The Dark: Chapter Ten (Unabridged)

    You need some air. Your excuse- your bottle has been empty for quite some time now. You need something to wet your lips. The real reason: you really do need some air. It's starting to smell like sex up in there. You glance briefly in the rear view mirror. Kelly and Fifi are obviously not bothered by it. but then, why would they be?
    Just to cover all your bases, however, you ask them if you can get them anything. Kelly immediately waves you away, making it clear that all she wants is for you to get lost. Absolutely ready to oblige, you slip on your shoes and reach for the door. You have one foot out when Fifi stops you and tells you that a couple of more beers would be awesome, thanks. You nod and give her a weak smile.
    "Sure."
    Tilting her head to the side Fifi replies your smile with an apologetic one. She totally gets it.
    "And take your time."
    You nod again. Letting her know that you know what she's offering you. and that youre thankful.
    As you step out of the car however, you realise that her offering is more self serving than anything else. That she's not doing you a favor but setting the stage to do herself one. And in this case the favor has a name. A name and a white yankee fitted on her head. One that at the moment happens to be turned sideways.
    But it's not like Kelly's complaining, you tell yourself.
    Then leave her to it, you say.
    And so to vent the frustration you try to convince yourself isnt there, you close the door a little harder than neccessary. But instead of turning back to apologise like you normally would have, you stuff your hands in your pocket and insipidly decide to walk back towards the party.
    Fifi's car is parked more than half a block from away but even though, people from the party are milling about everywhere. Couples looking for somewhere to be alone, guys who have had a bit too much to drink looking for somewhere to take a piss because the line inside is just too damn long. as well as the mandatory vomit victims designated for every party who stand doubled over puking in the grass, on the side walk, in the street gutter...anywhere and everywhere really.
    Dodging a puking duo, one doing the puking, the other holding her hair out of her face for her, you lose your balance and find yourself slamming into a red jacket. You feel something crumple against your front and then youre wet, very, very wet.
    "where'd you learn to walk, freak show?"
    You know who it is even before you look up from your beer drenched t-shirt. You inwardly groan.
    "Hey, I asked you a question."
    His eyes red and squinty from a cocktail of beer, liquor, weed and God knows what else, you realise that Reggie is not someone to piss off right then. Especially not when he has his entire offensive line with him.
    "I- I was juss...my mind was somewhere else." You say lamely.
    Surrounded by a forest of red jackets youre starting to feel very small....
    Reggie scoffs.
    "Your mind was somewhere else?" He mocks.
    ...very, very small indeed.
    "Tell me Freakshow, where's Fifi and your lil' lesbian girlfriend? I wanna talk to them."
    You know for a fact that talking is not one of Reggie's strongsuits and so it's quite obvious to you that he must have something else in mind for them. Not good. And so feeling a shitload more than a little protective of the two girls parked in the black mustang juss down the street you say nothing because passive resistance is alot safer in such situations than open defiance. 'Alot' being rather relative in such explosive situations, of course.
    "You do talk, dont you Freakshow?"
    The ice underfoot is becoming dangerously thin. The red jackets the expanse of your vision. but still you decide venture out.    
    What are you, crazy? You ask yourself.
     You must be because you still say nothing.
    Reggie chuckles to himself. Runs his tongue over his lips. First once. Then twice.
    The punch comes out of nowhere. Hitting you in the gut, just below the ribcage. You double over and as you do feel rough hands grab you and straighten you up until your eyes are level with Reggie's. Theyre as angry as a raging bull's and you suddenly realise that youre in serious trouble. Not only you but Fifi and Kelly as well. You know that this cant end well.
    "Now I'm going to ask you again: where are they?"
    You get the sudden nerve to ask him what the hell for but for some odd reason your mouth isnt working. Probably your sense of self preservation kicking in. What your subconcious does not know, however, is that at the moment your sense of self preservation is more self destructive than self saving. Your concious self is fully aware of this, however, and so you wince in anticipation of another blow. You wait for a few seconds but it doesnt come. Instead the threat of something a whole lot worse comes in its place. A glint of metal flashes in front of your face. No one has to tell you what it is. Reggie places the cold edge of the blade against your neck.
    "Since your mouth isnt working, youre juss going to have to show me, arent you?"
    Your sense of self preservation processing this new development, you nod your head slowly, knowing that there is no way around it. Christening yourself an Iscariot even as you do.
    Reggie smiles.
    "Good."
    The blade disappears. Then giving you a shove Reggie tells you to lead the way. A space appears in the red jacket forest and with another shove Reggie forces you through it.
    "We dont have all night."
    You feel as if your body is one step behind your head because even though youre willing your legs to move theyre not responding. Giving yourself a silent pep talk you remind your legs that if they dont fall into line like 10 seconds ago you might very well have your ass stuck with a knife. This seems to do the trick and almost immediately you find yourself moving forwards.
