Tinder Date

You find yourself on Tinder. You don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but it’s not something familiar. You want something different, a blank canvas, on which you can paint anything. So you set up an account with a picture of a smiling face, another one with you petting a dog, and a last one with a guitar, and within no time the matches start coming in. Forget money and power, a smile, a dog, and a guitar are all you need in this market.

From the matches you get, a girl who goes by Kendi piques your interest. Kendi is 25, looking for new friends. She drinks socially, on weekends, she’s a non-smoker, and she’s into thriller films, crime shows, and literature. On top of that, she’s petite with beauty that you can only find from the mountain. Usiguze mrima. How? When this is a match made in heaven.

You plan for a movie date on a Friday evening, the same day Harambee Stars is playing Madagascar.

Friday evening gets here, and Kendi texts you, asking if you are still on for the date? You tell her you are. You will bag her just like Harambee Stars will bag that semi-final position, you think as you prepare to get into the shower. You’re stopped in your tracks by Alphonse opening the scoring in the 48^th minute, keeping Kenyans’ hopes alive and giving your dating life a pulse. Shortly after, Ogam puts another one in, just like you might do later in the evening, but it’s disqualified. No worries, there is more of where that came from.

7:00 pm

At 7:00 pm, Kendi calls you, telling you she’s running late. You tell her it’s okay, she can tell you when she gets to the mall since it’s about 10 minutes from your place. You’re done with your shower, and as you apply lotion on your body—because this is not the night ya kuparara kama dancers wa Willy Paul—Fenohasina from Madagascar equalizes on the 69^th minute, through a penalty, but you’re still upbeat. Come on, this is Harambee Stars. 2.5 million shillings is on the line, plus what kind of name is Fenohasina? Sounds like medicine that tastes horrible. Water off a duck’s back, or is it lotion?

The game is at a stalemate for 90 minutes, and extra time begins. You’re dressed in a black t-shirt, chinos, white sneakers, and a black and white hoodie. Kendi is calling, telling you she has arrived at the mall. You apply roll-on on your armpits, jump on a boda-boda, and you are there faster than you can say Fenohasina.

You meet outside Mr. Price, and you like what you see. She’s petite and pretty, just like her photos, and in a pink off-shoulder romper and flip flops, not like her photos. Her skin color is dark brown, and she is around 5’1, holding a tiny black bag that can barely fit a phone. “Hi. How are you? I hope you haven’t been waiting for long?” You say to break the ice, as it breaks, you move in for a hug. She has a loud perfume; loud perfumes usually put you off, but you like this one. It smells sweet and fruity, like it has berries and candy. See what I did there, Candy, Kendi, no? You would love to stay embraced like this all day, but the movie beckons. As you walk towards Cinemax, she slips her hand around your arm, and you know that she approves of you, too.

You walk together slowly, her flip flops clapping the mall tiles, and your smile almost breaking your face. You ask her how she finds Tinder as you pass Text Book Centre. She says it’s okay. She tells you about a Nigerian man who bought her books on their first date. You hate that he beat you to it, but you like that she is a reader.

You get to the movies, and because you’re a gentleman who doesn’t want his sweet, delicate companion to get fatigued by all the standing, you ask her to take a seat as you take care of business. What business, you might be wondering? The business of selecting a movie, then choosing where to sit, is no joke. You want to select a movie that you will both enjoy and get a corner seat, far from the crowd, just in case…just in case what? You’ll find out later.

You pay for popcorn, soda, and Weapons. Not guns or machetes, a horror film called Weapons. Earlier, you had asked Kendi how she feels about horror films, and she had said she doesn’t mind them. You told her you find horror films comical, and she had agreed enthusiastically.

You now have the tickets, the popcorn, and the sodas in hand, and she comes over to assist you. It’s a small gesture, but it goes a long way. You know some people who would be buried in their phones and would only come up for air if a nuclear bomb were detonated in the mall.

The movie started at 7:45 pm, it’s 8:00 pm, and people are already settled in their seats. Finding movie chairs when the lights are on is often hard for you; finding them when they are off and all you see are silhouettes feels like navigating a maze, but not for Kendi. You’re in seat C-something and she’s whispering the letters, “A, B, C…,” and leading the way to the seats, the only problem is she ends up sitting on the corner seat you wanted to sit on. You tell her the corner seat is usually yours, and she just giggles. You imagine making a fuss until you get what you want, but what will that do, ruin the night? You’re not interested in that, so you let it slide and settle in for the movie.

You like that she understands that you’re not there to necessarily watch the movie. The movie is just a background filler for both of you to get to know each other. You make fun of her romper in a whisper. You say it’s too official for a Friday, she whispers back and tells you the alternative was black leather pants and heels, you imagine her wearing them, and Halle Berry in Catwoman swims in your mind. She has a tattoo of a feather on her chest. You ask her what it’s about, and she says she’s a free spirit. You talk about your birthdays; she’s a Cancer, and you’re a Gemini.

There is a scary part in the movie, and she jerks towards you, frightened. Not scared of scary movies, huh? You take that as your cue to put your arm around her, she settles her head on your chest, and places her bag of popcorn on your knee, you place yours on the empty chair opposite you and share hers—from time to time, you feed each other the popcorn. You just scored big and you wonder how Harambee Stars is faring?

While you were not focused on the movie before, you are barely following it now, and you’re asking her a bunch of questions as if she is not equally distracted. “Who is that woman…What about that man….isn’t that the same neighborhood?” You sound like a clueless girlfriend watching football with her boyfriend. Kendi answers the questions swiftly because she’s a Cancer, and Cancers are intuitive, unlike Geminis, who are all over the place.

