The story of our love is written in wine. The good kind.
We met at Koroga Festival, the first one. My girlfriends had dragged me out of bed. Insisting that the only way to get over a guy was to get drunk and do naughty naughty things with another one. I would rather have spent that cold July morning cooped up in my house; Cuddling a cup of warm chocolate and watching reruns of sex and the city. Instead, there I was at 11 am, gyrating my behind to the sounds of Sauti Sol. Emptying cup after cup of a Sauvignon blanc that must have been pressed from heavenly grapes. Cursing every male being that had ever existed, and of course speaking impotence into the life of the man who broke my heart.
I was too busy dancing to notice when he approached me. I stilled myself. Waiting for him to drop the one line every Nairobi man thinks will work on every woman. “Nikunulie drink?” Instead, he came to me, respectfully, acknowledging me, then he said something about how gorgeous he thought I looked dancing.
“Would I like to join him on stage?” He asked.
I said No.
He thanked me, he understood, then walked away.
I stood there wondering where this breed of respectful men had been hiding while I dated a demon.
I later found him. Hidden behind a pile of girls who seemed to enjoy whatever he was serving. He broke away from them, came over to me. His name was Tumi. He was a guitarist with a band I had never heard off. He loved Rhumba, but could play almost anything if you let him practice. He asked if he could take me out for dinner.
I said No.
He insisted. I told him he could buy me a drink.
We finished a whole bottle of red wine as he told me about his family. They live in Kigali. His sister is a doctor. His older brother paints for a living. Some of his paintings are in a gallery in Paris. Not a big gallery, but a gallery just the same. The gallery is about 17.5 km from where the Monalisa silently holds court. Tumi dreams of playing for a crowd of 20,000 people. Opening for Kanye at the Madison Square garden before ending the show with an acoustic rendition of Runtown’s “Mad over you.”
He dropped me home that night. Cracked open another bottle, a Ribshack Red. Didn’t try any of hanky panky that I expected. He stood up at 10 pm. Kissed me on my cheek. Said his goodbyes, offered to leave but asked to stay. I asked him to stay.
He made breakfast in the morning. He likes his coffee black, with hints of sugar. Prefers his toast so dark that it gave my stomach the shivers just by looking at it. He told me he had a good night. He kissed me on the forehead, said his goodbyes again and asked if he could come back with a bottle of something white in 2 days.
I said yes.
He opened my door, winked, then walked steadily to his car.
As the door closed on his back, it took everything not to shout and tell him I loved him.
My first attempt at Flash Fiction. What do you think?