    With the entire highschool offensive line flanking you, you attract more than a few stares. Most of them watching you as if they never expect to see you alive again.
    What a wonderful feeling you think with mild disdain. But then you cant really blame them. If you were in their shoes you would probably stop and watch the show as well. That is until a few of Reggie's lackeys start physically telling people to mind their own business.
    The street empties pretty quickly.
    It's not long before the black mustang comes into view. Reggie must know it because his step quickens just as your heart does. Going up to the rear window he knocks on it lightly.
    It takes a couple of moments but you watch as the window is wound down.
    "What do you want?" Fifi asks defiantly.
    "Get out."
    Looking past Reggie, Fifi catches your eye. Sizes you up then the red jackets on either side of you. When her eyes come back to yours theres no mistaking what you see there.
    They had a knife on me, you wish you could tell her. I was scared. But you cant and make do with putting as much of an apology into your expression as you can.
    If she notices you cant tell.
    "I said get out of the fucking car Fifi."
    Fifi turns her attenton back to Reggie. She knows him well enough not to fuck with him right then but that doesnt stop her from blatantly asking him what the fuck for.
    Furious, Reggie virtually rips the door off its hinges with one arm and pulls Fifi out of the car with the other. Dragging her away from it he tells a couple of his lackeys to get Kelly.
    They manage to but Kelly doesnt make it easy for them; kicking and scratching and screaming and hissing like an angry cat being threatened by a much larger and very dangerous dog.
    "Shut her up!" Reggie growls having managed to shut his captor up with a vicious slap across the face that she is still reeling from.
    And through this all you stand there, completely frozen, unable to react. You know you should be doing something but youre just too frightened. Youve never been in such a situation before. You dont know what to do.
     Then something penetrates your brain like a needle into a patients arm injecting you with a much needed fluid: Courage. It's Kelly screaming your name. begging you for help. Whereas before your head was one step ahead of your body, now your body is two ahead of your head. Before you know what is happening, youre lunging at the two red jackets holding Kelly, fists swinging. You dont know what youre doing with them, youve never been in a fight in your life but its better than nothing.
    Then quite suddenly you feel someone grab the back of your shirt and tug at it. hard. You try to resist it but whoever it is tugs again.
    Suddenly youre falling and then Crack! the back of your skull hits the sidewalk. Everything goes black for a moment but the pain shooting around your head like a gun fight in an old country western lets you know that youre still very much concious.
    You feel something come down hard on your chest, knocking the wind out of you. Someone is straddling you. You can still hear the screaming but it sounds as if it is coming from far away. Confused you open your eyes to see what's going on when your vision is filled with a ringed fist closing in on your face. Its too late to dodge it and a second later you both hear and feel the cartilege and bone in your nose shatter beneath the blow.
    Blood explodes from your nostrils and as you cry out in pain some pours into your mouth. Its coppery taste manages to keep you concious but just barely.
    You instinctively bring your hands to your face as a shower of blows come raining down on your head. They keep coming again and again, some of them missing alot of them connecting as you squirm like a worm under the weight of your assailant.
    And just as you feel as if you cant take anymore, it stops. The red jacket sitting on your stomach gets off, gets up and drags you to your feet. You cant keep them under you, however, and after a few failed attempts of getting you to stay on your feet the red jacket holding you hoists you off your feet and onto his shoulder.
    You kick out but your feet connect with nothing but air. Panic pumping through your vains, you then lash out with your fists, this time managing to connect. Your effort is inaffectual however, and after a few moments of futility you give up.
    Then as if from a distant shore you hear Reggie shout a command. The ground begins to unevenly move beneath you, your assailant's shoulder jabbing into your stomach rythmically. Youre being taken somewhere.
    You try your best to have a look around, to see where you are going but all that fills your vision is either your captor's back and legs or the passing pavement beneath you. With not much choice, you decide to wait and see where you wind up.
    It cant be that bad, can it?
    A part of you, however, knows that it can be that bad. and that it probably is.
    That this night can and probably will turn into a complete nightmare unless you can find some way to get out of it. The only question is: How?
    You have no time to think on a solution, however, because as suddenly as you were hoisted up onto your assailents shoulder you are thrown off, landing on the ground in a heap. It takes a moment for you to gather your breath and your wits about you but once you have, however, you dare a look around. The first thing that strikes you is that your lying not on the pavement like you had expected but somewhere grassy. The grass being several inches long, already starting to itch your bare arms.
    You are in a clearing of some kind. Not big, maybe the size of a living room. Its surrounded by trees and you begin to wonder how you had been brought here without you noticing. It must have taken some time to get there because you are in the middle of nowhere.
    Kelly and Fifi lie in the grass beside you and there are red jackets everywhere. The girls' moans rouse you and you try to stand. Youre barely on your feet, however, before youre knocked back down, landing on your back your breath getting knocked out of you. A towering figure suddenly fills your vision. Its reggie.
