They will ask, “When did you first fall in love with him?” and my mind will drift back to that Saturday morning when I found myself crawling out of his bed, wanting to make my way back to my house. He pulled me by my hand back into bed, held me, and asked me to stay.
This hangout had started simply as a plan to hike Ngong Hills. We did not climb any hills. Lol. We sat by the side of the first hill under the tree near the cell tower. It was our second meeting. I barely knew him beyond his name. So he told me about himself. He told me about his sisters, whom he deeply missed but couldn’t see how much he loved them due to trauma and time passed. He told me about his parents and the many things he deeply regretted about them. He told me about his therapist, whom he regarded more as a father than a therapist. He told me about his best friends from school. He opened his soul and, like a book, showed me every page, read the writings therein for me to hear, traced the drawings therein with the tips of his fingers. There were pages he was hesitant to open, but as the evening came close, he opened these pages with careless abandon.
I listened to him. I laughed with him. I ate with him the few snacks we had remembered to buy after I mentioned that I often faint when my sugar levels are low. He did not want a case on his hands.
It was about 6 pm when we came down from the side of the hill and made our way into Ngong town. I did not want to leave his company. He did not want to leave mine. So we stopped by the mall and shared ice cream.
At 8 pm, I insisted that I had to begin making my way back to my house, on the other side of the county. So he saw me to the bus stop, made sure I was comfortable in a noisy Super Metro bus. He stayed outside the bus, at the bus stop, said he’d keep me company until the bus left. So he sat there on a concrete bench while I sat inside the bus. And we continued the conversations on our phones, typing our fingers away.
He said that he did not want me to leave. I told him that I was wont to do crazy things and I just might get off the bus and go home with him. At this point, the driver revved up the engine, preparing to depart from Ngong bus stop towards the central business district in Nairobi. He asked me if I was serious. The bus started moving. I could not leave. So I hurriedly alighted off the bus, but not before the tout hustled 100 shillings from me for the inconvenience of leaving one seat empty.
I remember his shocked face when he saw me get off the bus. I remember he ran and hugged me and said, “Let’s go home.”
That first evening, we slow-danced to Gregory Porter. He kissed me, softly, dearly. Like he wanted to intricately trace his lips on my skin. We talked about our dreams, those born out of hurt and those born out of longing. We talked about love and pain. He told me he liked cuddles and I obliged. We talked well into the morning and found comfort in each other’s presence.
When it was time to part ways three days later because we both had to resume work, I remember we parted ways at the exact same spot I had got off the bus. The bus was long gone. I stayed and waited for another bus. He stayed with me.
And that would be our story. We would plan to meet for an evening and the evening would always turn into three days. Unplanned sleepovers became our thing. And we took evening walks with no clear destination. Once in a while, we had late-night phone calls where we talked about everything and anything under the sun. Often he called when he was anxious and I would provide comfort. And when he was lonely, I was there. I held him. Holding him was like being held back by a painting. And in those moments, when I held him, I got to temporarily escape my world and be in his, where he existed in softness, wearing his emotions on his sleeve and painting the world velvet with the intensity of his passions.
One time, during our unplanned sleepovers, we went deep into the forested areas of Ngong looking for panties, because all shops were closed and someone had hinted that some lady who sells them lived in that area. Another time, we walked along the highway in the night, hand in hand, simply because my legs ached and I needed to stretch them. We were worried about our safety but we walked nonetheless. Another time, we forgot the door to his house and walked into the neighbor’s house. And during these adventures, he’d joke and say that these are stories we’d tell our children. We laughed. Loved. Cuddled. Shared dreams and danced to Gregory Porter. We watched F1 and he taught me all about it…too bad, we DNF’d.
That was then. Now, he is preparing to walk down the aisle in a few weeks and commit his life and love to another woman, in front of friends and family. The woman he is committing himself to was my best friend for close to a decade. I will not be among the friends invited because I am no longer a friend to either of them. I will probably be at home listening to Etta James’ “All I Could Do Was Cry” or I will be out with my new friends because they will be trying to distract me from the events of the day.
He will look into his new wife’s eyes and promise to love her with all his heart and she will promise the same back. He will put a ring on her finger and the priest will declare them husband and wife. They will have each other, and I will be left with an album full of Gregory Porter’s songs and a bucket list of betrayal and trust issues to unpack with my therapist. The bus left the bus stop. I got off the bus for him, but he got onto it and with it, he took my best friend. So I am sat here waiting for another bus, listening to Gregory Porter.