Murder In The Suburb

Image courtesy of Pinterest

Tinder hasn’t been gracious to you, your choosy nature couldn’t quite find the perfect fit. Dismissing men by the slightest of defects. No, this one has too big a pair of eyes, ah this one looks good but his bio doesn’t stand out, oh this one looks like he still lives with his mom, not shabby at all but doesn’t have facial hair, this one’s is sumptuous but looks like the kind to listen to Taylor Swift back to back for a whole day… but then you got to a profile you like.
***
Text me when you get there,” Jenny says.


“I’ll do that,” you reply and hang up.


You pass the Muthaiga underpass at around 4.00 PM and the Uber driver takes a right towards Karura. Thirteen minutes later you get to a gate and he’s there, waiting for you. A bald, average-built guy with a perfect jawline, massive calves, a tribal tattoo peeking just above his collar bone and his glasses falling perfectly over his eyes. He pays the Uber driver and while at it you contemplate on what to rate the driver because he couldn’t stop talking about his 32-year old son who’s insistent on becoming a full time magician and that already has four baby momma’s. Why doesn’t he make them disappear? You think. You like your drivers silent and young and he was neither of them, 3 stars it is, not too harsh. Is it?


Hey Zuri,” he says tasting every syllable of your name on his lips while opening up for a hug.

You fall into him and walk through the gate with a smirk, as he holds the gate for you. Chivalry is alive! You walk past a few blocks and get to his house, Inside his house lies the most modern of furniture meticulously placed, strawberry scented freshener englufing the air, marble tiles gracing every inch of the floor, a stereo worth marveling at and an enormous black canvas painting creating a contrast on the white wall that has not a single blemish.
You feel a distasteful taste as Cj’s (your boyfriend) cluttered one bedroom apartment in Roysambu where balconies are infiltrated by Skyplasts and ever partying immigrants that Kenyan girls can’t get enough of flashes through your mind. I digress. If you had twenty four hours to live you’d call your family and apologize to them for choosing to spend the last day of your life elsewhere, here.


This house, too neat and too spacious for a single man. You already fancy him treating you like he treats his abode, clean and paid attention to, so far so good. As a teetotaler, you politely turn down his drink offer which he kind of takes some offence to, like this was all planned out and you’re creating a contingency. You reach for your phone to let Jenny know you are safe but there’s no cellular network. By 8.30 PM you guys are laughing out loud at his story about how he once got arrested for ogling at a female police officer. He probably misunderstood the ‘Utumishi Kwa Wote’ motto.


R. Kelly’s I’m a flirt plays on the stereo.


Haven’t you been watching the news lately?,” you ask.


Why are you asking?” Dave replies.


Why would you listen to a sex offender?” you ask squinting at him.


Allegedly, ” he says laughing, “Who do you listen to?”


Kanye West,” you say.


That dude who raps in a MAGA hat?” Dave says dramatically resting his hand on his chest.


Kanye has a mental health issue,” you counter. (High Fidelity Hulu reference)


It’s getting late, I should leave,” you say hoping he doesn’t let you to.


He goes on a spiel trying to convince you to stay over. The words please, movie, food and fun blessing your eyes with sweet soliloquys.


I’ll stay, but get me something comfortable, emphasis on comfortable to wear,” your upper teeth digging into your lower lip.


You roam around the house and peer through the window city lights glaring in the horizon. A titleless book gets your attention, you grab it from the shelf and peruse through, it has poorly scribbled writings you don’t take keen interest to but right in the middle is a mapped out catalogue of caramel colored women with X marked on all of them except a picture of you at the bottom right.


A shadow casts over you as you turn. His demeanor an emphatic shell of what it was minutes ago, in his left hand a once white piece of fabric in his right, a jagged edged metal bar. You cringe as you gradually step back.
Less hypothetically now, you might have less than 24 hours.


Someone knocks on the door violently.


Open up! Open up! I just want to talk,” Cj yells.

Image courtesy of Pinterest

P.S. This is a work of fiction and is no way whatsoever meant to dishearten online daters. Enjoy!

6 thoughts on “Murder In The Suburb

  1. This is a lovely piece. Enjoyed reading through . Funny, my friend and I were engaging in a conversation regarding R Kelly and Kanye . Ah , this one deserves a clean five star! The narration is on point 😍

    Liked by 2 people

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