In honor of Machine Gun Kelly’s Bloody Valentine, it is only fair that I write something bloody. And, besides, a holiday regarding a certain St. Valentines is coming up, so I thought, why not?
There are two kinds of people who love Valentines – those who are in love, and those who love to mock people who are in love. I, for one, belong to the latter kind.
Not that I particularly have anything against love, but come on, it’s not enough that us single people get to see couples walking hand in hand every day, they actually had to make a holiday about them?
Unfair. That is what that is.
But you don’t think so, do you? You have always loved love, and even when you have been wounded too many times, had your heart broken more than it can handle, you still come back strong. Like a boomerang.
I do not blame you, really. If I was half the man you were, perhaps I would also feel the same way. But I am not.
I am a weak man. An insecure one. Well, at least that’s what Jenny said as she packed her things and left me, heartbroken, tired of begging her to stay.
But why am I telling you about her? You were there when she left. You have always been there, through thick and thin, through it all. My brother from another mother.
That’s why this is hard. Explaining this predicament we have found ourselves in. Hard, but necessary.
So, how did it start? Oh I know.
An Instagram post.
It all started with an Instagram post.
Of course it had be quite a good post if it is the beginning of a story. But like all beginnings, it was also subtle. Good and subtle, just how I like it.
Jenny was good and subtle, wasn’t she? That bitch.
Anyway, this particular post was of a girl. Nothing like Jenny, yet everything like her. She had posted a picture of herself, this girl. Black shades, red lipstick, a short red dress, a black pair of high heels.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
I would have skipped the post, except the caption held my attention for just a second. Just a second, and that was it.
The caption read:
Valentines is tomorrow!! Wenye tuko na watu, heri sisi. Wewe mwenye huna mtu, sasa utado? #bestholidayever.
Now, a normal person would have read the caption, felt a little twinge for his lonely ass, probably like the picture, and move on. After all, Valentines is just one day. No big deal. I have been single for ages.
But I am not a normal person. I try to be normal though, or rather, I do normal things.
I wake up at eight on weekdays, go to my internship that sucks balls and perform all my duties like a dutiful soldier would. I chat with the employers at that wretched company, eat lunch with them, make fun of the boss. In the evening, I go back home, take supper while watching a movie on Netflix, and sleep.
On Friday evenings, I meet up with you guys, you, Kevo, Maina and Freddy. Our mbogi.
If our pockets are happy, we buy a mzinga or two. If they are not, we buy a jug of keg for each one of us.
Sometimes we get lucky and get some, sometimes we don’t.
On Saturdays, I alternate between nursing my hangovers, binge watching a series and randomly going through memes.
On Sundays, I try to go to church, but always end up staying in and sleeping the whole day.
You see, by all definitions of a normal human being, I am one.
Yet, deep down, I know I am not because if I was normal, there was no way that caption would have caused such a huge stirring in my gut as it did.
If I was normal, there was no way I would do what I did next, which was logging into my pseudo account (don’t ask why I have one) and searching up the name of that girl.
When I found her and her post, I wasted no time going to the comments section, my swords already sharpened.
Malaya wewe. Pull up your dress.
I typed, and before consciousness caught up with me, I posted it.
After a few seconds of wallowing in regrets, I was ready to pull the plug and delete the comment, only, the girl replied before I did:
Only someone as lonely and miserable will call me that. Go suck a dick or sth..
And that was the beginning of the war.
Hours passed with us fighting , me with my cleverly crafted lines that am sure dug into her deep, her with hers that definitely left a wound or two to my ego.
It wasn’t worth it, I knew that. Yet, I couldn’t stop, and she, crazy like me, could also not stop it.
If it was not for you calling me up for a drink and wanting to talk to me about something, who knows how long I would have spent on my phone, typing, typing, typing.
When I reached your house, I was still shaken up by that stupid interaction. The first thing I asked for was a shot of the Konyagi you had just opened, and then proceeded to log back in my pseudo account.
Only, I did not get a chance to reply to the latest hurtful comment from her. Before I could start typing, the toilet flushed and I realized you had another company in the house other than me.
I looked at you, ready for an explanation which you gave as:
“Eh, bro, kuna dem fulani we have been dating for a while na alikuwa anadai kukumeet kama morio wangu. Si ucheze kama wewe.”
Aaaaah, so this was the purpose of this meeting. To meet the next girl who will break your heart. No worries. I knew my role in this movie way too well.
First, I would be the loyal best friend who convinces the girl how she is the only girl in the world for you, (it’s never that hard to convince her because it’s usually the truth).
Then, I become the designated third wheel whenever we hangout with her. For some reason, I never seem to get along with the said girl. Perhaps because they always treat you with little to no respect and you are usually too wrapped up in her to say anything and when I say something, suddenly I am the bad guy.
After you date her for a few weeks, she cheats on you with someone, they always cheat on you with someone, and I am always the first one to find out.