    You manage to gulp down a lungful of much needed air.
    "What do you want?" you gasp. You regret the question as soon as it leaves your lips.
    Reggie smiles down menacingly at you.
    "hey boys, small fry over here is asking me what I want....what do I want boys?"
    Reggie doesnt wait for an answer but walks over to where kelly and fifi are lying.
    "What I want," he continues, nudging fifi in the stomach with the toe of his sneaker,
    "is for these two ladies to give us a show."
    Squatting, Reggie positions himself between the two girls.
    "How about it ladies?" He looks from one crumpled form to the other.
    "You up for it?"
    When neither of them answers, reggie gets back on his feet and grabbing fifi drags her onto hers. He commands one of his red jackets to do the same to kelly and another to you. While Kelly pushes away the red clad arms and jumps to her feet herself, you let your self be dragged to your feet, not really seeing the difference.
     "You see the problem with girls these days is that they think everything is up for debate." Reggie says through clenched teeth holding Fifi by her hair.
    "When I was asking if you were up for it I wasnt really asking. What I was really saying is 'give us a show or your night is about to become a whole lot worse.' You understand?"
    When Fifi doesnt answer Reggie yanks her hair hard, making her cry out.
    "I said 'Do you understand?'"
    Fifi manages a nod. Letting go of her hair Reggie shoves her towards Kelly.
    "Then let's see it."
    Noticing a slight limp in her step you watch as Fifi walks to where Kelly is. They share a brief moment of silent communication and mutual understanding and you watch as they almost visibly draw strength from one another. And then gently placing a hand on Fifi's cheek, Kelly leans in and softly kisses Fifi on the lips. At first it is tight lipped and mechanical but after a few moments you watch as their fear melts into a manic passion. Their desire for one another emanating off of them like some radioactive substance.
    A couple of the red jackets begin to cat call but Reggie silences them with a menacing look and growling at them to shut the fuck up and just enjoy the show.
    The sound of Reggie's voice breaks the spell, however and you watch as the girls come back to themselves, fear once again flooding their veins. They turn to Reggie in unison, their eyes wide, silently pleading with him to let them go.
    "Did I tell you to stop?" he asks them crossing his arms across his chest.
    Unable to answer, all the girls do is stand there, hoping against hope that Reggie just might let them go.
    "Listen," Reggie says taking a threatening step towards them,
    "If your not willing to give us a show, I'm quite sure some of these guys would be more than willing to participate."
    The implications of Reggie's words are quite clear. and quite frightening. Knowing where this is heading you try and will yourself into action but you cant move. Your body is no longer your own. No longer obeying your commands. Like Kelly and Fifi, fear has rooted you to where you stand. Your feet as immovable as the roots of a hundred year old tree.
    For a few frightening moments there is nothing but absolute silence. Each passing second of inactivity bringing Fifi and Kelly closer and closer to doom. Slowly Kelly and fifi turn their heads to face eachother. Your heart sinks. You know what theyre thinking even as they think it. It wont work, you mouth to yourself, wishing there was some way you could tell them that. Its too late however, they have already made up their minds.
    As if in low motion, you watch as the girls spring into action, bolting in opposite directions, both heading for the looming tree line.
    Shouting a command, Reggie launches himself after Kelly as two of the red jackets head to cut Fifi off.
    Reggie easily tackles Kelly to the ground and fifi only makes it a few yards before she's also knocked off her feet. Their escape is over even before it has began. You suddenly feel light headed and woozy and begin to sway on your feet. The hands that dragged you to your feet, however, roughly steady you and make sure you stay on them.
    You watch as Kelly thrashes beneath Reggie but its quite obvious that she is no match for him. He holds her down with no apparent effort and simply waits for her to get tired. The two lackeys who went after Fifi drag her back to the group. Shes also thrashing about but if Kelly is no match for Reggie then Fifi is certainly going to do no better with two red jackets on her case.
    Calling on two more of his lackeys, Reggie tell them to come and hold Kelly down. Getting to his feet Reggie strips off his jacket and moves out of their way. He takes a second to dab at his lower lip with the back of his hand where Kelly has apparently landed a blow.
    "It seems you want to do this the hard way." Reggie says, sounding a bit out of breath.
    Walking over to where Fifi is being held down by his lackeys Reggie stands at her feet, peering down at her.
    "I already know what you taste like sweetie, maybe its time to try something new. What do you think?"
    Fifi begins to plead with him, her wimpering making her words almost inaudible.
    You can hear the smile in his voice as Reggie tells Fifi that he already gave her a chance,
    "Now shut up and get whats coming to you."
    Turning on his heel, Reggie turns to face the rest of his flock of red jackets.
    "Its open season boys...and dont be gentle."
    Then pointing at you he tells them to make sure you watch.
    You try to turn your head as Reggie kneels down at Kelly's feet, who is being held down spread eagled, but you feel two hands hold your head in place and just as Reggie commanded, make you watch.
    The first scream peirces your soul like a barbed arrow and then...
    NOTHING.

