I love someone who doesn’t love me back, everything indicates so, or so I think. It’s been four months of silence from a petty fight that saw me walk out. I know I am not going to make him turn around emotionally. My head says otherwise but my heart is stuck with him. I have tried everything to let go. I have told myself I’m done over and over again. It hasn’t worked yet.
At some point a male friend told me to fight for the relationship if I can’t get him out of my mind but then, I feel and think if he felt the same, he would have made an effort. Maybe if someone worth my emotions will happen someday I will let go and forget. Because of my past experiences I decided to try to be vulnerable and that’s when we met. Meanwhile, a day at a time.
After I wrote Confession, two or three of you have written to me with a burning story they want to share and it got me thinking of introducing a new segment. Not one that gives advice, no; one that holds up a mirror to us and shows us our flaws or gives us the comfort of knowing we are not alone. I pitched the idea to my Instagram readers—see how I plugged in Instagram? Psst, it’s the quickest way to get a hold of me. I pitched the idea and I got this bohemian suggestion to call the segment ‘Sip and Spill.’
I took a walk because that’s how I do my best thinking. I toyed with the idea, tasted it in my mouth, lifted it up against the sun to see whether it was wheat or chaff and as I put one foot in front of the other it started unravelling like some candid vision. I would have started speaking in tongues too like some Akorino were it not for this dramatically beautiful girl in a mustard sweater, blue ripped jeans which I strongly believe her thick thighs tore, and silver flats, on the other side of the road. If you come across this, hi.
Yeah, we will meet over a coffee. A higher power was telling me. But you can have tea, dawa or juice. You’ll be spoilt for choice, eh? We will meet during morning hours, 10:00 am. You won’t be late and say something annoying like, “Traffic was crazy, ” because tardiness puts both of us in a mood and we see it for what it is. Hubris.
The higher power took a break to file its nails before proceeding. We will meet in a quiet restaurant, it was showing me. This was before I noticed the mustard sweater girl. A restaurant with a nice ambience where the waitresses do not stand next to you the whole time because there is no space, and three other strangers are seated with you at the same table, staring at you as you eat your food which you’ve flooded with salt and diluted ketchup to mask the taste.
‘Sir, are you enjoying your meal?’
‘Tell the chef and management they have outdone themselves,’ you say after a laconic nod.
See, the higher power is looking out for you and you won’t help but be a good sport. You might show up in a suit because you have to dash to the office after. Or in shorts because you’re a creative in a hip ad agency with buckets for chandeliers and a drink up every Friday. You might show up wearing gym regalia, in which case I will release you early because I can’t allow you to miss leg day, or you might show up in a mustard sweater, blue ripped jeans and silver flats in which case I will stammer a hi.
I will show up in my one good shirt and a smile will cut across my face as if saying, ‘This is going to be warm even if it’s snowing outside. This will feel like offloading to a dear friend.’
We will make small talk. The higher power was now sketching on some kind of invisible storyboard. I know the peeps in shorts working for a hip ad agency just flashed a smile. I might say something like, ‘That tie looks really good on you,’ to break the ice and you will smile because we are all suckers for a compliment and say, “Oh, this? My girlfriend got it for me on my birthday. I got her a rice cooker, by the way.” We will both let out a knowing laugh because, ‘Women, can’t live with them, can’t live without them.’
Because you’re a trendy middle class who shops at LC Waikiki and has a Loop account, you will order a dawa. I will order house coffee or lemon tea while you ask about my writing journey. I might tell you about that one time I ate a warm mixture of water and maize flour because I had no gas money. And you might laugh and say, “You’re so funny, how do you come up with this stuff?” And I will wear a poker face and calmly say, “Experience.” Haha
I got distracted for a full five minutes by you know who and the higher power nudged me back to the vision. You will tell me a little bit about yourself. You might tell me about your family, your work, what makes your heart beat and then I will press play on my phone recorder and we will get to the nuts and bolts of it.
You will offload what’s weighing heavy on your heart, it might be a soft story or one that screams but they will both touch us in different ways and somewhere someone will learn a thing or two from your experience or know that they are not alone and that will help dilute their misery and strengthen their resolve. The waiter might come to ask if we are okay and sometimes we won’t be because the story might be heavy. But we will know that we will be fine because two people can share the weight better than one person can.
After, we will shake hands and bump shoulders for the trousers from Mars and I will let you run to the office. For the dresses in Venus, we will hug and I will release you for that meeting or manicure unless you are in a mustard sweater, ripped jeans and silver flats in which case I will stammer a hi.
If you’re thinking, ‘That’s me. I have a story that has been weighing on me that I would love to offload and I could damn well use a drink,’ email me a short summary on, firstname.lastname@example.org or shoot me a message on my Instagram. I plan to run the segment here once every month. Sip and Spill is a working title, feel free to share a diverging idea. In the meantime, I’m taking a walk to see if the higher power has something else for me.
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