I then break the news to you, you swear off girls, we drink (a lot) but a few weeks later, you call me up, telling me about some next heartbreaker.
I really admire you, really. How do you do that? Just bounce back.
Anyway, back to the toilet-girl. Once I heard her wash her hands in the kitchen sink, I put my phone on the table, prepared my best fake smile, and waited to meet the new hoe of your heart and play my role perfectly.
Only this time, a twist awaited me. Once the door to the sitting room opened and she entered the room where we now sat, downing shots, my heart skipped a bit.
Standing in front of me was the girl from Instagram that I was just involved in a war with, smiling and ready to meet the best friend of her new boo.
Her name was Mercy, she said, then added that her IG name was mercilious_254.
After introducing myself, and then offering her a shot, which she gladly took, she took out her phone, checked for something, then addressing you, said:
“That fucker has still not replied. “
“Babe, just leave them alone. They are not worth your time,” you, ever the wise one, told her.
“I know baby, but arrrghhh, you have no idea what he said on his last comment.”
I would have asked you two what you were talking about, except I knew exactly what you were talking about. Too well, in fact.
So, I poured myself another shot, and encouraged you two to join me, which you excitedly agreed.
Thirty minutes later, we were all drank out of our minds, singing while dancing to whatever song was playing on Youtube.
Mercy was actually not that bad. In fact, she might be the only girl of yours I have liked, and felt was the right one for you. And thankfully, she also seemed to feel the same way about you as you did about her.
I was happy for you. Really happy.
I was also starting to feel really bad about all the things I had said to Mercy on her post, and I even swore to myself that when I woke up the next morning, I would delete my pseudo account and never again engage in that kind of war.
I also vowed to apologize to Mercy in person, if you two ever get serious.
But fate, every the tricky son of a bitch, always has other plans for us, and its plan started with you going to puke in the toilet, courtesy of too much drinking.
We tried to stay with you for a few moments, but then I wanted more alcohol, so I went back to the sitting room. Mercy followed me shortly afterwards, claiming you were passed out in the toilet.
After going to the toilet and confirming her story, taking a picture of your head on the toilet bowl for sweet memories and laughing at you until my stomach hurt, I went back to the sitting room.
Mercy was already there, with another unopened mzinga that she had apparently come with.
I wanted to go home because drinking alone with her would have been weird, but she literally begged me to stay, and even promised we would only drink three shots each and call it a night.
I have never been one to say NO to a girl with alcohol before, and I was not going to start then, so I obliged.
The first few shots were okay, just two friends drinking, enjoying each other company, listening to music.
A couple of other shots in, that’s when things started getting really hazy and weird. I started getting really drunk, and I suppose Mercy was too because suddenly, she came to where I was sitting and sat really really close to me.
I would have objected, except, the next words that came from her mouth made me shut mine:
“I know who you are @therealtroll54.”
The logical thing to say next was
“What are you talking about?” but I happened to look at her straight in the eye, and what I saw there was pure crazy.
I started to get up, making up words as I did, but with one hand, she had me back to my seat.
“What do you want?” I asked instead, defeated even before the real war begun.
“Um, an apology. Oh, and you know what else, a part of your body will be nice. Perhaps a finger? I don’t know. Let me think about it.”
I laughed. There was no way she was serious. Where were we, in some poorly scripted psychopathic film? Nah, she had to be joking.
Except I did not know this girl. If I did, I would have probably been worried when someone as heavyweight as you started puking after a few shots.
“Sweet that you think am joking. You think that unezaniita Malaya and I will let you go free?”
“How did you find out it was me?” I asked the only logical question that could come on my mind. By then, I was starting to feel pretty freaked out by this whole situation.
“Oh please, baby. I have friends who can hack. A little pseudo Instagram account is nothing to them.”
“I am sorry, really. I didn’t mean for it to go that far.”
“ I know you are. But sadly, am not one to accept only apologies. Perhaps I should cut off your dick, so th next time you think of harassing some random girl, you really think twice.”
Whoa. This girl was legit, legit crazy. What the Fuck!
I had to get out of there fast.
“Look Mercy, can’t we solve this like adults, and leave my dick out of it?” I started, putting on my best smirk that has been known to swoon girls.
By then, I was still thinking she was joking. I mean, plenty of people joke about hurting people, and never really do it. It was all empty threats, and if I could calm her down, perhaps this all could end well.
But before I could start formulating an escape plan, I felt the sharpness of a blade on my throat, and I froze.
“You think I am kidding, huh?”
If it was you, with a knife on your throat, a crazy bitch next to you, and your life dangling in front of you, what would you have done?
Because that is what exactly I did. Fought for my life, even it meant ending hers, and too bad, that is exactly what it meant.
I will spare you the gory details, and jump straight to the apology I owe you.
I know you really liked her, and I am really sorry. But you asked me what her body was doing here, with blood still pouring out from her throat, and I thought it was only fair if I gave you the whole story.
Oh, and btw, Happy Valentines. Sorry it is so bloody.