I am scared. I am very scared. I am scared of your height. I am scared of your size. I am scared of your strength . I am scared of your voice. I am scared of me. I used to love your height and your size and your strength and your voice, especially in the morning . Do not get me wrong, I still love your physique. I just see it in a different light because I am scared.
I am scared of your height because you cannot block me from the harsh rays of sunshine when we walk side by side. Your height is used to tower over me in a confrontation.
I am scared of your size because it does not represent safety and security when we have our late night walks around your place or mine when either of us visits. Rather your size reminds me that there might or might not be a chance that it will be used to put me down next time between the four walls of our apartments.
I am scared of your strength because it does not represent your ability to let me rest on your shoulder anymore but rather that it could be used against me when the need arises.
I am scared of your voice because it represents terror and fear instead of the soothing lullaby it used to before, each time I need to fall asleep beside you. Now your voice represents a weapon to overpower me.
I am scared of myself. I am scared for myself. I cannot recognize myself anymore. No matter how hard I try, I can never be as strong as you are. So I will always be at a disadvantage. I cannot tower over you and shortly be a representation of fear or terror in your eyes as you were for me. That makes me scared.
Mostly , I am disappointed. In myself, but greatly in you. I am disappointed in you for feeling the need to lay your hands on me to prove a point. The next time you tower over me or you look over me,I will have a temporary flash of fear coursing through my veins as a reminder that the tables could easily turn and I might be in the receiving end of a few blows. I took a nap a short while after the incident and instead of dreaming of you watching me walk down the aisle on a sandy white beach, I dreamed of something vivid, something more real. I dreamed of you hitting me . You were the villain in my dreams, for the first time. Moreover, I realized the monster I grew up with was no longer under my bed, he was in my dreams and this time he had a face. He could not go away by running to switch off the lights and diving under the covers. He was real. It would take a while to calm down the monster in my dreams. Now, I had bigger problems.
Younger me is disappointed in me . When I say younger me I mean the version of me 24 hours ago. This version is very different from who I was yesterday. I can barely recognize myself. There is a battle going on between my my heart and my mind and this battle is greater than any the world has witnessed.
It’s just … I know him. I mean, we have been together for so long, five years to be precise and he would never do this. He is a good guy.
I know him…
I know him. I do.
The shock of his fist on my face seems to argue otherwise.
I trusted him to at least keep me safe. Now I do not even know if he can love me for eternity like he promised. But he loves me. I just do not know if I can trust him anymore.
He apologized, he did . He cried while apologizing.That was very sincere. I mean ,it is not everyday that he cries while apologizing.
I have never seen him cry. So I believe he was being very sincere. He said he will never do it again. Ever.
He said it was my fault. He said I made him angry. So angry he had no other option but to hit me. He is right. I made him angry. I am not perfect but I try. I make him angry occasionally. Today I made him very angry so he hit me. It will never happen again.
He loves me. He told me he loved me after that.
I had just made him very angry. He made me promise not to tell anyone. He said nobody had to know. It would be our little secret because it would not happen again.
I believed him.
After all, it was my fault. I provoked him. I Will do better and not make him angry.
Maybe if I do not make him angry again, it will never happen again.
I love him too.
It was just one mistake.
Nobody has to know.
I just need not to make him angry with me.
We are okay
We are okay…
If you have not noticed yet , I didn’t write this. The writer wants to remain anonymous. But all credit goes to this anonymous writer. Till next time people.
He is walking towards me and staring at me at the same time . I hate being stared at, especially when I am walking.It makes me uneasy. It also makes me fidget a lot. I am not shy though, I just don’t like being stared at. His face looks familiar, I can’t place where I have seen it before. It is one of those common faces that you quickly dismiss from your memory bank. I stare back. I thought he would stop staring but he doesn’t.I lower my gaze. He still stares .Now this is something. I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t . He approaches me . I shift my gaze and for a funny reason I find myself looking at his lips. They are dry, just like my father’s.