Pt. Deux: [Beine] We're Going 2 Miss You

When princess said that, “Death comes to all”,  and that it touches every single one of us, and that it claims all of us sooner or later, I had no friggin’ idea that I would be writing something like this so soon…

…YOU WILL BE MISSED…

(1) “To die is the greatest adventure”

I remember hearing someone say. I Cant for the life of me, however, remember who or from where. And the thing is, for some; it just may be…if you believe in Heaven and the angels and in Jesus and the redemption of souls through the shedding of his blood, that is. But otherwise, death pretty much sucks. And even if you do believe in all of that, it doesn’t make it any less scary.
It could come at any time, it doesn’t matter who you are, how much money you have or how much clout or faith you think you have, death doesn’t discriminate. all she has to do is wave her hand and just like that- youre gone, like the dissipating smoke of a freshly blown out candle.
And forget all that cinematic crap, death isnt like that, all guns blazing and going out with flames of glory. Death is ugly, cold and unrepentant.
And its even worse when it claims someone you know. Some one who you rubbed shoulders with, someone who may have fallen off of your radar for a bit but someone who you will always harbour fond memories of. Why? Because it reminds you that youre not immortal after all. That your life will end. And that your time here on earth does in fact have an expiration date. Maybe its just me but that’s not at all a comforting thought to have to sit with…

…HELL, IT’S DOWN RIGHT SCARY…

(2) “Death takes the good, too good to stay, And leaves the bad, too bad to take away…”

