more convenient than pulling off a highway, turning into a crowded petrol station, looking for parking for half an hour, and then buying one loaf of bread and two litres of milk for a stupid amount of money? Not much, except coming out to find that you’ve been blocked by a teenager.

I turn on the engine and put the car in reverse in the universal signal for, “I want to back out of this spot,’ but the clown – who is sitting behind the wheel with a phone in one hand and a bottle of Fanta in the other – doesn’t get it. Five, maybe six seconds later, I come out of the car with bare feet and walk up to his window.

“Kijana, ondoa hii gari hapa!” is what I wished I’d said to the negro. Instead I say to him, I say, “Uhhm, huh. This is a tricky one. See that’s me over there (pointing at my car) and this is you here (spreading my arms in reference to the hulk of an automobile he was purporting to own). For me to get passed you, yer need to move.” That last bit I said with a beguiling smile and a quick batting of the old eyelashes.

“O! Pole sana mrembo. Let me move quickly quickly! Lakini o! Unapendeza. You’re so sweet. Wacha nisonge tu. Nikusongee, sindio mrembo?”

O! Dear God! Jesus didn’t die for this. Father forgive this your child for believing that his balls are the size of his Daddy’s car.

“Lookit Bamboocha,” I say to him, I say, “From the looks of it, there’s only one thing you do quickly and I’m pretty sure your girlfriend doesn’t think it’s sweet, now move!”

Later on, I felt bad for the pimply twat but then I thought to myself, I thought, it wasn’t my fault …Wanja made me do it. She’s in my head, like a demon with a keyboard, typing so fast there’s steam coming out of my ears. Nime-catchi psychosis.