Death, it’s an unhappy occurrence. For me it set me free. Death wiped away my tears, death made me happy. You might be confused. I have totally jumped from one topic to another. Don’t worry , you’ll get to understand why as whatever this is builds up. let me reverse a bit to some years back.
I was born on the back seat of a Red Peugeot 404 saloon car. Funny enough, I was conceived on the hood of this same Peugeot. It is also where I lost my virginity. It has quite a history this red Peugeot . It was owned by my father. He inherited it from his old man who had bought it from a mzungu fleeing the country in the sixties . It used to be the envy of the village. It was my grandpas greatest investment and it earned him a warm heart. It stole my grandmas heart. Quite some red Peugeot history , right. Unfortunately the warm heart didn’t last long, it grew cold some time after my father was born. My grandma left my grandpa. Reason, my grandpa was an alcoholic who battered her and couldn’t keep his manhood in one place.This was unheard of at that time (a wife leaving her husband), but it really woke the women in the village.
My grandpas ego was bruised by this breakup. He was the first man in the village to be left by his wife. This made him make an ultimatum. As long as he was alive, She would never see his son again. True to his word , she never saw his son till he died. Gonorrhea had him. She had missed 15 years of her child’s life. At the end of it , there was no child to go back to. Instead the kid had grown to a man. A man who courted and entranced my mum into marriage, but not before making her pregnant. Theirs was a wild passion that died quite fast.
My father was a brute and an alcoholic just like his dad. It was hard living with him. I was always scared. I never found peace whenever he was home. I would lock myself up whenever I heard the sound of the red Peugeot backing into the drive way. He wasn’t like that at first. I would not call him loving . Maybe responsible . He used to be an average father who did the average things. Paid rent , bought food and watched WWE all weekend. He never acknowledged my presence before. My birth had killed the passions between him and my mum. For some reason they had drifted apart and he mightily blamed me for that. So he never once took notice of me as a kid. I always longed for his approval. I wanted him to carry me, to love me. I wanted him to take me for walks just like other dads did. He never did that . Then he lost his job. He got retrenched , it was that age of computers when man labor was replaced by computers. He looked for other jobs . He never got one. If life was hard before this,it became worse after the retrenchment.
He took to drowning his sorrows in the bottle. His relationship with the bottle is your classical drunk story. The bottle made him it’s slave. He drank from Friday to Friday. If parte after parte had been coined then , it would have been his slogan. He drank his savings till they ran dry. Then as any classical drunk story would go, he started selling things just to maintain his drinking habits. He started with his dads parcel of land, then his ring, then my mums ring, then the TV. This went on till we had nothing apart from the house. My mother tried talking to him but all this talk would result to fights. Both parties would get out of this fights really bruised, not only physically but emotionally too. We had hit rock bottom as a family. There was no shred of happiness around the house. It was no longer a home but a wrestling ring with the heavy weight champion ,the brute in the red corner and the light weight tittle contender , my mum in the blue corner . I dreaded going to that place after school. School was my escape.
Things got better though. My mum got a job at some private hospital. She worked night shifts cleaning the place. She hadn’t finished her nursing degree due to the baby bump that was to be me. So it was really hard for her to get a job. She had been contented living as a housewife. Her contentment ended when he lost his job. This new job meant that there was less fights in the house since both parties saw less of each other. It also meant I had to stay with my father during the night.
It was easy at first. I used to be alone. My mum would cook early in the day and I just had to warm the food at night. I would eat , do my homework , listen to the radio ,then sleep. It was lonely but I preferred it to the earlier amateur version of WWE that used to take place in the house. Then he , my father,started noticing me . I really don’t know why he did. I was still a kid. He started bringing me these little presents. I remember the purple doll fondly. It was huge and so soft. I used to hug it to sleep. I loved it , really loved it. I even gave it a name, Pellberry. I don’t remember where the name came from but it stuck. I used to play pretend. At some point Pellberry was my kid and I cared for it. I fed it ,washed it, clothed it and even sang it to sleep. Life was good. I did not feel lonely any more. Then he started coming home early. He would ask me questions about school. My grades, my teachers, my classmates especially the boys. I told him all about it. I told him about my love for math, why I hated Swahili and PE and about Dan, the boy I wanted to be friends with. Life was better .
