I'd rather have men slide into my inbox than being 'okapied'
A friend on social media recently asked, "What is the most stupid thing you ever did to get the attention of someone you liked?" and "Did it work?"
Great memories of my youth and sexual discoveries flushed in. One particularly sticks out to this day, especially because the object of my desire remains a close friend and always laughs at our past misadventures.
There I was, a young beautiful thing, shopping up a storm in the company of my favourite cousin.
Cupid must have been working overtime that one afternoon.
We suddenly felt a breeze of expensive freshness hit us from the left. It was a man. He walked past us, with no haste and seemingly with no particular destination.
That man was probably just planted there by the devil, to ruin my life. And what did I do? I followed him around until he got to the parking lot and had nowhere to turn because he was not even parked there anyway. He did not have a car.
So he turned around and asked why we were following him. And I, defying all my mother's teachings and possibly dragging my father's name in the mud by any Zulu moral standard, responded by telling him that he is handsome!
Did it work? Of course it worked. I scored my pretty self a date for three consecutive days. It felt like a never-ending fairytale. It did not last long, but we were so busy with outings and public displays of affection that it felt like forever.
I considered myself the luckiest girl in the world. Think about it. I fell in love at first sight. And the beau was single.
But he was only single on weekends. Yep, he was only single on days he spent with me. On every other day, he was a father of two, or three.
I think there were four kids behind the scene and two of them were the spawn of the first woman to ever promise to stab me.
I would not ordinarily be worried about threats of being stabbed. I have had my fair share of threats of violence from owners of men I find attractive. Just that in this instance, there was something about the descriptive nature of this woman's threat.
She whispered to me that she has an okapi. Of course I was not immediately moved. But then, she wore a dress that did not have pockets. And her hands kept running along the cleft of her bosom. See, all normal adults are taller than me.
So I would have had to jump in order to confirm whether there were any metallic weapons trapped in her cleavage.
Then there was the manner in which she describes the precise position on my backside she would poke deep. Apparently, her precision would be to make sure that I do not die, but also that her man sees her brutal craft should he ever attempt to pull down my undies again. I believed her.
The one brave move I ever made for love was aborted by a brut with heavy arms and two kids. I stopped following strange men.
Now, I just wait for men to slide into my inbox.
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