Beine Rwamirama was a good guy. The type of guy that everybody loved. I remember even in my so called “not-so-cool days” he would always go out of his way to talk to me.
*A small smile, a small sigh*
He was always one of the cool kids, one of the ones who didn’t even have to try but just were, and it always made me feel just that much cooler by just having him talk to me. Even if it was just to say hey…

He was always the industrious type. He could make a dollar out of a dime when he didn’t even have a cent. And with everything he got, he was always generous. He knew how to take care of his own…

He was confident. He had this self assured, “who’s the boss? I’m the boss” swagger that I always admired.
“I wish I had that”, I remember telling myself…

He was a leader. People just seemed to follow him. He led, people followed. That was just the way it was…

I’m not going to pretend that he was perfect though, because he wasn’t. none of us are. But the thing is, he meant a whole lot to a whole lot of people and I think it’s only right that we celebrate his life. NOT pick through it, looking for signs or indications that may or may not have been previously ignored and that will now probably cause us to beat ourselves over the head in the subsequent days, weeks and months.
I’m also, however, not going to pretend that Beine and I were particularly close. because we weren’t. but you see the thing is, whenever I met him, whenever we ran into eachother, he always made me feel as if we were. And so I’m going to miss him. As I’m sure a lot of us will.
And so now I sit here with my bottle of liquor. Thinking on things of which I have little understanding. On life and on death. On angels and on heaven. On devils and on hell, and on the enigma that is; why the good die young and the bad live long…

And I think of Beine.
And as I do, I kiss the lips of the bottle in my hand, say a silent prayer and pour out that liquor and watch it as it kisses the ground…

So You Gonna Come Out & Play?

Sleek…oh Sleek…please come out to play...
I slip into the room. No stealth, all swagger, all “did you really think you could Eff wit’ me?”
Fresh chucks on my feet, fresh shirt on my back, the heart of a champion beating in my chest.
Youre not hiding under the table are you?
I kneel, flip up the table cloth and there he is. Curled into a little ball, sobbing. I reach out to give him a little nudge but stop before I can, my fingers an inch from his shoulder.
What am I doing? I ask myself. What did he ever do to me?
Slowly, almost without my knowledge, I feel my fingers scrunch themselves into a fist. He questioned my thugoraty, that’s what.
With what took some considerable effort, I unclenched my fist. If I hadn’t I probably would have slugged him on the back of the head. Instead, I did what I had initially intended and gave him a lil shove.
After what seemed forever, he turned his tear streaked to face me. His eyes were red and his nose was a mess. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
So you gonna come out and play?
He swallowed. Cleared his throat. Swallowed again. Wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. Made an attempt at his eyes but gave up. Too much mucus already on his shirt
Here, I said and handed him a hankie
With an appreciative nod he took it. Finished his eyes and made one more pass at his nose.
He held out the hankie to give it back to me but I told him he could keep it. it might come in handy.
So, I said trying again, are you gonna come out and play?
He cleared his throat again, made a strange clucking sound with his tongue and said…well, what did you say Sleek?

I Left My Eyeliner at Home: A Side Project

not much to say really. juss that I've started another blog, a sort of collaboration with my cousin Jay. we've decided to call ourselves "The Scratched Records". actually, he came up with it and i juss went along with it. I think it has a certain Zing! to it though. wouldn't you agree? and even if you don't, please do me a favor and at least pretend that you do. Reason? I thought it might be fun. plus it's be a great opportunity to...um...yeah. anyways, needless to say that since it is a SIDE project, i will still be posting here...my posts on "i Left My Eyeliner at home" will juss be of a different tone...please check it out.


http://jayversusla.wordpress.com

Another Two headed Moron: Twenty-Two Sleek's Slash What These Nigga's Need to Know Is...