Growing up, we were lucky to have a car, the Peugeot. Sad thing is that I was never allowed into it till my dad started noticing me. He started taking me for rides. I loved them . We would go to the lake and watch the fishermen weave their fishnets . I used to be captivated by it. Then he would buy me ice cream, vanilla, my favorite. I was contented. Life had never been this easy and smooth. I was finally starting to look up to him as a dad and not a father. I was even looking forward to the sound of the red Peugeot. Not everything is always rosy.
The first time he did it , he was drunk. He had come home late. The sound of the red Peugeot woke me up. I wasn’t alarmed. Things were better between us. I even got up and went to warm him some food. That is how caring I had been. I went to the kitchen and lit the cooking gas. He staggered in. He was reeking of alcohol, cheap liquor. I didn’t mind, he was my father soon to be dad and I wanted to love him for who he was. ‘Maybe some day I’ll be able to change this habit. Get him to rehab and make him quit. Then we’ll leave happily ever after as one family’, I mused. It was a long shot but I hoped it will work out. It never did.
I was bending over the gas cooker when he came and grabbed me by the waist. I was startled. He had never been touchy with me . Then he lifted me up. I was light and he had strong arms. This is what I had dreamt of as a kid , but now it seemed sinister. I asked him to let me down. He did. Not on the ground though, he placed me on the kitchen sink . He then started saying these things that really confused me. He said I was his baby girl. That he loved me and he wanted to protect me against the world, against Dan. I was placid . I did not know how to react. There I was face to face with my father , who is telling me these things that I really wanted to be told as a kid. I wanted to be noticed, but now that I was , I didn’t want it anymore cause it felt queer. He brought me in for a bear hug. I didn’t want to. It was weird. The smell of burning food was my saving grace.
I asked to be excused. He didn’t budge. He stood looking at me furiously. The once happy father soon to be called dad had turned to brute mood. He was no longer smiling. He was pissed. Why? His claim is that I didn’t want to hug him. Come on, that was a pretty shrewd excuse. I heard it before I felt it. I found myself toppling in the sink like some dirty used plate. He had slapped me . I had never been slapped before. The furthest my teachers went was pinching my ears for missing PE and flanking Swahili. The pain was monstrous. The buzzing, it’s as if my father had started a bee hive on top of my head. Then he started to cry. This was scary. I had never seen him cry. He apologized. I didn’t buy it, I got up from the sink and ran to my room.
I told my mum. They fought. I cried . He went away for a week and came back , unlike him, quite sober. He had a gift. A dress. It was tiny and red just like the Peugeot. I loved it. It fit me right. I couldn’t wait to wear it. I forgave him. My heart then was pure , tender and quite forgiving. He said he would take me for a trip to make up for the ‘tiny’ thing that he did. I was elated. I couldn’t wait for the trip.
It came. I wore my red dress. I looked lovely. My mum was too tired to tag along. It was just me and him, just as I had envisioned before. We set off , I did not know where we were going. I never bothered to ask. I wanted to be surprised. I was surprised all right. But not in the way I had expected. It started with the car breaking down on some lonely road. Lonely since I never saw any car driving past . That should have been a red flag but it didn’t hit me. I was a kid remember, barely twelve. He got out to try figure out what the problem was. He came back defeated. I asked what we were to do and he said wait. Wait for help . We waited. I fell asleep on the back seat. Only to be woken up by his rough hands touching my thighs. I didn’t like it. I tried shoving his hands, but he brought it back, reassuring me that he was just massaging me. He went deeper. My heartbeat rose. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t . I seemed not to have a voice. He unbuckled his belt and brought it out. The source of my tragic pain. I screamed. But there was nobody around . He did it . Not once , or twice or thrice. I lost count since I passed out.
