Let me cook for you.
Ah, yes. Food. I know I look hungry and desperate but I did not know it was so obvious. This one wasn’t raised right. If he was, he wouldn’t show me up like that. Who does that? Someone with no home training is who.
See, life is hard. By the time I finish paying rent, (fine it’s once a year but I pay for that once throughout the year), finish paying bills, finish buying fuel for the generator, finish buying clothes and shoes and bags and belts and recharge cards and cutting edge phones, food is a luxury I cannot afford. So I am on a diet.
Yes, isn’t it convenient to diet when you cannot afford food? It’s kind of like –
-deciding that walking is good for you when you can’t afford Tee-fare
-deciding that you hate gyms; there are a million reasons why gyms are the most useless and pretentious places this side of eternity
-deciding you hate fine boys even if they are falling at your feet asking to be with you (they aren’t)
-deciding prefer pure water instead of bottled water (there is something about the way pure water sachet fits in the lips that a bottle or glass cannot do)
-deciding you prefer bus to airplanes (nothing beats the beauty of watching the countryside go by)
Now, here is this boy who, flattery of flatteries, has looked beneath my bravado and seen my vulnerability (read hunger) and decided that a meal will make my life better.
Here I am seated in his average apartment watching him hustle and rustle, as I immerse myself in Telemundo. Nope, no Telemundo. Terrestrial TV.
I hear my name yelled from deep in the bowels of the one room house.
The kitchen is surprisingly quiet. Did I fall asleep?
Lower the TV volume.
Listen some more. Mute the sound completely.
No sounds from The Zone. Ha.
He has set himself on fire.
He has cut a finger and is bleeding all out into the salad.
He has run out of Aji-no-moto and has gone to collect from the neighbours.
He has heard his father is dying and rushed off to collect the blessings that will change his life.
What now! I am hungry.
I tiptoe to the kitchen. It is eerily quiet and, what do you know, empty as a grave the eve of a funeral.
I creep along the dark, dank hallway till I get to the bedroom door. I catch my hand, just as it is about to lift and knock. Hey!
I position my face in the opening where the door meets the wall and peer inside.
Well, what do I see.
Many things, but not one of them resembles food.
Some look suspiciously like rose petals strewn on the floor.
Others look like dirty clothes and spilled shoes pushed out of sight. Barely. Under the bed. Into the wardrobe whose door is unable to close from the regurgitated mess.
And he, where he at?
He is lying face up on the bed, not a stitch on him.
At least he is wearing a condom, the bitch.
I creep back to the living room, grab my bag and hit the untarred street at a run.
Like they say, there is one born every minute.
Sure as hell ain’ me.