This One's for Sleek (dot, dot, dot) yeah, you heard me (full stop) The sole purpose of this here post is to prove to Sleek that I, Bujulaati Rhymes, the fasted bra popper this side of the Sahara has not gone soft. Or put more aptly, has not “Gone Sleek”. And yes, haters (that means you Sleek) this is the part where you can start hating. (paragraph) Don t be fooled, I'm as hood as ever Sleek. SO hood in fact that you better start resting with one eye up. Why? Cos' Sleek, us hustler's don't sleep, Nigga. And yeah, I know what Lil' Sleek must be thinking, that “This nigga right here has no idea who he's messin' with. This is Lil' Sleek we're talking about.” and that, “Who does this nigga think he's foolin'? Nigga's lost his swag, and once you've lost that, there aint no getting it back.”

Well Ive got news for you Sleek, this post right here is a lil' something I like to call “The Return”. And Sleek, my nigg, this is gonna be one hell of a come back. And not the “Kingdom Come” or “Before I Self Destruct” kind of comeback either but the monster smash, multi-platinum, my name is friggin' James Cameron type of come back.

And it all begins with this here post. And Sleek, before you start looking for a loophole, don't be fooled. The boom may not come with this post or the one here after but just know Sleek, that it will come.(paragraph) half way through my Twenty-Two Sleek's Campaign (okay, now its half way through +1) and the name Sleek, (Okay there goes one more) is starting to wear off its welcome on this one golden boy's tongue. But seeing as I still have 9 Sleeks to go (okay, now they're 8) I might as well get it over with. But FIRST (dot, dot, dot)

Bujulaati Rhymes Presents: Kill Or be Killed. A Tuesday Massacre

Time: Shortly Before Two A.M.

The Place: The Victorian; a small out of the way bar on the west side of town; the best side of town to get killed in.

There are few revelers. The rain has kept most of them at bay, locked up in their small story book houses, seated in front of their small story book fireplaces, sipping on small mugs of story book hot chocolate. It is only the brave...and the intensely desperate who have ventured from their homes, into the rain and into the night to Sleek out, oh I'm sorry, I meant to say SEEK out, the camaraderie of fellow man, especially fellow slightly drunk man and the warmth of The Drink. And for some, not many but some...the promise of blood. Our hero; let's call him B. Rhymes, is seated alone in a singular dim corner of the bar sipping on the house's tapped special, his custom .45 deftly tucked into his jeans snug in the small of his back, waiting for the appointed time. 

After a leisurely sip, B. Rhymes pulls out his uniquely crested golden pocket watch, only but one of his various curiosities and checks the time. 

His breath is slow in coming. Another sip. This one a whole lot less leisurely than the one before; there is now very little left of it.

He finishes the beer. Sets down the mug. Inhale, exhale, a rub of the chin...

Ding! The bell above the entrance goes as the door is pushed open and four pairs of black Tims and black hoodies saunter into the bar. It's Lil Sleek. The nigga who thought he ran that part of town. The nigga the entire town was afraid of. 

The bar is suddenly silent. Deathly quiet. They all knew what he was there for. He had come for blood. Blood and more blood; gallons of the stuff. 

Everyone knew that you didn't cross Lil Sleek. Because if you did cross him...it would mean a dozen red roses for your family and a head stone that read something like “Brother, Son and Beloved Husband”

Following a silent order from his boss, Sleek's right hand man “Wild” walks up to where B. Rhymes is seated, not cowering but quietly calm...oddly collected, and towering above him, (Wild is at least 6 foot 4) jerks a thumb towards the door. 

“Time to go.” he rumbles.

B. Rhymes reaches for his beer mug for one last sip but then remembering that he's already finished his beer, pulls back his hand, discreetly touches his custom four-five, ready to blow one's hive because one doesn't have to go to church to get to know one's God and stands up.

He can feel the heat of Sleek's gaze as he walks up to the rest of the posse under the irate glare of the giant that is Wild.

Our Hero (approaching the man who is intent on killing him): 

Sleek...

Our Nemesis (Smiling, sadistic and full malice): 

Rhymes...how nice to see you.

Our Hero: 

yeah, havnt seen you since-

Our Nemesis (Cutting him off, his voice high pitched with an odd Arabic inflection to it): 

Silence...! I'll Kill you!

