But pain has made me a martyr. Never mind that most of it was bore off my glaring lack of know-how. Like this one time, one of our Jesus Velocity Church priests convinced me that indeed my precious destiny ‘star’ had been stolen by a close acquaintance. Broke, malnourished, deranged and hopelessly unemployed, I held onto his supposed wisdom as I waited eagerly for my eventual salvation and anticipated good life post star recovery.
During my desperate hour, this priest suggested that I indulge in a one month fast somewhere in Ololou, Turkana County. Ololou is a perfect example of holy grounds. Here you do not have to read the sacred book for insight into what the hell looks like. I firmly believe that this place is a subset of hell. Water and food are rare commodities on these sides. Folks here survive on popcorn. They are used to this kind of life. A sip of cow blood here, a bowl of camel milk there and Onjuri occasionally make for the good days when heaven has smiled at you.
I set camp in this village in the company of my other destiny seekers. In our hearts, we knew that a tomorrow with a penthouse in Lavington, a Maserati and Mastercard gold card depended on this fast. By the second week, however, I had started asking myself a million and one questions. I wondered why I was troubling myself this hard! There is no honour in pain and sorrow. Never has a man ever been awarded for suffering the most.
In my quest to steering my life back on track, I met him, Alejandro. Grand, charming with a shy but contagious smile. When he talked, his voice reverberated with dark, chocolaty undertones. That Prince of Hastings has nothing on him. In fact, by the second day of us talking, I had started figuring the vast expanse of his rich, dark, mahogany skin in a not so gentle manner. I had an A-to-Z list of the bad things I like to do that I desperately wanted to do to him. On several occasions, I caught myself wondering what it would feel like to lay on his African built chest. One look from his brown eyes sent me pooling in the right places. I was smitten.
Ours was not the contemporary friend to lovers kind of relationship. Our sparks outshone us at first sight. Boat king and queen dinners at Tamarind, sunrise cruises, breakfast in bed and constant ‘good morning my love’ texts made the hallmark of our first trimester. We were thriving in love on all grounds. I did not mind our mindless sessions. How would you mind being scandalous in a lacy scarlet red Victoria Secret lingerie when you are deeply in love? When love hits you right, its like magic. All the walls and nun conservation somehow disappear.
As life can have it, great things almost always never last. We started having our catfights from time to time, like any average couple. It began with our movie differences. It then graduated to squeezing toothpaste haphazardly and scaled into meagre communication. We were always quarrelling about something every day. Up until now, I have never admitted that I was knowingly looking for minor quarrel points to start a disagreement. That is just how toxic people are wired. You are conditioned to derive happiness from another’s sorrows. Whether their feelings get hurt or you are taking a toll on their mental health is none of your business. In a nutshell, a toxic person is selfish.
Alejandro stopped being happy. He suddenly looked 60 when he was only a sweet 29. He cut 10 pounds off his weight, leaving him looking sick and malnourished. He stopped caring and would stay away from our home for two weeks. I was weirdly okay with it. At least I got time to hang out with my girls, party hard because you only live once, right? As we hopped from one club to the next, my Alejandro was busy working his time away to down the shame I had brought him. I belittled him each chance I got. I felt entitled. One time I came home from a weekend of partying only to find Alejandro gone. His clothes, his sentimental antiques, his scent, everything was gone. It was as though he was never here at all. He wiped all traces of us and disappeared into thin air. I moved on swiftly and went onto the next guy, a guy I met in a club. Unlike my Alejandro, he was not grand or charming. He was rough around the edges, always reeking of pot and a signature tribal tattoo on his left bicep. He was nothing near gentle. As I write this, I am nursing a broken wrist thanks to his battering.
It is days like this that I sit down and wonder why I drove a good man away with my waywardness. I bite my tongue daily for letting gold slip through my hands just like that. True love happens once in a lifetime. When you find that person who loves you purely and makes you feel butterflies with only a text, you may get the wisdom to reciprocate love is twofold.