I came to . I was seated in the back seat. My dress was stained , bits of blood. I couldn’t move. My head ached. I was tired. He was driving, he noticed my movement. He stopped the car, walked to the back seat and tried to cradle me. I fought back. He was strong. He gripped me hard. Then he opened his mouth. His lips were dry. He made the threat, the threat that hung over my life and weighed me down until I killed him.
Thank you for reading to this point. It has been a long wait for this second phase, I hope it was worthwhile. Special thanks to Wanza for the pictures. PS: The pictures are from an exhibition that happened in UoN main campus some time in November. It was sponsored by Arigotou GNRC and UNFPA. The main aim of the exhibition was to sensitize the public on the worrying rising trend of online child exploitation. If you get time you could check out their pages and find all the stats on this vice and how you can chip in to change it. If you have been affected then this is a good place to seek help too.
It is the end of the year and of the decade , thank you for reading my blog this year. The series continues next year. Happy new year🥳🥳
Laugh emoji sent , but I am crying inside. My heart is bleeding. Bleeding from hurt and guilt. She broke my heart, this explains the hurt. I didn’t see it coming , that explains the guilt. Now let’s not get too emotional , let’s back it up a bit.
The day is 12th December 2016. I am walking. I dunno where I’m going.It is one of those leisurely walks I used to take,mostly in the evening, with the hope that at least I’ll bump into her on the way. Yes it was timed to the minute. I knew her mum would send her out to mama mboga for vegetables and milk for her little brother. Thing is , her mum cannot breast feed . She has AIDS. Scratch that. She has HIV. I dunno why I get the feeling that using AIDS feels a lot more victimizing than HIV. Anyway, I really knew more about her family than she did about mine. Lemme be honest , she did not know a thing about mine. I am not even sure if she knew I existed or even my name . Don’t label me a stalker yet . I’d prefer a teen struck by this feeling , most people call it a crush but whoa boy, it was more than that for me. I really want to think it was love , something straight from the movies, love at first sight. Sadly it was not that. Let’s move with the flow , maybe we’ll figure out what it was by the end of whatever this is.
So there I am walking. Am trying to whistle Wale’s song MPYT . Maybe she’ll fall for it, i run out of breath . It clearly ain’t working. So I hum it. I’m trying hard to look cool. I’m fresh from high school and cool means keeping lots of hair ,listening to Migos, using lingo such as bruh instead of bro, having Nikes ( read it as Naikeys), sweats and sweat pants were really a thing then too. Cool also meant you’ll be a magnet for them ladies. I hadn’t had a girlfriend before and it was my main goal to have one as soon as I got out of high school . Why ? The reasons are pretty much laughable now, but trust me they were a big deal to the younger me then. One I had to prove myself to the boys. Two I really wanted to actualize make out sessions and sex .Yes I used to bluff a lot about making out in high school. Who didn’t ? 50 shades of Grey really helped in that. I could tell the whole Christian Grey scene without the bondage bit and guys would fall for it. It was legendary, the look on their faces. Three I wanted somebody to call me her boy🤦🏾♂️
Cool is what I strived to be. It is all vanity though . I wish I knew this then. Back to the story , I’m humming. I’ve got this Afro thing going on. I smell of some cheap deodorant, it ain’t that bad , at least it would tone done my smelly pits. My sweats are sagging. I’ve got some fake cheap gold chain on. It looks pretty ridiculous , but I don’t realize this . I want to be cool remember. I want to be the North Pole to her South Pole.