The movie is about a witch who has a spell on everyone in the neighborhood. She has this stick with thorns that she pricks her finger with, then snaps it in half, and everyone is under her spell. Speaking of which, you have popcorn on the tips of your lips and you’re asking Kendi to take it, she does, and you share an intimate kiss as it leaves your mouth…see why choosing the right movie seat is important?

Her lips are soft and sweet, just like her name and perfume, and you’re under their spell. You can’t get enough of them, and your hands become obsolete like DVDs, because you’re now feeding each other the popcorn with your mouths. After some time, she says someone will see y’all, and you stop. The last thing you want is a TikTok making rounds and your mom forwarding it to you and asking where your hands were, and you telling her they were tied, and her asking by whom because she doesn’t understand the idiom.

You’re refilling her bag of popcorn with your popcorn, and you’re back to vaguely watching the movie. There are kids chasing the witch through houses, and they don’t have a sense of direction because instead of using the doors, they are crashing through the windows and through the glass, and within no time, the screen cuts to black and the credits start rolling. “That was quick,” you say, and Kendi agrees. A 2-hour 8-minute movie felt like 30 minutes.

10:00 pm

It’s 10:00 pm, and you’re walking towards the courtyard. You’re telling her she’s a good kisser, and she is saying thank you and complimenting your kissing, too. You love kissing, and it’s not often you come across a good kisser. Most people are all teeth, or all tongue, too aggressive, or not aggressive enough. It’s a breath of fresh air to find someone who knows how to swim in the motions of a kiss, enough to be able to pass the popcorn.

You get to the courtyard and sit on one of the benches to finish your soda and popcorn. You’re using your hands this time, and angels in heaven are breathing a sigh of relief. Kendi is wearing your black and white hoodie. You usually have reservations about giving women your source of warmth, but you don’t mind with her. Your teeth would be chattering from the cold by now, but you are surprisingly warm in your t-shirt, chinos, and sneakers.

You are talking about red flags, and she tells you she has broken a man’s house window before. She says she’s a jealous woman, and she doesn’t want third parties in her relationship. You say people need to communicate what they want more often; you would be surprised what can be accommodated. She nods her head and, after a moment of silence, says somberly that relationships in Nairobi don’t last.

By now she is hungry and the popcorn is tasteless. I suppose you will never know if it was tasty to begin with, or if it was just your lips giving it flavor. You throw what remains of it in the bin and head to KFC for a quick bite, while holding onto your sodas.

“Ngwate njara,” Kendi chirps.

“Ngwate njara,” she repeats herself.

Turns out, it means hold my hand in Meru. You hold each other’s hands like the loveliest couple in town as you climb the stairs to KFC. When you get there, she wants to wait with you at the cashier’s desk, but after realizing how long the wait is, she changes her mind and goes to look for a seat. You find her in her seat surrounded by revellers, and sit next to her. She asks you about your work, and you tell her. You can’t quite put a finger on hers, and you don’t ask, but you can deduce how she makes a living by how often she talks about the dating sites she’s on.

The food is ready. You pick it up, and change seats to a window seat with no revellers. Kendi is sitting on your left side, and she is saying you have moved because you don’t like people. You say that is not the case, you just enjoy quiet and uncrowded spaces. While you eat your sticky chicken and fries, she gets really honest with you. She tells you she was on a site called Seeking Arrangements, where she bagged a heavy hitter who was involved in all sorts of businesses. “It’s not the same anymore, and such arrangements never last for more than three months,” she says somberly. “I am even considering becoming a scammer,” she adds. “Don’t judge me,” she says after seeing the look on your face.

You don’t judge her; you are in awe of her honesty and, at the same time, wondering what such a sweet-looking girl must have been through to live the life she does.

You have finished your meal, and she has barely touched hers. She closes her box of KFC and says she will eat it later. You want to kiss her again because you are so wildly physically attracted to her. You start kissing, but she pulls away after a few seconds and says there will be plenty of time for that. You feel sad because you know there won’t be, because your values are so wildly apart.

You had planned to ask her whether she would like to come back to your place after the movie, but you have put a pin on it. She goes to wash her hands, comes back, and sits on your right side, facing you with her feet on your seat and her flip flops on the floor. She is saying she should have done her toenails a little better, as she calls herself an Uber, you’re barely hearing a word she’s saying because you’re gazing, almost drooling, at the tableau of femininity in front of you.

Her Uber gets here, she slips into her flip flops, you wash your hands, she gives you your hoodie back, and you hold hands with your fingers intertwined. As you walk her to the car, you talk about green flags. She’s saying she’s caring, empathetic, and loyal. You can see that. She’s also fun, bubbly, and, like you, she loves life for the sake of it, and you find that endearing.

You get to the Uber, you hug her and drown in her sweet fruity scent one last time before she gets into the car and disappears into the night. You call your own Uber and begin scrolling through your phone. Madagascar has beaten Harambee Stars through penalty shootouts; you both haven’t bagged anything tonight; you think how events can sometimes be so in sync as you arrive at your house and delete Tinder.

“I got home. Thank you for today,” Kendi texts.

“Karibu! Glad you did,” you text back.

The following day, she calls you in the evening, asks you if you know how someone can receive money from abroad. Here comes the scam, you think, but it’s nothing like that; she genuinely wants to know how. You give her the options you use, and you tell her to be careful of swindlers. The Netflix documentary The Tinder Swindler swims in your mind for some reason after you say that.

After hanging up, you’re torn because your values are different, but you like her, not just physically but as a person. You open her number and hover your finger over the delete button, but before you press it, you take a pause—you did say you wanted something different. You don’t have to have sex or be in a relationship with her, but what harm would it do to share a table with her from time to time, and she might benefit from your perspective and you from hers, you wonder?

*

To read more of my writing, pick up my books at Text Book Centre and Nuria Bookstore. Adieu!