Diary Of My Ex-Girlfriend.

There is a seduction that comes with writing at night. Wee hours of the night when there is pin drop silence; you can hear the sound of your breathe. Wee hours of the night when drunk texts are sent and booty calls are made. Wee hours of the night when the guy living in F1, just above my bedsitter house (if it qualifies that name) is having bed breaking sex and her damsel is moaning , making weird sounds as if she is saying the Lord’s prayer in mother tongue. Wee hours of the night when Range Rovers are being parked in a servants quarters somewhere in Kileleshwa. Wee hours of the night when the Instagram socialites are cashing in big cheques in a hotel room in Paris, before they shove it down your throats with a gazillion nude selfies on IG come sunrise. Wee hours of the night when the man of the bottle is making his way back home reminiscing on the good ‘head’ he just got from that Sharon chic she met in the club and wishing his wife could hone similar skills. (Women who just lay in bed like a dead chicken during coitus have no right to complain when he cheats. Up your game ladies, up your game.) Wee hours of the night when clandestine sins are made, political assassinations executed, mysterious deaths occur, love consummated, a plethora of activities happen albeit the silence that may fool you.

 It is in this hour that I love to write.

 During this hours, words agree to speak your language. Words mate in a divine manner and out of it comes a satisfaction that every writer desires. You can hear the sound of thoughts as they stream from your mind. This is a profound serenity. 

You wake up and grab your laptop. Try to place it on your laps amidst a boner so hard it would cut diamond. The buzzing sound of a notification from your phone which is just beside you will distract you. It’s a message from a number not saved in your contacts. 

 “Hey, just checking up. Hope life is good.”

 You are startled. You notice the number ends with a 100 and starts with 0722. You smile. It’s your ex. Your ego is fellated. She still has your number? You are wowed. It has been three months now and she still feels she should check up. You can tell that she has not moved on. I mean, who moves on after dating the Eros you are. It is 3:00am and you remember that this is the time she would wake up and write her diary. A thing you found to be pretty weird but didn’t mind, since ‘morning glory’ would come shorty after. You are not dubious that she has not moved on and she is definitely scribbling something about you in her diary today.

 You smile again. Perhaps because you remember a time like this some months ago, your legs would be intertwined in hers. You would be whispering sweet nothings to each other. You would be breathing on her neck.  She would be lying on you and your heart would be pounding like dully on your chest. You would be telling her of her beauty, the warmth of her laughter, the wind in her hair. That you would stay there looking at her eyes forever, 24/7, 365, days an year. You would be telling her that you forever want to wake up beside her. She would be telling you that you are the best she will ever have and that she will never leave you. Your stomach would clench. You would then tell her that you will have no life after her. (Hogwash, right?). You two were good with cheesy lines and sparkly conversations.

Then life happened. You still have a life after her. She is no longer beautiful like you used to say. In fact, to you, she looks like the rear end of your grandmother’s knocked kneed, tick infested bovine. A host of visual terrorist. Why we term our ex’s ugly after we breakup, I don’t know. As if you were blind when dating them. Am still of the opinion that my exes are not as beautiful (avoiding to use the word ugly for security purposes) as my current missus. (Someone will sleep in her shoes today.) 

Too many unwelcomed thoughts are buzzing around like a swarm of hungry wasp invading your already overwrought brain. You are thinking of what she could be writing on her diary about you. Does she refer to you as the one who got away or the bullet that dodged? But you set your bar high, you are definitely the one that got away. She has to write good things about you. 

If you have been my girlfriend, or planning to be my girlfriend, or you are already my girlfriend (People this days will be in a relationship with you and you don’t know), this is how you will write your diary after we have dated:

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Dear Diary,

My demons today told me to text him and guilt is killing me right now. This bottle of chivas is doing me no good either. Am sure he knows I must be tipsy to do what I did, but again my truthful self is epitomized when am drunk. If he would call me now, I would rant to him that I still love him, but fret not diary, I have switched off my phone. I have already massaged his ego as it is and making a conversation with him while drunk would make me seem desperate. Of course I am, no woman would resist this man’s charm. He is the kind you want to inhale, bit, suck and turn him into a part of whom you are. 

It has been a constant autumn since we broke up. He made light of the absurdity of life. Where there was darkness, he shed light and even in my darkest hours, he made me smile. When I found myself running from all the things that chased me, even the once I secretly hoped would catch me and hold the verses of my skin together, to keep my soul from the clouds of loneliness, I found HIM. Regardless of his sarcastic self, he offered me quite an optimistic world view.

He is a voracious reader. He will involve you in quite intelligent conversations and even when we argued he would sit me down and try to sort things out in a calm and lovely manner. He is smart and I would at times wish to fuck his brains. In ugliness, he found beauty, truth in lies, hope in desperation. Anything I threw to him was an inspiration. With him, I saw things in a different light, what I detested, I began to like. (Feeling like a poet here). He would stroke my ego at times, praise my flattering qualities and make me feel good about myself. However, he did not relent from shedding light on my less flattering qualities. How am I not supposed to miss him? How am I supposed to resist this urge to text him, pretending that I am just checking up on him, while I want to know everything about his life after me? How am I supposed to stop myself from wondering whether if he still misses the touch of my lips? Hur?

And yet his fire still burns within me. I wish to weep for him, but it will not be enough. I want to look back at our romance and laugh, but it will not be enough. My heart sang a different tune. It was more than chocolates and roses. Romance was when he knew how I wanted my coffee, sugary. Or when we would walk home, holding hands after a night of binge drinking. I miss when he would tie the laces to my shoes because he knows I hate it. He was my slice of heaven.  You see, it hard to find a person who can dig deep into the quarry of your emotions and know how to make you skin turn out of excitement. Such a species is rare to find and his next will definitely be a lucky bastard! (You do not expect an ex-girlfriend to refer to your current as a queen, right?)

He will perhaps call me tomorrow morning and I will pick up and we will have a slight awkward conversation that will raise my adrenaline levels to crazy. I will lose my senses when I hear his husky voice over the phone, and perhaps I will orgasm, because he has that effect on me.

Him: Hey

Me: Hey, how are you doing Isaac.

Him: Am very fine Lisa (Lets call her this) I found your message this morning and thought it would just be courteous to call, thanks for checking up, you are doing fine right?

Me: Yes I am. I just thought it’s humane to check up once in a while. Am glad you did not ask, who this is.

Him: That’s why they invented true caller for us, right?

Me: Hahahaha……As if! Could you do coffee this week, Friday? Kaldies?

Him: Sure, why not!

Me: Thank you. See you.

But those are just fantasies. The kind of fantasies that make me hold on to some illusion of hope that we will get back together. I do not know where things went wrong. I think I should abide to the words of the last message he ever sent to message he sent to me. “When you come to the end of a book, you close it.” It’s high time I closed our book with these words of affirmation. He was A-Z. Athletic, brilliant, charming, dependable, educated, fit, generous, humorous, insightful, jovial, kind, logical, manly, noble, outgoing, peaceable, quotable, resilient, strong, trustworthy, understanding, virile, well-built, he had the X-factor, he was youthful and zesty. 

He was Z-A. Zealous, yummy, a xenophile yet grounded, wise, veracious, unequalled, truthful, superior, refined, quintessential, polite, open-minded, noticeable, masculine, learned, knowledgeable, jaunty, impressive, honorable, gregarious, fair, eclectic, dynamic, classy, bodacious and definitely attractive.

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