When Love bites

You meet him and instantly fall in love. Well, to be accurate, that fuzzy feeling has being brewing in you even before you first saw him. But now that you've met him, the fuzziness is the antidote to all the queerness you do not want to feel again.

So...

You meet him and instantly fall in love. Your feelings have nothing to do with the flashy car he drives or the classy suit he dons. Neither are you enticed by his expensive watch and his educated flair.

Because he has none of that.

His simple clothes and worn shoe soles tell of his mastery of the Gikomba market. On his wrist is a plastic band, bravely indicating that he knows his status. His HIV-Aids status of course. You are already so taken in by him that social status does not register at the moment. He tells time from the Nokia flap strategically seated on his left lap. His English though fluent and polished with the tell-tales of a grammar Nazi, is heavily laden with an accent reminiscent of lower Eastern Kenya.

You are so drawn to him that you feel that you must love me. You know there's no more fooling your heart. You already want to belong with him.

But what is his charm? It could be his witty sense of humour; or his factual arguments; or perhaps his point blank articulation of the political landscape. You already know you'll copy his points elsewhere during arguments to appear more intelligent.

Or could it be his manly grin? That grin brings to life the butterflies in your spine and sends blood to your lips.
Or perhaps it is the attentive way he listens to you. As though when your lips part the earth is nourished.

It could be all of him. You love how he wears his manhood better than you do your sassy. You decide that he simply must be the one from whose rib you were chiselled.

…

That was the first date. And you already agreed to belong with him.

Life begins to colour a new. Your lips are always flirting with laughter and your ribs are easily tickled. So many things now make you laugh. This love ignites a spark so bright it lightens up your once grouchy being.

Shyly, he invites you to his single room. He is excessively nervous and apprehensive that you will be so underwhelmed that you will call it quits. He has a bed, a stove and a few utensils. And books on the bed; books in the carton beside his bed; books under his bed; and books and newspapers on the floor. And books acting as a laptop holder.

Perhaps it is your mutual love for literature. And his mastery of the seductive art of putting pen to paper.
Yes, you were an avid reader of his blog long before you knew his real name.