Dating dot com Part I.
So last year I became single―again. Thanks to my new found status, I was set on a voyage of finding my knight in shining amour afresh; tis real work! ha!
Looking for one’s prince in this day and age is something close to looking for a needle in a hay stack, and not just any needle, the really infinitesimally small kind.
Don’t you sometimes wish for arranged marriages to make a comeback? I know its ridiculous but I sometimes do.
Other times I think this task is like a voyage up Mount Kenya on the coldest July. My friend Ann* thinks it’s like inventing an airplane― no longer possible.
Now understand that looking for a person to share my life with is not easy for an introvert like me, who when not on my eight to five job would rather be indoors in my flat writing a piece a like this or working on my next novel or reading one.
My weekends and holidays are my paradise for starters. Yes I love people, but I revere time spend by myself like nothing else. Because for me time by myself means working and working means writing and my weekend is the perfect time for this. I have been consistent for the past one year I have let nothing get in in the way of this one true love of mine.
Nothing comes close than the thought that I report my whereabouts to nobody, shut the door and immerse myself in the craft.
That every once in a while when the mood arises, I can take a break. Take note: occasionally. A trip down to Mombasa would be fine, spending a few days by the blue ocean, phone off and all…not caring about anything or anybody else.
Nothing like waking up and staying in my baggy sweats all day eating cereal and reading a novel with my cellphone totally off with no worries that anybody might be looking for me. For me, that kind of freedom is divine. But it comes with a price I know: keeping everyone else away.
That’s what introverts like me do by the way when we are not in our regular eight to five duties.
At any one time you can be sure to find me in one of the named places and if I’m not, darling, call my mother!
No, I’m just kidding! Don’t call her.
The process of looking for my prince or ‘being the sourced after princess’ as some might want to look at it has been a real task people, and I’ll give you a glimpse of how it’s been going down for me since the start of the year.
Late last year after weeks and weeks of grieving for the departure of my now ex Daniel*, I finally threw in the towel.
It was the right decision; I mean you don’t want to be revising old text messages/emails, reminiscing old times with tear filled eyes, sipping a cold mixture of coffee and tears, crying yourself to bed every damn night for the rest your life. Neither did I want that. Fine I usually cry with a dramatic flair but the drama has to stop at some point.
I don’t want my story to be like that of poor Miss Havisham; that of being utterly bitter and locked away in the darkest filthiest dungeons full of spider webs for the rest of my life in my tattering wedding gown and eventually be consumed by a deadly inferno. No.
God forbid but I don’t want to be turned into that kind of literature, because I come from a long tradition of strong women who survive the trials of life against great odds and I won’t be the weak link here. Not me.
My great grandma Vitute would roll in her grave at the sight of my tears alone. She used to say that crying is for children.
So I bounced back to life.
It was urgent that I face the fact that I was still in the journey and I had to embrace the tools for it.
The journey here, being the dating game people.
I prefer calling it dating dot com.
Apart from the obvious stuff like attending parties when I’d rather be home, curled in a sofa with a freezing coke and a novel, I had to go out there, meet people, go through the trouble of describing who I am to the strangers I meet along the line of duty or in the circle of friends, who could be my potential mate, putting up with their vibes― stories that probably bore me to death.
And not to mention the act of putting your best foot forward in terms of etiquette and personal behavior, lining eye lashes with mascara― whoa! This is just the ultimate climb I swear. Putting on mascara and resisting every urge to scratch the damn eyes out from the itching that comes with the mascara which in turn brings the tears beats any tears that may result from a heartbreak ten nil!
Mascara is trouble you guys. All women implicitly know this, that’s why fake lashes are so common, but that’s a story for another day. And that’s just the face alone, bado hatujafikia those killer high heels! Not yet.
****
Late last year on a warm December evening after weeks and weeks of tears and depression I got an invitation to attend a party in some hotel in Nkubu town, Meru County. It was one of those end-of-year thingies that companies usually throw for their staff.
My date, Mutuma* who also happens to be my neighbor picked me at my door.
I was looking forward to relaxing and having a great time and probably meet new people. I hadn’t been out in a social gathering in ages and this bash couldn’t have been more timely!
From work, I immediately stepped in the bathroom for a quick clean up, put on my best knee length ocean blue chiffon dress with a marching scarf on my shoulders.
The makeup was just on point, done just in the right proportions and style. Everything was in place from the cinnamon brown blush that matches my skin to the chocolate brown eyeliner to the pinkish-red lipstick and black mascara! Oh, the mascara is always a pain in the ass!
My hair―perfectly in retouched earlier in the week. Then my five inch heels. Good.
I felt good and ready to do some serious stepping.
At the party, I meet this dude and we can’t stop talking and laughing. His name is Kimani* and he is the one who actually invited me to the party, Mutuma was just serving as the conveyor belt. As I would later find out, Kimani told Mutuma earlier in the day, “Why don’t you invite that Miti chic to the bash tonight?”
