Here we are, just me and you, in the afterlife.

It would have been easier for all of us if you had typed that it will be your death day. I wouldn’t have attended your event and stabbed your neck in rage. The mob wouldn’t have killed me too.

If only you had typed the truth.

But instead, you typed that it will be your birthday, which was so unimportant to me yet so striking. You had just broken our young relationship and I was finding it hard to pick my pieces from the cold floor. After seven days I texted you the way a normal guy in love would. I told you I still loved you and all you could reply with were those laughing emojis. And then I asked you whether any events would be occurring in church.

“Well, it will be my birthday…”

It wasn’t a call but I could clearly read the tone of your message.

I thought that I really stood a chance to get you if I just came to your birthday to please you. Don’t they say that you should never forget a woman’s birthday? I didn’t want to be that man.

I told you that I would come read you a poem.

And you lied again, you said yes.

I knew you loved my poetry. It was the last bait I had of getting you back. It was the one I had used to get you in the first place,

Your living room was small. The church youth had to rearrange the seats for all of us to fit in. I took the front seat, the one near the window where I could easily jump out in case your CID dad came snooping around. He never did. I think we could have engaged in an intelligent talk between a potential thief and a policeman, on why thieves exist in Kenya. I think I could have taught him some martial arts and helped him on some investigative work and intelligence on how to track thieves in Dandora. That way, it would have been easier for me to ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage.

But again, here we are, just me and you, in the afterlife.

How did we get here? Getting to read the poem was a struggle. You had already convinced everyone in the church youth that I was a stalker you didn’t want nearby. How? I don’t know. But who wouldn’t believe a sweet voiced nineteen-year-old girl when most of the youth leaders were males in their twenties. The queen of the youth would easily steal their hearts with her beauty. I wanted to be a part of that beauty too. Finally, weak and shaking, I managed to secure a chance to read the poem, despite your facial expression daring me not to.

The three last words in the poem. I tried to judge hard whether to read them or not. They came out by themselves. As a tear. An orgasm of pain that released me from my cage.

I said I love you.

I blessed the cake with my words.

Everybody laughed out loud.

I sat down, satisfied.

But the youth leaders were not done with me yet.

They wanted to confirm whether what I had just said was true.

They asked you to choose the first person you would give the cake.

I waited.

You called a leader.

He refused.

You insisted.

They insisted back.

I waited, seated in an awkward position.

You called him by his first name.


I couldn’t hold myself any longer.

I couldn’t watch you give away our smile.

And so, here we are, just me and you, in the afterlife.

George survived the fork stabs, otherwise he would be here with us too.




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