A quiet man is a thinking man. A quiet woman is a mad woman with scheming thoughts.

Saturday nights were slow, not what I anticipated. On such days I would spend hours catching up on my favourite telenovelas or some Hollywood series every Jane Linda and Mary has been rattling about. Other days were harder, especially when my social disease kicked in, I knew I had to go out because if I stayed in, I’d probably have to start spreading rumours to my countable cups and spoons lying lazily in my dirty sink. I’d probably rattle all the evil I’ve encountered and heard about during the week, you know, the kind of stuff that gets you invited into a party.
As I sat across a corner table in the neighbourhood bar, I was there for one reason and one reason only, play private detective. My friends claim am a guru when it comes to reading people, others say I just love to play shrink, and I say it is what it is; a girl got to learn how to be everything and everyone when necessary. Earlier that day when Sarah called saying she needed my help with something, I knew that was my ticket out of the house. I saved myself the embarrassment of mocking my integrity yet again in front of my cups. So here I was, silently sipping on apple juice in a champagne glass, (for the sake of not bruising my ego) waiting for what many called showtime.
I glanced at the message on my phone from Sarah explaining she will be thirty minutes late and realized I was going to be bored by then. I took turns staring at the different people around me. On one end was a lady giggling after every one or two minutes to jokes I presumed not even a small baby would find interesting. Then there was the baraza of wazee discussing all sorts of things from business to football to the women in the lives and occasionally shouting and ordering the bartender to refill their bottles of beers, probably for the sixth time now.
At the entrance was a man in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, looking around as though searching for someone. He had on the famous pair of shoes Maasai men wore while crossing through desserts of lands in search of water and greener pastures(okala). He then headed straight in my direction and occupied the table just before mine. He sat in a manner that from where he was, he would see me. It wasn’t long before he started making small talks about how pretty I look and how he would love to take me out sometime. He may not have known who I was, but I knew exactly who he was, he was the reason I was seated there that evening. And as far as the interview is concerned, he was already failing.
I convinced myself that it’s only fair for me not to get ahead of myself and be all judge Judy but give him a fair trial. So, I turned to my earphones and began live-streaming the next episode of why women kill, the season finale. How I love the thrill that comes with a good story. The clear set of emotions displayed and the clever minds employed behind every plot of revenge. I was proud of the woman I was watching in the last episode.
A text popped up on my phone ‘hey am here, it’s time’
I turn my attention to Sarah and the man in mysterious shoes ahead of me. Turns out I was just in time for the juicy bit.
“How can you be so cruel, after everything I have sacrificed just for us to be together?”
Oops! I forgot to fill you in. (silly me)
About a year and a half ago, Sarah was torn in between two men, the mysterious man and her then-boyfriend Ken. She wasn’t sure who was right for her. She claimed they both loved her and were both caring. When Ken organized a big surprise birthday party for Sarah and proposed to her, well, she said no. According to her, she preferred the latter. She explained how she is happy and comfortable around him, how he makes her whole and was certain that was where her heart belonged. We all know that a woman’s heart has different instructions written through her smile, her eyes, her actions, her tears and all she needs is to find someone who cares enough to read them and by the look of things, Sarah had found hers.
If you were to ask me, I liked Ken, everybody did, he was a gentleman. I mean who wouldn’t want a man like Ken. If given a chance I’d date Ken. (Just saying)
So here we are 18 months later and paradise is crumbling down faster than you can say Abracadabra. Sarah is two months pregnant and ready to be a wonderful mother but our mystery man here doesn’t agree. So, I sip onto my glass of champagne and shift on my chair comfortably watching a telenovela brought to life right in front of my eyes.
This man had no sympathy at all. His eyes were stern and he seemed unbothered with the situation. Heaven, I hate it when a man plays the role of the devil’s advocate.
Sarah on the other hand was torn apart by the unfolding events, her face was filled with regret, sorrows and hate for the man she once considered her whole world.
The man takes out an envelope and slides it across the table to Sarah.
“If you know what’s good for you, you will take care of that thing in you appropriately,”
He then stood up and left.
Maybe I wasn’t here as a private detective after all but as a friend.
I felt her pain as I moved closer to embrace her. I shared her frustrations and anger. To think that a man would be so inhuman to hand her ten thousand shillings to do the unspoken after everything they had been through, filled me with despise.
Society may be forgiving, but I wasn’t, and if there is anything I had learnt so far, is that revenge is best served cold. We were ready to be the next Marc Cherry and write our own story of why women kill. Somewhat we may not have been proud of the women we were at that moment but we knew someday we will celebrate being the women we would have become. A blossoming cherry. So buckle up darling, we’ve got some serious scheming to do.

Sometimes even the most blossoming of cherries don’t get to see the harvesting season.

Photo credits: Google.

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