SORRY; We Broke Each Other’s Hearts

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I don’t recollect falling in love with her – math. I do recall sending her flowers, they triggered an allergic reaction. She was sly, trapped me (with no baby, of course). I endeavoured to love her nonetheless, to show my commitment I got her gifts; a calculator. A log table. Only it wasn’t mutual. She incessantly gave me a stern look, coupled up with problems, problems I couldn’t solve, problems whose answers I have never met ever since our toxic union was servered. Oft-times I averted my eyes, I relented. I didn’t endear to it, grapevine had it that she grew jealous of my relationship with English, acrimonious even, because the grades she gave me were as good as your girl’s shoulder to lean on (husband without a portfolio), no good. I once scored 22%, not like I could go any much higher. I know you’re probably wondering how dumb I was or am. Like a decent person would, I let go. You don’t want to be the guy that forces issues, it comes out as too needy, paints a bad picture, one that would take ages to bounce back from. But I was still stuck with her, I got cold feet yet I couldn’t bail out. We had some investment together so I still had an obligation to honour; a four year contract that had two years left. We shared a home but slept in separate bedrooms, okay I slept on the couch. We never rubbed shoulders, hers was a cold one. We had bad blood; she made meals solely for her and left sullied utensils in the sink. I never scoured them, instead I made a habit to order take out and that irked her more. It got ugly when she started bringing blokes over, one was called Physics; a pain in the ass. Used to walk shirtless in my house flaunting his sinewy arms, I hate that guy. To counter I started bringing English over, a svelte lady with a killer smile. Why I’m I telling you this story. Math and I used to have a love-hate relationship, but the love part quickly wilted away. Soon enough it was a war zone, I didn’t stand a chance. She never was my cuppa, not that I was hers either. You see how you’re either a math or an English guy (psychos are both). You know what I was. She trudged on my progress report, never gave me a grain more than a D. Okay, that came out wrong. Let’s try again, never gave me anything substantial. Remember me mentioning bringing English over, I realized she wasn’t as committed. Once I saw out my contract with my ex I approached her flailing my divorce papers, I was stoked – I won’t have to bear the brunt of math and her ugly shirtless boyfriend. English just skimmed through my papers with an impassive face and said, “Good for you.” It was the first time I felt like asking ‘what are we’ as a man. On that day she broke up with me, I went glum.

When I was younger I wanted to be a fireman. It came out of nowhere, the idea of spraying water on fire thrilled me. Since superheroes weren’t real I realised it was the closest thing to being heroic. Then kids in my class kept saying they wanted to be doctors and pilots and engineers and other names I couldn’t pronounce at the time like physiotherapist. It gave an impression I wasn’t ambitious enough so i seeked to be a lawyer – didn’t even simmer in my head, like math, I dumped it and went back to my what came close to my heart, art. I wanted to be a cartoonist. Comic illustrations on newspapers and magazines piqued my interest. I picked a drawing habit and boy didn’t I love it. I lived for the art segment on Club Kiboko on Saturdays. He stroked I stroked, he shaded I shaded, he erased I did the same too, I was diligent. That I still hold, somewhere beneath what life has thrown at me. I jumped ship because journalism began appealing to me. Journalism was the dazzling woman who smelt really nice. She knew how to dress too, style was made for her. Fabric fitted her frame so seamlessly. You couldn’t help but notice her, she stood out. She was everywhere. I’m an innate introvert, not the new age alleged ‘introverts’ that love shindigs and have multitudes of friends and listen to Billie Eilish. Friends that could sell out a buzzing concert. Unlike them, I couldn’t speak before a large gathering outside friends, not even if I had to save my life. My heart beat would triple and I would breathe fast and I would rap instead of talking because you just want to finish and get the hell out of the hell of an audience. That attribute couldn’t be any more contrary to journalism, it was a nice ride but I gave it up. I had a military phase too. It’s a tough realm to tread, so I heard. Hearsay has it that a superior could order you to blow up your house and you’d do it because questions only surfaced after an order is executed. Scared me to the bones, I wasn’t ready to blow up anything or anyone for that matter, heck, not my family. At some point I wanted to be a chef, but the way culinary arts schools were set up that was as far as my interest went, it died just as fast as it sprouted.

The past one year of my life has been crazy. A lot has happened, but there’s one I can’t seem to shake off, not by showers or sleep. Earlier this year I was walking from school, unusually alone. I got knocked by a car! Yes, a police Land Cruiser was inches away of sending me to the hospital. My arm flung and I heard a snap. It was driving on the wrong side of traffic, typical GK vehicles. It wheezed and knocked my arm from behind, no horn no nothing it just creeped up on me. The driver stopped and asked if I was okay, I was, physically. It was just my arm and the snap was from his side mirror. Mentally I was all over the place. I was apalled, I didn’t give him a reply, not for a minute. I recall walking to his window straightening the side mirror and nodding my head. I grappled with sleep that night I could help thinking – what if the car was inches in. I thought about the frailty of life and how we go about our day yet it could all change. So if you find me belabouring about rogue drivers know it’s personal.

I’ve been rambling, from math to what I wanted to be to my accident. I swear I have a good reason, so before I get back to watching Friends let me fill you in. I’ll have turned 22 by the time you read this. For the second time in my life I’ve hit replicate figures, that is very trivial. I’m yet to get my shit together. I still am messy. I still find it laborious to spread my bed everyday. Suffice it to say, it’s my birthday, not that you care but it is. For the first time I have a flimsy idea of what I want to do – not math, sorry we broke each other’s hearts.