I swear I don’t miss her. I don’t. I don’t think about her. Her memories have but peeled off the walls of my mind. I haven’t thought about her in the longest time. I don’t wonder what happened to her (well not until I sat down to write this piece, thank you very much, Gang!) Nothing reminds me of her, nothing, not with the possible exception of blue Volkswagen Beetles. But how often do you see blue Volkswagen Beetles in Nairobi? Not when it’s raining Mistsubishi’s and Toyotas. But I’m terribly fascinated by how she left, how she severed herself from my life without a single thought. The brevity. The chutzpah. The cold heartedness. I’m totally enthralled by the finality of her disassociation. One evening she was there and the next she was gone, leaving not a single trace of her behind. Not a footprint. Not a note. Not a word. Not even a scent. She left me with nothing. A clean break. Poof! Gone with the wind.
Her name was Taffy.
That’s her real name by the way. I’m not trying to protect her identity because she has become a ghost in my life and ghosts don’t read blogs. Anyway, when your mommy decides to call you Taffy you got to be a piece of work. You got to be able to make men feed off your palms. A femme fatale. And Taffy was the poster child for all things fetching. She was tall, she had playful eyes, she was chocolate and she was sweet. Back then – in the late 80’s and early 90’s – the sweetest thing was this candy called Toffi, but that’s before you had cast your eyes on Taffy.
They lived in a corner house, six houses from ours. They were the wealthier than the neighborhood. Her mother drove a Mercedes. She and her brother –Junior – went to an expensive school. Her mom was hot (that apple and tree thing) and just about the only mother who constantly wore tight jeans in the neighborhood. I suspect that other mothers prayed for her during their prayer meetings. Taffy was older than me by a good two years, that seems like 10yrs when you are only 13yrs old. Older guys came all the way from other estates to pay homage to her, to see the beauty from across the hill. I could tell she was going to be a complete knock out in her 20’s because even in her mid-teens she had a bright future behind her (if you know what I mean?). I was over my depth but I was crazy about her. I mean totally cuckoo about her.
I was easing into teenage, escorted by the idealism that defined that time; music. New-age jam to be precise. Mint Condition. Color me Bad, New Edition. Brandy. Raphael Sadique. Shai. And somehow music brought us together with Taffy. She loved Salt N Pepa and to prove it she always wore checked shirts and tied the front in a small knot. And if you looked closely you could see her navel through the knot and you can’t image how many days that sight would take me. It flamed my dreams.
She knew I liked her and she used me to get her “dubbed” tapes. But I know she didn’t feel shit for me; I wrote her letters on expensive stationary but she only replied a few of those. But I didn’t care that she wasn’t mad about me, I was only too happy to go over to their house during holidays and breathe the same air she did.
Then one day without warning she took away my virginity. Yes. It happened at their backyard in one of her dad’s un-used blue Volkswagen Beetles. It was a KDF something 7 something, I think. The whole ordeal lasted 2 minutes but I think I lasted a little over 30secs. The rest was spent by me fumbling with her knickers like an idiot, me trying to find room for my long legs, me wondering where her long legs would go and most embarrassingly me asking –over the noise of my thudding heart – the dumbest question of all time; “Are you sure you want to do this?” Damned Volkswagen Beetle crumbed my style (literally and figuratively hehehe)
We became a bit closer after that. But we never had any more happy endings after that, I think partly because I didn’t know how to ask but I suspect because she didn’t offer again. She replied to my letters more though. And we kissed a few times. And when she was feeling philanthropic she allowed me to feel her bum. Those days were as rare as Christmas though.
One morning I pressed their gate buzzer. Pressed the damned sucker so many times and nobody answered. Their neighbor later came out and told me they had moved out the previous night (when growing up people moved out at night, it was fashionable) I was like hell no, the previous evening I chatted her briefly outside their gate and she didn’t mention anything about moving out. But turned out they had moved out. I was horrified! It was mysterious and hurtful. My mom later told me that her father had taken a second wife and her mother had decided to pack it in and leave him. So she took her and Junior away to a place nobody knew.
That was 18years ago. I have never met her since. I have never heard of her. It’s like she never existed, a phantom who initiated me into “adulthood.” She should be 35yrs old now. Maybe she is in the states (she always was fascinated by Uncle Sam), maybe she moved to Abuja where she runs a curio shop. Maybe she is a teacher in Jakarta. Maybe she is a community health worker in Laos living on rice and good intentions. Maybe she is married with three kids who are not privy of their mother’s colorful history with Volkswagens. Maybe she lives 20mins away from my house. If she is in Nairobi I’m certain that, unbeknownst to us, we have shared a pub. I don’t know if I would recognize her if I met her. I don’t know if I would want to. But if I’m ever to meet her I will ask her one question; “Why the hell didn’t you say goodbye, Taffy?”