I see her. The world stops. Okay not the whole world, just my world. I don’t realize it but I also stop walking. She is thirty feet from me. She looks good. I want to run .I want to scream. Run since I’m afraid of her , her presence. I fear I’ll act stupid. Scream , not out of fright but out of excitement since she’s f*%cking amazing. I do neither . Instead I continue to walk. Twenty feet. She is coming in fast, my brain freezes. I dunno what to do . Ten feet , I look at her. She looks back. We lock eyes . It is intense. My hands are shaking. She doesn’t know this since I am pocketing . Five feet . She looks away, pheux. But this could mean she ain’t interested . My brain comes back online. Thank God. It starts working out a conversation, a pick up line.So I didn’t know how to chat up girls. Google helped me out on this. Plus there were these sleazy lines from wild n out and the Prince from Belair. Trust me putting these lines into action is close to impossible. This is reality. It ain’t a rehearsed scene with ten takes to make it perfect. You only get one chance to pitch. Two feet , I open my mouth…
I am trying this series thing. It’s about a story with different episodes, I don’t want to write it all. But I’ll give it all in phases. This is the first phase . I dunno if you liked it, if you did then there is plenty more to come, if you didn’t , tough luck , maybe the next will interest you. Thanks for reading 😊. Till next time ✌🏾I’m out. PS This is purely fictional. 😂Don’t snoop around my DM asking me questions.
Her name is Teresa but everybody calls her T. T because she
insisted on it and would not answer if called otherwise. Plus, it’s cool and
easy to remember. Unlike Teresa it’s easy to pronounce, especially for her
shosh back in shagz. I have a hard time describing T. This is where I would most
probably ask you to close your eyes if I was making a presentation. But at the moment,
I can’t. Imagine a chicken bbq pizza with lots of toppings, I hope you aint
reading this when you are hungry. The pizza is yours to eat. You pick a slice, it’s
your first slice. You have been craving for pizza for so long. Now open your mouth,
you are supposed to salivate right now, but you don’t. hold up, we need a back
story to explain why.
So your brain is tired and fed up since its lunchtime. It
has been dating your stomach for some time now. But like most new-into- the-relationship
couples, they had a disagreement in the morning. Their first disagreement, and
it was messy. Messy to the point that you threw up your breakfast this morning.
Thing is, the stomach suspects that the brain is cheating on her with the
lungs. Last night the brain came home smelling of a strawberry cologne. It’s only
the lungs that wears that cologne on Fridays and Saturdays. (be a cooperative
reader and lets just pretend that you do shisha). she had all the reason to
raise hell, and honestly the stomach is a bad bitch. So the fight ended up with
the stomach giving up breakfast back to the mouth and the brain stayed hungry. To
retaliate, the brain decided that it wouldn’t release saliva for smoothening you’re
eating process. Now Sir mouth is at a standstill. He cannot function without saliva
yet he really needs to bite in. The little bird Madam right eye has told him of
the tasty meal that awaits him. It all boils down to revenge, without saliva
the stomach won’t get food and the brain will have equaled the fight. But the
brain is rational. It thinks ahead. There is no reason picking a fight with a
lady, a lady is always right, and again he doesn’t want to sleep alone tonight.
It’s so cold out there with all the neurons on a go slow. So finally it decides
to release the saliva.
This drama takes about five seconds. Now you bite in. The
taste is a description of T. she’s foreign yet sweet. Foreign since her actions
are not normal. She is the type that uses words like substantive to describe how
her day was. She doesn’t follow the cardinal rules of punctuation. A T sentence
looks like this, i Am lErAniNg mAnDaRIn. Crazy, right. Sweet since she always
does good things that make you aww. She’s the kind who would save her lunch and
give it to the street kids in Globe Round About. Her motto is to do good before
good goes bad. I don’t really know the meaning of this phrase. But it really doesn’t
matter. Everybody is free to live by any mantra. Mine is, sleep is bae. It never
breaks my heart nor makes me sad. I crave for it so much. I think am addicted
to it. We all are to some extent, but my addiction is on another level, you
I know you are craving to know how T looks. Well, I hate to
disappoint you. We aint doing that now. Instead, let’s bring in a twist. Our twist
as you have guessed is a dude. His name is Jared. He aint called J nor Jay,
just Jared. Unlike T, Jared is a cup of coffee. If you are not a coffee fan,
then I am really sorry. You won’t relate. Jared is a coffee latte with three
spoons of sugar. Now the thing about a coffee latte is that it knocks you off
your feet. Jared has the same effect on ladies. He’s the guy with the looks and
the walk. His voice makes you feel as if you in heaven. I aint kidding about
this. I have heard it. He aint tall. Neither is he short. Just medium with a
medium build. Nothing out of the ordinary, and believe me this is what makes
him stand out. He’s the guy you look at, then walk, then look back again and
make changes to your first impression. He confuses people and he knows it. He never
confused her, it was the opposite.
