Pariah? Most definitely not!


Now I’m not a social pariah. I have a girlfriend and four cats, and that means I have my social graces down pat, Ok? Its culture fests like MishMash that trip me up and make my shame manifest as the word ‘loser’. Art, fashion, dance, music, dykes, poetry meets and wildly expensive brunch all have a way of squeezing me of every last drop of social awkwardness.

My personality is well suited to basket ball courts and smelly changing rooms; to glaringly bad pop and Jessie J, so I try really hard to avoid finding myself stood in front of a painting that looks like mashed potatoes, being told that it’s in fact one of a samurai warrior manicuring his nails.Mauna, my girlfriend, a creature of breeding and sophistication is the reason I keep finding myself at such dos. This is last Sunday’s entry in my Diary:

11.30: I start awake, run into the bathroom and lock myself in. Mauna, who’s anticipated this, snatches back the shower curtain and snarls. I squeal and fumble with the bathroom lock as she ambles over and kicks me in the shin. “That’s what you get for trying to make us late!”

12.30: Grumble grumble. I’ve been manhandled into the car by an extremely livid Mauna who’s promised to kick me and my cats out of her house if I don’t co-operate. I don’t want to go for mishmash. I want to watch Tom and Jerry reruns. I want to read a harlequin romance. Anything but that event which promises to be the sort that has fat cats speaking in hushed tones and trying to buy art.

1.00: We get to Ntinda crescent and I’m warned not to do anything embarrassing, so of course my shenanigans are going to be especially horrifying today. I’m to smile and wave if anybody tries to engage me in conversation. I’m not to ogle any ‘skinny bitches’. I can however, ooh, ahh and nod at the paintings. That’s allowed.

1.15: These paintings are actually nice. Not once have I had to ask what in the world the artist had against the canvass. Mark Kassi’s subjects are so ridiculously good looking that I have to be dragged away from one of a really hot lion. This lion goes to the gym thrice a week, has a hair stylist who he pays thousands of dollars; this lion has stolen my heart. Nobody understands though.

1.20: Tindi Ronnie’s paintings are delightful! I like them. I like color. And his subjects have lips that look like ball-gum.

1.25: I bump into Tindi Ronnie and hug him.

1.30: Still hugging. Now being pulled away. Now being thrown out of the gallery.

2.00: I join a couple of guys who’re having a wild time building a tower of blocks in a sandpit. They’re just about to let me play when I feel a sharp pain in my back. I turn to find Mauna glaring at me from the door of the gallery. Oh come on. ‘Eye daggers’ aren’t supposed to be literal. What the hell.

3.30: I knock over an aluminum bowl. It displays theatrics that I’ve never before seen in my career as a klutz-It bounces once, twice, does a couple of twirls, jumps, drags itself on the ground, shuffles and of course, makes lots of noise. The bastard. It is worth 450,000 shillings, an amount that’d pay my rent and get me out of the clutches of behavior-nazis like my chick.

4.00: A heifer of a waitress/overseer/caretaker/whatever named Evelyn, according to her blurry tag, is shouting in my face. I have never had so much saliva in my eyes before. Mauna is shouting at my back. I’ve never had so much saliva on my back before.

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