When you come here next week, don’t press the buzzer. I won’t be here. I will have moved, but I will have left a forwarding address, a link. Unlike Taffy, I won’t make you come here only to bounce. I’m saying goodbye…or rather, “see you on the other side.” This is my last post here on WordPress, I’m moving. This blog is growing up; it’s going to high school. I could decide to turn this into an emotional charade and go on how WordPress and I have forged a lifelong bond, but I won’t. No speeches. No tears. No nostalgia. Have a drink.
But first, figures.
Recently, at a media function, I shared a table with some blogger who I shared with some very pretentious conversation. She said she didn’t care about stats. She said didn’t care if two people read her blog. She said she did it for the art. That the satisfaction of writing itself was enough for her. I totally understand that bit for doing it for oneself. She then asked me if I felt the same way and I said I used to but the mechanics changed when I realized that at some point the blog gets a life of its own. I got greedy, I told her. I told her I wanted to build a huge community of readers, and the stats are the only way of knowing if I was on the right track or if I was wasting my time. She shook her head sadly. I almost felt like a turncoat, almost, but thankfully my wine saved me from that path.
My first post here was on 28th February 2010. That post was read by 25 people. 21 commented. I didn’t know where the blog was headed. I didn’t have a plan. All I wanted was to write. Stats didn’t mean much. I didn’t push it on Facebook as much as I wanted. I figured if it was any good people would pick it up and bookmark it.
To date I have done only some 85 posts, some odd 170,000 words. Only a paltry 2% of the people who come here comment, the rest are ghost readers…picture many eyes peering back from darkness. The rest stealth into the house every week, open the fridge, bite something and leave without leaving much of a trace of their visit. The 2% kick in the door in, open drawers, knock down the trash bin, make an omelet and leave the dirty dishes in the sink. Sometimes they even leave me a note saying, “Why do you insist on buying that milk, Biko? It tastes like crap!”
The 85 posts have attracted some 6,500 comments. I have probably spiked some 500 or so comments over time. They were comments that were either ethnically divisive, abusive, plain foolish, overtly flirtatious or sexual. But generally people who show up here are well mannered…even though they use coasters.
I have always typed all my posts on Word document first before copy pasting here. Until last month I typed using Georgia font, size 12. I find this font very timid. I love a timid font which I can intimidate, I have control issues. But I got bored of Georgia’s submissiveness, now I use Book Antiqua because it’s a delicate font (especially on size 11) It’s a font that seems to bruise easy. You know, like you can easily hurt its feelings?
There were countless themes to choose from; I picked on this one because it’s clean. I like all things clean and fresh. I’m not into frills and things. This theme here breathes with its white open spaces. But I also loved the image. It’s broody and mysterious; the ghostly branches that reach out like a witch’s willow fingers. The misty tableau expunged of life. The still ominous river and bridge that steps over it. What’s missing is a sad woman wearing a long flowing dress standing at the bridge staring down at her reflection in the water, searching for answers and trying not to cry.
Having done away with that dull stuff, allow me to kiss your ass for a minute.
Truth is, what I bring here is only a measly 30%, this blog would be nothing without you. You guys, the Gang brings in the much appreciated 70%. I could choose to delude myself that I’m a well-oiled machine and that I can buoy this ship up alone. I can’t. But you do, every week. You come here and you read and you say something sensible. Sometimes, when you are inspired you share with your friends. Some of you even plagiarize my whole post and pass it off as your own on Facebook, a most cheap and invertebrate behavior, but one that somehow is flattering in a way. I won’t sue you, life will.
You come here every Monday not because you owe me something but because you want to give me a chance. And what’s life without chances anyway? Even though you can be mean and vindictive – as perhaps I rightfully deserve- you still have the heart to make a call here.
In March I walked into some building for a meeting, a most random of places and after the meeting one of the ladies asked me, “Are you bikozulu?” I said yes and she said she started reading when I wrote about the lady who found out her mother was not her real mother (“Abandoned” I think) She said the comments on that blog post “healed” her. She proceeded to thank me like I had donated my kidney and you should have seen me standing there undeservedly taking all your credit. So there, Gang, you guys “healed” a woman. Your good deed for this quarter.
I thought of doing a tribute to some of the familiar guys who come here regularly and comment but they are too many and if I left out a few, I certain some will sulk(*coughBencough*) But thank you for stopping by. Thank you for reading and for taking time to comment whenever you can. Thank you for picking out my typos and for correcting my grammar. Thank you for subscribing and for bookmarking. Thank you, ever so much, for sharing with your pals. Thank you for your erect sense of humor. But most importantly, thank you for being here every week.
It’s been 1 year 4months of doing this. Nobody broke a limb. We all had a decent inning. I would be honored if you joined me again on the other side. Shall we?