They met at Archives. Archives is to Nairobi what Times
Square is to New York. He was waiting for his mum, and she was waiting for her roommate.
He first noticed her legs. Her legs are those kind of legs that make you care
about legs. I wouldn’t describe them, just know that they confused him. She had
a gothic look. Black everything, from her make up to her tank top and leather
mini dress. Her black boots completed this look. Thing is, T is sort of a
rebel. And her gothic look is an act of rebellion. She doesn’t want to be or do
the ordinary. Why would I eat lunch at one or two? why should I wash my cup
first before my plate? She’s that kind of person. You would not use the same
word to describe her face and Ariana’s face. But it was something close to it. let’s
say Ariana’s is at 95%, then T’s is at 80%, not bad. Her eyes, that’s the next thing that caught
him. Please don’t tell me you are thinking that they are almond green or
something foreign. Nope, they are black and big. Big in a good way. Big in a
way that made Don’t call me J more confused. He had to talk to her, and talk he
Let’s fast forward a bit. She fell for him. They did what
normal couples do in the movies. They had an awkward first date, they kissed on
their third night out in front of T’s gate. They got busted making out in Jared’s
room. She bought him a boxer pack for valentines. He took her out on a candle
light dinner and broke her virginity after that, blablabla. It’s boring right,
shit we’ve seen but most are yet to experience. A cutout movie presentation to
make love look out of the ordinary. Actions that make us men less romantic. Actions
that dictate and sometimes shape our relationships should be. Actions that hold
us against the ground of better relationships. Okay, lemme stop. I feel like
this needs a whole story. Let’s just focus on T and Don’t call me J.
I love twists, let’s bring a new twist. She is called Mercy
and ooh Lord, she never had Mercy. I am just kidding. I just felt that that particular
line rhymed. Mercy is, okay, I am not sure if she still is, her roommate. Not the
other roommate that T was waiting for the other time when he met Don’t call me
J. I feel like this also needs a back story. Relax it won’t be that wild as the
brain and mouth story.so T is in UoN. She is a 3rd year BA student majoring in English and
linguistics. What happens in UoN is that you keep on having different Roommates
every semester. This is if you stay in the school hostels. so it was a new
semester and T had this new roommate.
Mercy is a freshly baked cup cake, she is small and leaves
you craving for more. Unlike T, she has
a figure. (I am not being sexist here, I hope you get what am saying) It’s not
hour glass perfect, but it has the same effect on dudes, bulging eyes, bent necks
and worst case scenario, bonners. They bonded at first site. She was homely and
T loved that about her. She cared. She cleaned her cup after use. She never sat
on T’s bed. She did not bring noisy friends around. Most of all, she was clean.
She was the perfect roommate. They hanged out most of the time. Don’t call me
J, was in KU and only visited on weekends. So most of the time, it was just Tand
T fell in love. It wasn’t with Don’t call me J though, but with Mercy. She felt like Mercy understood her more. They could talk without saying a word. Laugh at things nobody else understood. Mercy at most times knew how she felt.She would know when to eat Matumbo or chapo nyama, unlike Don’t call me J who was always taking her to stool and kioo restaurants. it is as if his main goal in their relationship was to make her fat.
