ou say I’m too wet? That I have a wet dream too many? Sorry for that, dear pillow. I believe that is not the meaning of being slippery, is it? Is it, good pillow? Is it? You see, I sometimes can’t help having my mouth agape when in my dreams; not that I leak. Apologies for the streams of saliva that find themselves drawing maps on your pink, fluffy casing. Come on, I wash it as often as possible, don’t I? I’m that considerate, dear. Am I not always a good girl to you?
Now, dear pillow, let’s talk; talk like true confidantes. You are my dearest companion; my most trustworthy friend. You also host the stadium that is my head every night, what with its ceaseless activities and thoughts ad infinitum. So I believe you know me to the finest detail. Before you I have no secrets, nothing to hide. The wise ones advise us not to let the day end with any of the day’s problems unsolved. You are the one who helps me work out my puzzles before you see me off to Wonderland with daily greetings for Alice.
Tonight, I have a lot in my head, dear pillow – sooo much stuff I don’t know where to start from. Talking of start, do you think I should start getting romantic with that guy Fred? Sweet pillow, I know you know how many times I have shed tears on you over heartbreaks (the one I have given and the several I have received). Guy after guy has taken advantage of me and my heart can’t possibly break any more. Should I swallow the hook, the chain and the sinker, this is going to be my fourth relationship in six years and – I don’t know what this is – I have a feeling that it is going to work. No, I mean I want it to work out this time. Fred isn’t a bad guy, is he? Day after day, he keeps getting better. See, he doesn’t drink or smoke; he doesn’t look like a smooth operator: I have gone to his room several times and he hasn’t tried anything silly. And I must admit I like his physique.
Dear pillow, should I bank on this dude? Of course I swore I would never give my heart en masse to anyone anymore. With vividness, I remember that night I kept asking you, amid sobs, why I happen to love too much. I couldn’t help hating myself for getting myself too attached to callous men. For a whole night and half a day, I asked myself why I couldn’t be a carefree girl like most others and love without any seriousness—even date several guys at a go. I drained all my tear pots on your pillowcase, lamenting and being spiteful. I am wiser now; trust me. I feel my heart has fallen for this guy. And today he made his intentions clear. He wants me. He asked for a hug and, poor me, I couldn’t resist, lest I sent mixed signals. Anyway, what’s wrong with just hugging?
Not only that. Jo is back. He wants me back. At around 4 p.m. today as I was in Fred’s room, surfing the net in search of a job, he texted me. Luckily, or unluckily, Fred had gone out. He had been called him for some errand or other. He said (in his usual flowery language) that he was sorry for what he did to me and that he has found it hard to move on. Most memorable is the way he concluded the message: “Miss u swits. XOXO.” Before I knew it, I had I deleted the message.
So, sweet pillow, Jo wants me back. Jo of all people. After almost a year of roaming wherever he was roaming, he has now come back to roost, like the proverbial chicken. Tell me, do people take so long to move on? A year? Mustn’t he have been in a relationship with someone else and has now had his fill and is coming to exhaust whatever he left of me? Is he really sincere?
Yet I never knew Jo to be a dishonest man. The college days usually flow back to me whenever I remember him. He was a classmate. Never did I like him at first—I hated his flashy, voluminous clothes and irritating unsuccessful attempts to make people laugh. In fact, I remember telling Mariana, another classmate, that I would not be found dead hugging Jo. How wrong I was.
It happened in so weird a manner that I sometimes regard myself silly when I remember the course of events. While I was a second year, with just a year remaining to complete my studies and get a diploma in Chemical Analysis, I was placed in the same class group as Jo’s. The tutor, a no-nonsense grey-haired fellow, said we were to work in those groups for the entire academic year.
Dear pillow, I had never subscribed to the gospel of one thing leading to another. But that is precisely what happened. Let me remind you that that guy Jo is the most gifted schemer south of Sahara and north of Limpopo. Slowly, schematically, tactfully, he slithered into my heart, what with the compliments he gave me each time we met for a discussion, either for being well dressed or for giving a strong point; the subtle texts he sent me every other night (texts which got more and more explicit as time went by, till they became what we sometimes call ‘sexts’); the bars of chocolate he bought me . . . till that day I had the guts to ask, “What do you really want from me? I have a boyfie, mark you.”
“I want you to be my friend,” he said, winking bewitchingly. Then I realized that he could be having some rumour of handsomeness after all. I had something of regret about having hated him with such verve.
“You mean we haven’t been friends?” I asked, feigning the look of Margarita asking Alejandro something of life and death in a Mexican soap opera.
