Make a fetish of everything. Imagine you do not know me. Imagine me as someone else; imagine me as more...like yourself, more me. When there will never be enough drink in the world or enough days and afternoons and nights to come of story telling. Yeah, that’s me, the one in the room with no light, one record replaying, Life After Death, You’re Nobody (Till Somebody Kills You) But then again it could be a Ne-Yo song from In My Own Words, Time, in fact… Yeah, I’m shameless. These are no ordinary chronicles. Let me tell you another one.
There was once a girl with breasts like fresh cherries.
No, that’s not right.
There was once a girl.
Yes, that’s almost it.
There was once a boy and a girl.
This is so clichéd!
I want to tell you so much about that girl and that boy because for some months in their lives, their stories were one story. They were one like so few people will ever manage to be even with the help of the entanglements of marriage and blood. It was a few months but it would be an unending story because it was that time of youth longer and longer the older you grow like Paul Kafeero’s Walumbe Zaya?
Let this be said then. There was a girl and there was a boy.
All she ever wanted was love, but when was love so simple? She thought she had it figured out. She had me thinking she had it figured. She certainly conducted all her affairs like she understood her heart as clearly as she understood her mind. I looked to her, I admired her, I was in awe of her, maybe I was even in love with her. But I would never tell her that. Because she did not believe in love. At least she made me believe her when she talked like she did not believe in love. And I believed in her and believed her.
But she believed in love. Like I do and you do. Now that’s the difficult part. How I should have reacted and should react today, when I found out that she had been lying to me along. She believed in love and I was not the one that made her believe in it again. He did not care, the one who made her believe in love again. And I had to watch.
I have done many things in my lifetime. Partied high, partied low, partied alone. All the while, my eye on the main chance. Except when it came to her. Who can I blame? I think I wanted it to be like this, maybe, but I would not acknowledge it to myself.
I knew her perhaps better she will ever know herself. That is no conceit. I’m the partygoer they make movies about. I do all those things you see people who drunk too much, danced too much, talked too much, flirted too much, do when they leave a party. I’m one of those people who never bother with how I’m going to get a place to sleep the next morning’s racking headache through because I know someone will want me to go home with them. In all that yet, it was perhaps only her that I wanted to want me to go home with her.
Maybe that’s why I set her up and I set him up? Maybe that’s why I made it a threesome though they were both not comfortable with each coming back home with me at the same time. Maybe it’s because I had seen, somehow in between the blurring vision of my eyelids, that there could be something between them and I set out to be the spark. The party don’t stop with me once it gets started. I have no doubt that all this was somehow deliberate on my part.
She needed someone with no control. My recklessness was in my very control.