She wants to tell Mercy about this, but she is afraid of what she might say or do. She is afraid of rejection. She’s afraid of losing Don’t call me J too. She doesn’t want to be alone. What she aint afraid of though is what the world would think about her when she hooks up with Mercy. She’s a free spirit, but even free spirits hit walls that they can’t penetrate. And mercy is T’s wall. She wants to go through her but doesn’t want to break her. She can’t go over her since the feeling is too strong to get over. It’s either she speaks out or she speaks out. It will kill her if she doesn’t. last time I checked, she was gonna make the move, I really dunno if she did.
So my words finally came back , hurrah . I am happy . Watch out for my next post to know how they decided that I’ve been lonely for a long time. Anyway , thanks for reading , you are a champion for getting to this point . Please do share , there’s somebody out there that needs to know that her brain and stomach are dating😉
The room is certainly not built for a dozen people. A dozen youth in different states of drunkenness. He is part of the dozen. Sitting on the floor, in the corner, head bowed. Slightly flushed by the few shots he had before. He still hasn’t learnt how to handle them. They make him dizzy. On other occasions , the buzz leave him with an agonizing headache. The headache is the least of his concerns, he has a few hours before they kick in . He is living in the moment , enjoying what is supposedly fun.
There is a speaker in the room, blaring a gengetone tune. He can’t tell who the artists are, but digs the beats. A card game is going on. He isn’t interested. He sucks at cards, poker. Instead , he is thinking of her . She has occupied his mind these past few days. She is one of the reasons he has come. He wants an opportunity to talk to her ,alone. The only problem is, he cant find her . Even if he could , he doesn’t know what he would say to her.
As if on cue, he hears a knock. The door is opened, and there she is. Accompanied by two other guys carrying two other bottles of liquor. There is a slight celebratory chant. Abandoned party cups are found. The bottles are ‘blessed’ and poured out. He doesn’t want more liquor, he is trying to save face. He doesn’t want to get sick in front of her.
She searches the room. Meets his gaze. Smiles shyly. He’s too nervous to smile. So he waves at her. Invites her to him. His heart is thumping . She fights bodies to where he is. He makes space for her . In his little corner, that is now theirs. She sits with him. He doesn’t know what to say. He tries to steal a glance. Gets caught at it , grins embarrassingly. Want a blunt, she asks.
No he doesn’t want a blunt. He has never smoked before, he doesn’t know how. He wants to say no, but finds himself saying yes. Out of her jacket pocket , comes a bag and a blank. She asks him if he rolls. He says no, he ain’t a chiq. She half laughs. And begins to fill the blank evenly with weed. He’s never seen a blunt being rolled before , but from the looks of things, she’s an expert. She’s done in no time. Giving him no time to back off. She’s asks if he wants to light it up. He low-key wants to say no , he ain’t Major Lazer. He doesn’t , he feels like that’s a stretch. So he says yes.
He’s panicking , what if it doesn’t light. He takes the blunt and lighter . It’s kinda conical . One end is bigger than the other. He doesn’t know which end to light, he looks at it nervously, does a quick piky piky ponky, and settles on the larger end. He raises his gaze at her , she’s looking at him. He quickly shifts it, and presses the lighter , then brings it closer to the blunt. The lighter’s flames embrace the blunt with a short dance. The flames give birth to a tiny cloud of smoke. That rises and slowly fades away. He looks at the smoke, he doesn’t know what to do next. She takes the blunt away and lifts it to her mouth, inhales it. Then takes it from her mouth. Holds her breath, then after a moment that seems like a century , she exhales it , on his face . He feels suffocated . He coughs. She laughs . He looks at her, she has a coy grin.
She takes two more puffs and hands it to him. He puts it on his mouth. A bit too eager to please, he draws it in. Takes a long drag. It’s too much . It chokes him. He tries to stop the cough, but he can’t. It comes out , in spurts. His face is red. He’s flushed yet again. And embarrassed in equal measure. She laughs. Your first , she ask. He says yes.