Mutuma re-quotes him as soon as we rendezvoused with Kimani as the three of us break into hearty laughter and so do the rest of the members at our table who are probably clueless on the matter, or maybe not.
Kimani tells me, “Mutuma knows where to find you, I don’t. So I send him to fetch you for me.”
That’s how I end up here tonight.
We sit in the lawn tables, like everyone else, doing small talk, and soon our table is abandoned by the rest of the members who would rather be out there dancing or socializing, giving Kimani and I space.
What we have this evening is pure magic; I mean that I could meet someone else I liked after Daniel― for me― was a remote possibility, that’s what I’d been thinking anyhow.
But here I am with this dude, and all my misgivings in regard to moving on are slowly taking a backbench. Maybe I won’t be spending the rest of my weekends eating cereal in my sweats wrapped up in bed. Maybe I have a real shot with love this time? Maybe. Let’s just say I haven’t been this happy in a long, long time.
For the record, Kimani and I are not entirely strangers to one another. I had met him weeks before in his office for work matters. Just once, and it would never have occurred to me that we would ever meet again. We all know the kinds of people we expect to meet again, he didn’t meet the profile. But it’s called life for a reason, right? The uncertainties, the surprises are all part of the package called life.
So back to the party! Here I am; Jovial, poised and trying my best to be a good conversationalist. How do I do it? I listen. Trust me; I can be a very good listener people.
Kimani goes into this poppycock, you know. I establish his profession, his tribe, his age and marital status. I don’t care for the tribe so knock it off. I care that he is stable so one tick for that. I a nutshell he fits the profile of my ideal knight take two leave one; mid-thirties and unmarried. Perfect candidate, right? I mean you don’t want to be chatting the evening away with someone’s someone. I am willing to close my eyes on some things but not others you know; for one, he is vertically impaired at about 5’4”, a pot belly for instance― I can put up with that. Gyms are there for that. With the right proportion of motivation, I can see myself Kimani.
He enchants me, even though at this point he has asked nothing about me―at all. Did I say we were both talking and laughing? Point of correction; he’s been talking, I’ve been listening or laughing at his occasional lame jokes― don’t we all do that once in a while for the sake of peace?
I assume he has done his research on me and that’s why I haven’t been sucked into the conversation, yet.
He is also high that I decide to ask him what time he started to party. He tells me he did start at 10 that morning. It makes sense; I mean he looks the part.
So we talk the evening away; he talks, I listen. He only complements me on my outward appearance. That’s about it actually. That I have nice legs ―exposed by the knee length dress and enhanced by the sexy dark blue velvet heels―, that I’m pretty, that my face is attractive and blemish free― thanks to my mother’s genes, which I know by the way―, that my hair looks great; and what have you.
I know all that! Really, I do. I’m not 19 for crying out loud. That stuff sells for a nineteen year old or some blonde socialite. It don’t matter what you tell me about my looks, odds are, I’ve known about my looks for a long, long time!
This issue of romanticizing looks and youth has got to stop guys. That’s just too shallow. You probably are telling a woman about stuff that she’s heard a million times before. It’s ok to do it for a while, but don’t overstretch guys. It gets nauseating and irritating especially at the very beginning when you don’t even know what someone’s second name is. So don’t do it. Actions speak louder.
The girl in me is temporarily flattered by the complements, but the woman in me is crying for her mind to be explored. I secretly wish he would ask me stuff about who I am. Because looks fade away, but who you are on the inside remains forever. My mother taught me that and I know she is right.
The person inside.
I want him to ask what my take is on other aspects of life, like my personal life for one, at the very least you know, if time allows we could jump on views on humanity, governance, religion, science, art, philosophy or even geopolitics.
Whatever!
Not just the dimples, the legs, the smooth face, the hair, the nice figure, the nails etcetera etcetera.
I secretly wish he would structure the conversation in a manner that would allow me in, suck me in, but no, he doesn’t.
I’d like to tell him about my work just like he’s told me about his. I want to tell him about the electricity poles business. The nitty gritty of our business―stuff that he may either know or not― either way, I’d like to be the one to tell him. I want him to know― but of course that’s if he himself wants to.
I want to tell him that I’m also a writer and that I may go home and do a piece about this evening but I can’t. He doesn’t let me. The conversation revolves around him throughout the night. How selfish is that?
I assume that he doesn’t notice the skewedness of the conversation because he’s high or something. Booze has ways to make us see things that aren’t there. Maybe he’s assuming that he’s sucked me into the conversation already because I’m acting all cool and poised.
I reassure myself that we will have future rendezvouses and we will talk much more, after all if I spill it all tonight, where’s the mystery in that? Isn’t a woman’s whole identity defined by how mysterious she is?
I convince myself that we will do more next time. We will talk more next time. It’s doesn’t seem odd to me that we don’t exchange numbers that evening because he knows where to find me anyway. Exchanging numbers is just lame.
He knows where I work and where I live.
to be continued.........
Catherine Amayi is a Scientist and an author of both fiction and nonfiction
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The above piece is a work of creative nonfiction. Names, especially those marked with an asterisk among other identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.