“We have, but not to the level I’d prefer,” he said, moving an inch closer. I looked at him move and gave a ‘don’t do it again. OK?’ look. He neglected. Rude boy. Tactful. I secretly liked his daredevilry.
“You guys, sometimes you get too nuts. Too nuts for even monkeys to salivate over.”
He laughed, and said for the umpteenth time that I had a wild sense of humour which he happened to like.
“Haven’t we been interacting since first year? Haven’t you known me all this while?” I asked, neglecting the compliment, though I felt something of pride deep inside.
“You see, Maggy. . .” he moved even closer. And, my, it was getting late. Almost everybody had left the institute library premises.
“ . . . I have always admired you. I have been observing you all this while. I have been seeing your every other movement, interaction with other guys and all. And I think you are quite different from other girls.”
I did not reply.
“Maggy, let me ask you one question.”
Silence.
“Maggy please.”
Silence.
“Maggy, do you like me?”
I felt the urge to tell him how much I hated him. But I thought of the chocolates he had been buying and all, and I decided to tell a white lie.
“Yes. Why?”
“I have a feeling you don’t.”
“Proof?”
“What did you tell Mariana?”
I was lost for words. At that instant I felt like getting hold of that loudmouth Mariana and extract her brain, in the process asking her why the silly and anticlockwise-rotating grey matter can’t demarcate between mere gossip and serious talk; teach her something about the repercussions of verbal diarrhoea; reduce her tendency to be a good conductor of rumours.
“Didn’t you tell her you hate me to death?”
“No. She must have made that story up, maybe for reasons known best for her,” I stated, with a most serious tone. I had never known myself to be such a good actress.
“Alright,” came the answer.
He never knew how much relieved I was. I said it was time we left the library premises for it was getting late. He preached something about moonlit nights and romance but I couldn’t give him more audience. I had to preserve my pride; to show him that he couldn’t sway my decisions all too easily. Men need such treatment, if the memory of what Mum once told me serves me right.
Then the gospel of one thing leading to another unfolded with full force. Before I could say Alejandro, Jo was my boyfriend. I couldn’t love two guys so I dumped Trufee, that village bloke. Dear pillow, I must admit I was a bit insensitive but, OK, I was acting on impulse. Remember that text I sent him? He had asked why I had gone silent so suddenly. What I texted back needed no Einstein to decode what I intended to put across: Some advice, Mr. Shamba Boy: Shut your a** lest the sh** you’v just shat diffuses back, sucker. And it was over for me.
When I think of what I did to Trufee, I shudder. OMG, what did I just do? He had been my soulmate for seven dog months and I liked the fact that he was a stress-free guy; the sort of person who can be trusted to be meaning every word of it when he says, “I see no other girl but you.” Trufee is perhaps the reason why I have not wished to go back to the countryside. I better stay at the city, looking for a job. Since January I have been here. Six months and counting.
I am told he got so depressed after my rash SMS that he almost turned suicidal. My sister tells me she met a highly charged Trufee the morning after my text; a Trufee who was cursing, swearing, breathing fire. It was a tall order calming him down. When she called me asking what the heck I had done, I replied bluntly that Trufee had outlived his usefulness, that he had better shown his true colours and turned grey like the early man ape he was. She told me I was losing it. I said I was dead serious. Afterwards, I heard, Trufee became a drunk. He quit his job as an untrained teacher and said he might not join university even if his letter came carried in a silver platter. But he did go after recovering. He is now a first year in Egerton University, Njoro Campus.
I think the way I dumped Trufee was a bridge too far. But that is now water under the bridge.
Then I was head over heels in love with Jo. He showered me with gifts, restaurant food, trips, snacks, luxurious magazines, sanitary pads, top-of-the-range clothes, cards, lollipops, chocolate, love, love, love. My girlfriends envied me for being the apple of his eye, for being the most prized possession of the wealthiest man in Rift Valley Training Institute. I couldn’t help feeling a little spoilt. Those are the times, dear pillow, that I could drench you the most. Every night I was in Fantasy World, where only Jo and I existed. We could do all that people in love do in Mexican soaps plus more: We could chase each other, splash beach water on each other, tease each other, chase again to some accommodating rocks and make love, wild love.
Such was my infatuation till that Wednesday morning I realized I was pregnant. To be pregnant while in college? No way. I had three months to complete my course. I called Jo. Asked my roommate to accord us some privacy, which she did without demur. Told Jo everything. He didn’t appear worried. Said I had to flush the goddamn thing, that he wanted no babies yet. But couldn’t he marry me then? He said no. Not yet time. I had to flush. He gave me five thousand. Told me to do it.
