There’s something about making mistakes. Mistakes occur all the time. But you see, a mistake made in private isn’t such big of a deal. You’ll submit the wrong answer for a question privately to your teacher and it’ll only be you and he would know that you’re struggling with Data Structures and Algorithm. You’ll cook your beef stew with too much salt and eat it with slices of bread. Alone. And a glass of water. You’ll sing a wrong line from lyrics of your favorite Sauti Sol song alone and not even think about it. But if your family were to eat that meal, you’d automatically become the worst cook in the family; worse than your small sister who bakes amazing matope cakes in the sun. If you were to make the Sauti Sol disaster next to your girlfriend and her best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend on a road trip, you’d wish the Toyota Vitz gets written off by the oncoming lorry. And if you were to get back together with your ex – even after your best friend warned you against doing that but you decided to ignore him – then she leaves you again, using the same words, your best friend verifies you as an authentic cow.
Of course, if I were to unmute my mic on google meet and give a devastatingly wrong answer on a recorded class, that shame doesn’t go away easily. But it does. Eventually. I hope. But recurrent heartbreaks don’t go away. They are not easily forgotten. They are actually vividly remembered, mostly word for word. Sometimes, the heartbreaker is strong enough to look into your eyes and watch your eyes tear up as they crush your soul. With words. But sometimes, heartbreakers know the damages they’re just about to cause so instead, they send a long, emoji filled goodbye message on WhatsApp. And those chats get exported to google drive where they are backed up by the heartbroken. For reference during sad nigga hours.
So let me tell you a story, that’s why you’re here anyway.
I’m stubborn. And I know it. And you all know it. And honestly, it matters peanuts. So after being told that I’m a hopeless romantic and that I love too much and I’m the Mushy Mushy one and that I care too much – after being told what sounded like a compliment, followed the devastating “We therefore have to part ways”.
And that isn’t something you’d wish upon your worst enemy and twitter haters. It was devastating because people are breaking up due to infidelity and toxicity and violence and abuse and money (for y’all gold diggers) and yet, your only mistake was being perfect. Was being available. Was being compassionate. And being faithful. Then that becomes a bad thing.
And a lot of time and energy and cents had been invested in what promised to be the best choice of my life and I could not let that go. No. You couldn’t either.
And being the master of bargaining and negotiation that I am, against sound advice of my love expert best friend Kip, I squeezed in another five month term in office, Museveni style. And we were in love and shit. Or so, I thought.
It happened that the second termination message was face to face. And thank God for Kip who follows me everywhere. He was ready to laugh his lungs out. He did.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, now I’m looking like a fool.
It’s one thing to lose the love of your life to another man who is stronger, taller, funnier, smarter and apparently richer than you. Here, both of you agree that the Alpha male has been established and the Beta male has no other options but to challenge the Alpha to a duel and regain status, or leave and seek another Troop to dominate. Here, the heartbroken only has his ego slightly bruised. Sometimes, he might use this shame and hurt to fuel his passion of getting better. And sometimes not. Most of the times not. It’s another thing when the love of your life moves to a weaker, poorer, dumber man. But with wanawake wa siku hizi, this is not highly likely. Only if his Omujembez is literally an OMUJEMBE. There is no other reason for such a transition. Sue me.
But what breaks a man is neither of those two.
The biggest blow is a move by your Hunny Bunny to a woman just like herself. She does not just move on to a woman, but she vacates out of her favorite black, white and pink colors and dons on colours of the Pride. And she fights for her orientation more fiercely than she ever did your relationship. And she moves out of her mother’s house because mom is traditional – the same house she insisted she had to be brought back to before the clock struck 6 pm. And she drops out of her mainline PCEA church because she’s being judged by man and not God. The same Church she wouldn’t miss to attend your Awarding of the Best Blogger Awards and would send you cheesy “Congratulations babe ❤” texts and even post you on her status to show how much you mean to her. She leaves you for Girl Power! Self-identity! Freedom of Expression! Pride rules! Men are Trash! Dogs! Rats! And the latest, men ain’t shit!
Just then, then, there at that moment, does the heart of a man stop pumping blood and starts to spew hate and toxicity.
Right after your woman, who always said “You make me feel things nobody has ever made me feel before” decides to cross the boundaries of nature and then, sundown sunrise – she is no longer attracted to men. At all. Right after then, does a man log onto his Instagram and make reels starting off with “Good Morning Motherfuckers!”
Because, feeling strongly attracted to another gender doesn’t happen overnight. No. It takes a long time, a specific environment and conditions.
But what happened to me was not over a long time. No. It was sudden transition. It was a Bahati-style Lala Amka, Lala Amka, Sitaki Umuzigidi. Was I that bad? Does every girl want a bad boy? Is being kind and caring old-fashioned? Ama mi ni mshamba na sielewi maneno. But all of a sudden hata kama? Kinda makes me think this seemingly progressive change is less of bisexual. More peer pressurnal. More deliberate. More intentional. More like bi-tentional.