You are tall and handsome and tall. The frame of your body seems to be cutting through the rows and rows of plantations. Your hair dancing wildly in the wind. You are not wearing your usual hat, the one you wear when you don’t want the rest of the world to see you as clearly as I do. You are leading the way as males do in those Bollywood movies. I am running after you, following your lead.
There, there goes the smile as you turn back to reach for my hand. Luckily, we are not playing the corny hide and seek they are directed to act. Maybe we could if there were trees in the vicinity. Or if I was wearing a red sari to swoosh in your face then run away.
The flowers seem to be blooming as we rush past them. The scene as colourful as in the films meant to inspire restoration of the one true love in us. Love is playful, love is lively.
You look at me in the way the close ups of these scenes appear. Intensely. The surrounding views do not deter your vision from focus. Me. Am I blushing?
We are kissing in the rain. Our teeth chattering in the cold because we have stood under the pouring clouds for too long. We are drenched but enjoying the taste of saliva and rain mixing in our mouthily exchange. Where we stand, a puddle has formed around us. We do not mind any of it. This kissing, is all that matters in the world.
You are dominating my nights when each day ends. I am not beside you. Neither is the clear weight of the body that would pin me under, with me.
You appear in my dreams.
Sometimes, you have your shirt off during these subconscious meetups. We are never completely naked. I know it is me experiencing all these movie scenes with you although I never see my face. All I see is you, unless you are looking at me. Would I be able to stomach your being with another, even when it is not real?
In these dreams, we never wake up covered in white sheets.
In these dreams, we never go beyond the engagement of lips.
Right, too many movies.
What do men want?
I will tell you what men want.
They want you.
They want your right leg to be located in the east,
Men want your left leg to face the west,
All the toes pointed straight, a ballerina!
Make their entry into your depths as seamless as possible.
You like that?
Men want; men other than you.
Do you remember the first time we met?
It was a perfect afternoon with the sun in the background of a park. As much green as can be afforded by those commissioned to maintain the parks while pocketing the funds meant to plant grass and trees. Do you remember?
When I left my house that Saturday morning, I didn’t expect to meet and greet a stranger. You.
Parts of you were just like mine. Descriptions of what we do, what we would like to do. Reversed roles of speaking and listening between us. Existence of myself and you at the expense of everyone else. The courtesy of involving the third-party so that they don’t feel left out.
The most comfortable silences in existence when nothing came to say. Being. Enough butterflies to signify liking but not a swarm to scare me off.
You wrapped your hand over mine through the rush of the streets of Nairobi. We talked about things here and there, with the knowledge of our preference for silence and choosing the option without the presence of awkwardness. For it is the place we could experience peace as intended.
When the evening darkened to night, you let my arms go around you. You held me. When both of us had enough, you said, “I am looking forward to spending time with you another time.” I smiled in response. You crossed the road, I entered a building.
In this era of smartphones, we did not exchange numbers or social media handles. The names we introduced ourselves with, ones we use representative of our art. We were content with the one and only experience we had.
We knew that was it.
I am yet to see you in the flesh, the best contact you are making is my dreams.
I hope I star in yours too.