And I did it.
That Saturday when I did it, he came at around 7 p.m. to check my progress. We talked in euphemisms, codes and circumlocutions. He made me vow never to tell anybody about the it business. He was surprised, just like I was, that one could do it and come back fit as a fiddle. I told him I had sought a professional’s help. Then he gave me a card, neatly enveloped. By then, he had given me around a thousand and one cards, so I was in no hurry to read it. We had supper, lay in bed and had a lengthy pillow talk (do you remember what we discussed, pillow?), exchanged sweet nothings and he left for his room.
I don’t know how to put this, put let me simply state that it is over. That thing wasn’t mine. Reliable sources tell me that you have been visiting some fellow at the countryside; your home area. So, from this moment, let it end there. I won’t ask anything back. Keep all my gifts. And learn how to get pregnant in future.
As I read that letter, which had been tucked amid the card, thoughts whizzed in my head. That is when I decided to look at the card. I usually started with the inside message before getting carried away by the cover aesthetics. It was a funeral card. A funeral card. The big title on its cover read: “CONDOLENCES”. I sighed. Strange things happen when a guy you have trusted that much becomes so uncaring and dumps you in such a blunt manner. Strange things happen when, after you have been duped to go against your principles, you are forced to pay the price. Condolences? Condolences for what? O my pillow, I cried. Cried like a baby. I regretted having degraded Trufee so unfeelingly. It was my turn to show my true colours and display a pale, wrinkled skin of a used, dilapidated post-menopause woman.
Till the next Sunday afternoon, I was crying, shedding tears, mucus and all on your pink pillowcase. Didn’t sleep a wink. My roommate could do nothing to help. Then I vowed I would never love again then pulled a Cinderella—slept till the next Monday evening. Getting over the relationship was an uphill task but I somehow managed; but not without a severe hangover.
Dear pillow, the three months elapsed. I finished college. Went home at the countryside feeling guilty for having abused Trufee; having trampled on his feelings and demeaned him. Many people in the countryside knew of it. And they thought I had acted in a rather unorthodox manner, as my sister Suzy duly informed me. Almost a year had elapsed but my careless act had not faded from the people’s collective memory. I was so ashamed I couldn’t stand it.
Thus I came to the city. To look for a job. My pillow, you were among the few possessions I carried with me that Monday morning as I left for the city. Dad told me to look for Uncle Ongeri for guidance. Mum advised me to be careful. A first born has to act like a first born, she instructed. Sister Katy was not so happy for I had stayed home for just a week after finishing studies from ‘the land of the Kalenjin’. Brother Sam was as expressionless as ever. That boy amazes me. Suzy just told me not to treat any other guy like I had treated Trufee.
In the city, I decided to be independent. They had given me enough money to look after myself. I rented a room in one of the middle-class estates.
Looking for a job is not one of the rosiest things, especially for someone like me fresh from college. Six months down the line and nothings seems forthcoming. But I haven’t despaired yet. Hope is my abode.
During the six months, lots of men have expressed interest in me, especially company bosses. Go to look for a job in some institution and all you encounter is a horny boss (without any job at hand but willing to listen to you, because you are female) ready to use you then dispose of you. But that is the one thing I, Margaret Nyasani, cannot and will not do. Climbing the ladder horizontally is not one of my definitions of being a go-getter. It pays when one isn’t ready to bend over backwards every other time.
In the course of my job seeking, I met Fred about two months ago. He is one subtle guy who appears principled and disciplined. It is damn hard to find such guys in an urban setting. They live few plots away from the place I reside. He is 26; I am 24. Their family is one of the well-to-do ones. He has a whole room to himself, with several gizmos to boot. Like me, he is also looking for a job—he just graduated from Inoorero University. And, going by the connections his father has, he will soon be in a payroll.
I go to his room regularly to check my mail; to see whether some institution or other has expressed interest in my CV. We are great friends. But today he expressed his intentions quite clearly: he wants me. Plain and simple. And I can’t help but think of the quandary, the quagmire, the catch-22, the dilemma I am in.
Should I give him my heart, sweet pillow?
O my, it is 11 p.m.! And I haven’t slept yet! And tomorrow I have an interview at Haco Industries? Dear pillow, forgive me once more if the clipboard I have placed over you as I wrote these musings has hurt you. I won’t do it again, OK? Now let me do what I usually do with such things. They are too personal to be read by anybody else, aren’t they? No one should know that I have ever done it.
So, allow me to shred these papers like this . . . soak them in water like this . . . make paste like this . . . throw them off the window like this . . . switch of the lights like this . . . sleep on you, pillow, like this . . .
