What? It’s Over! (A Horror story)

Hey Hotstuff,

How are you? I am positive that you are blessed, that the favour of our Lord is manifest in you. I believe this because sometimes I look at you and wonder if anything that is not perfection can muster the audacity to associate itself with you in any way. I am sure that when it rains, the drops first hold a conference in the clouds to pick which ones are going to land on your head. At this conference there are meetings and subcommittees to plan how they will not ruin your hairstyle per se, but rather will dishevel it in a manner that makes it look sexier and more rock ‘n roll. I am certain that one of these subcommittees is tasked with finding ways to avoid messing up your make up, with the understanding that either the drops in the committee avoid the front of your head altogether or they wash everything completely off, with the result that we have a classic Alicia Keys situation. Either you are gorgeously made up or you are gorgeous without a lick of makeup.

Never with streaks of black and brown crisscrossing your countenance.

Having established that you are fine, let me draw closer to the point. I will get there in the end, but first, I must remind you of which of your doubtlessly massive horde of admirers I am. Tis I, Baz, the Silver Fox, Earl Grey, the middle aged gentleman with the self-deprecating wit, the dashing smile and the understated but nevertheless unique style– known to favour vans and pumas over Balenciaga. I hope that narrows it down. Yes. The cool one. The best choice you have out of all your suitors.

We have been in a few social situations over the past brief period of time, during which I have attempted, with as much grace, class, restraint and respect to make it clear that I am feeling your shit, girl. Not just because this is the era of MeToo when trash behaviour will no longer be tolerated but because, if I may say so myself, with as much humility as is due, I’m just a classy kind of guy. I don’t do trash stuff. But you, nevertheless, mwana, wankuba.

I have endeavoured to avoid vague hints, as far as my intentions are.

The series of cues including but not limited to me outright saying “I’m coming to vibe you by the way. You wait.”  culminated recently in my asking you out on a small date.

If you have any queries about the choice of magnitude, it is not because I am cheap (I am not cheap, I am just occasionally broke, a state of affairs that will not last. I have ambitions plus the talent and drive to translate those ambitions into liquidity. I am not saying this to brag or peacock like those shallow little men who dangle their Mercedes keys in the bar hoping to attract your attention. No. I know you are not moved by such superficial things as that. I say this to reassure you that we are equals. You, too, have ambitions, and the talent and drive to make greatness.) The reason I chose a small date as opposed to an opulent, magnificent extravaganza of flowers and violins and Italian cuisine lit up with enough candles to put UMEME out of business is that I don’t have a lot of self esteem. I have confidence, I have self awareness, I have a bit of arrogance and I certainly have unassailable unfuckwitability, but I don’t have enough self esteem to be sure that you would say yes when I asked you out, and so I decided to keep it simple. Simple rejections are easier to take than enormous and flamboyant ones.

You made the right choice, of course, and did say yes. You are an intelligent woman, with impeccable taste, foresight and the talent to see good things ahead from the signs before you.

Our date was scheduled for this Friday.

But the best laid plans of mice and men, cheri, There are no netflix stand up specials in heaven, so if we want to have God laugh, we just make plans,

An ENT infection has struck. It began in my right ear but its effect was so pernicious that it soon took the entire eustacean tube (refer you to your S3 biology) and now parts of my mouth are involved.

I need not belabour the obvious. Germs in the mouth, even those that originate in the ears, do not lay out the conducive situations for dates on which swave gentlemen make moves on their becrushed ladies. The mouth becomes unhygienic and therefore not only dangerous to your health, but also, due to the fact that germs smell, uncomfortable to you. No matter how witty, smart, charming my words may be, and the would be very much so, they would smell too much for those attributes to have the desired effect.

My options were poor. I could take you out and gush foul stenches at you for a whole night, sealing the doom of my budding affection.

I could tell you a lie so that I can buy myself some time (A work emergency? A family emergency? A less embarassing ailment? A call from the Agency asking me to come back and handle one last job even though I made it clear the last time that I was out of the game and just want to settle down and have a normal life?)

Or I could just tell you the truth.

This is the truth, Swee’thang. I have to ask that we postpone our date until these antibiotics have done their work and my breath smells better.

In the interim, I am aware that I take the risk of being relegated to a lower league. I could be decategorised to “Unserious”, “anjagazaa ki?” and taller, more good-looking men than I could gain advantage in this high stakes competition. I am afraid though that I have no option but to take that risk. Because, even if it means losing you, I like you too much to breath bad smells into your face.

Now, you ask, how does that become a horror story? Because of this…

4 thoughts on “What? It’s Over! (A Horror story)

  1. Sigh Baz.
    It is a sad thing that has happened to you my dear friend. That horror is real. It could possibly be due to the fact that you told a perfect being that she still has greatness to attain.
    Sad as it is, there is a tide in the affairs of men which taken to the flood leads to good fortune.
    I, or shall we say we, shall be sending you pictures come Friday via the avenue of what’s app status.

    Like

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