If you ever see a willowy dude, walking with a gait of urgency. Probably in black pants and vans shoes. Wallowing in quietude, keeping his words to the bare minimum. A furtive hand in pocket as if holding classified information; information that could topple governments. Information that could fill legal dossiers. Information that could have folk resigned to peeking behind bars. Yet in reality only overprotective of the two mint sachets therein.
If you ever see that guy, it would be me. You can chose to or not to say hi. I’ll go with either. Handling small talk is searing. Some folk are good at it, pretty refined at trivialities. They’d ask about your grandmother’s bad knee. Shift to your Alma mater tales. Schmooze about your family. Nibble at vast miniscule talk. That was a gift I was denied. After niceties I’d stand and beg the ground to swallow me, a palpable ghost of akward silence building between us. Consuming me like smoke does a room. I’d stand there waiting to be dismissed. I like keeping to myself. Oft-times, holding my thoughts dearly unless prompted. I’m the silent chap in the room, taking it all in. The good thing about that, you get to consume the whole experience of your context. The downside, your silence is loud; you could go unnoticed or you’d stand out like the proverbial sorethumb, nare anyone wants to be the party pooper.
I’m cynical about data collection on the internet. I feel like they studiously study us, watch our virtual habit and make startling models for us. Ever felt like the web pried on your conversation? Me too. Ever bumped into someone then almost mystically saw them pop up on your social media feed when you check your phone letter in the day. Google had been flooding me with bespoke introvert related article suggestions. I took a read on one involving how people of my Ilk should go about dates and potential romantic relationships. This is where she comes in.
It’s late last year, December. I’m in town, perched on those miniscule pillar like stands at KenCom. My belly churns with angst in anticipation for my date in the next ten minutes. It’s a tad nippy, I’m dressed in a grey hoodie and black jeans. Beside me, a que for KBS and Citti Hoopa buses buses plying the Ngong road route builds up. It winds, growing longer by the minute.
It is 7.00 PM. Unsurprisingly, she is late. Me wanting to make a good impression was there before time, I had to muster fortitude to withstand the writhing wait compounded by intrusive anxiety. A few minutes later, she called.
She was short. Flesh generously on the right places. Colossal lustrous eyes. Full lips. A gracious grin cut the between her cheeks. She was bedecked in skin a slight hue of dark. A striped frock fell on her body, cutting her short legs midthigh, flaunting the contours beneath it. A blue denim jacket snugly hang on her waist. Red sneakers aptly complimented her style. Suffice to say she was beguiling. Blokes naturally know how to talk to birds, it’s intuitive something will come up, albeit miserable, there is always something to say. You talk, flail and get your bearing.
No one prepares you to talk to enchanting (relative of course) damsels. They are unnerving, those ones. They tear down the little charm you might have gleaned and lay it bare. They debilitate your confidence. Your throat goes dry, perched akin to the earth in a desert. Words you had given test runs become elusive, resign to cowering back and watching in intrigue.
After niceties. I had a light bulb moment. We walked two minutes, side by side to the other side of Moi Avenue. Into a vestibule, rode the elevator 10 floors up. Being a weekday, the gaming lounge was half full, perfect! My goose were in a line. Needless to say I whooped her ass on Mortal Kombat as she playfully pouted, her cheeks filling with air. That’s what I do, kick ass. Chivalry is inane during competitions. We nudged, prodded and broke ribs. We walked into that gaming lounge as acquaintances. Two single people seeking for a connection. We walked out as friends, her hands finding their way to clasp mine. In my mind, I feverishly fist pumped the air in triumph, nothing could go wrong at this point, and nothing did as we devoured two pizzas and juice at Koinange Street’s Big Square.
I would like to put a kibosh to this anecdote at this point. Everyone likes a happy ending, don’t they? Everybody goes home happy, a win-win. Only, the best stories are devoid of happy endings. Look at The Titanic. Take Breaking Bad for instance.
In a truncated version, we didn’t pan out as we thought but we had a darn good time. What is that adage; here for a good time not a long time. Thing is, the article magically worked for me. Look around you, mostly at that friend whose been on numerous dates but is yet to find his bearing, tell them to read their Google article, no matter how silly they seem. Behind them are an intrusive yet efficient team gleaning data.