Our Hero (his tone slightly mocking):

well someones been watching too much of Achmed The Dead Terrorist. Remember that part when he started talking about how the Washington Monument looks more like a tribute to Bill Clinton than it does to-

Our Nemesis ( Completely flustered): 

Do you WANT to die infidel?!? do you want to??? Cos' Nigga you is pushing me!

Our Hero: 

I mean I just figured, you're planning on killing me anyway, what difference would it make, huh? I mean, its not like if I act all nice and crap you're juss gonna let me go...is it?

Our Nemesis, staring disbelievingly at this nigga not quite sure what to say next. Instead he snaps his fingers, points at Wild then points at Rhymes. Reacting instantly, Wild grabs Rhymes and pushes him towards the door.

Our Nemesis: 

Enough chit chat Nigga. You better start praying to whatever God you believe in to deliver your black ass. 

(To Wild)

Wild. Outside. Now.

Ever the henchman, Wild does what he is told. Pushing Our Hero out of the front door and into the night. They are promptly followed by the rest of the posse who put up their hoods and pull out their biscuits. (And by biscuits I mean their guns...and don't look at me like that, it's apparently a west side thing)
After issuing the bar's occupants with a stern warning, namely that if anyone said anything, and he WOULD know, there would be hell to pay, Sleek pulled out his own tech and followed his boys onto the street...

This is supposed to be one of those “To Be Continued” things but before I do that; Sleek...and...Sleek. There. Those are Twenty-Two Sleek's. Now, with that out of the way;

To Be Continued....

The Post With Two Names: What do They Know Anyway? Vs The Birth of Bujulaati Rhymes

Today was a good day. They say that if you pay enough attention, you can learn something new about yourself everyday. Well guess what Luigi (FYI I have no idea who Luigi is, its just the first name that came to mind), I was paying attention. And this is what I learned...
but before I come to that, theres this tingling Ive been getting on my left hip every so often, especially when I'm sitted where I am (left side of the sofa next to the arm rest), at around this time(two or there abouts), doing my writing and its starting to make me wonder. Its probably nothing and I'm not at all worried, I assure you. I'm just a little...curious. What on earth could it be?
Any who, what was I saying? Oh yeah; what I learned about myself today. *anticipated clasping of the hands*
but wait...no, I guess that doesn't really count. I knew that already. Hmmmm....no matter. I need but a second and I'll have another one...
*thoughtful tugging of the beard followed by a slight sigh and a brief visit to the lil boys wee wee room*
but then who are “they” anyway? and do “they” really know anything?
“They say that if you pay enough attention, you can learn something new about yourself everyday...” Shah! What a load of gobbledygook! Oh my gosh, I cant believe I just used the word “gobbledygook”. I didn't even know I knew that word...
Now how about that? There you go...my one thing for the day. So maybe “they” know something after all.
And before you say anything, yes I know I'm talking about nothing in particular. But I'm doing it well, aren't I?
I'm not? Okay, so maybe I'm not. what I'm really doing is just trying to skirt a certain issue here. For your sake as well as my own. Believe me, you don't want to hear none of that.
Well, the tingling's gone. And in spite of all my arguing, for some reason beyond my unmeasurable measure of understanding Mckeith, I'm listening to Coldplay. “warning sign”. From “A Rush of Blood to the Head”. But don't start telling me to eat my words just yet Mckeith, its only one friggin song and believe me, then thats it.
Oh yeah, did I mentioned that I was christened with a stage name today? Yeah, when I was at the studio chillin' with 45, Clef and Tuts. I was christened with the gangstalicious name “Bujulaati Rhymes”. No, I'm not going to repeat that. And stop looking at me like that, damned if I know where it came from.
At first, I thought it was kinda corny. But after those niggas hyped it up a lil, I kinda got to liking it. Bujulaati Rhymes. Hmmmm...
and now for the thing that I was avoiding to say...
She's gone.
I spent about an hour with her before I headed for the studio and even then I was still as conflicted as I was yesterday. I wanted her to stay but I wanted her to go. I missed her already even though she was still there but I didn't want to. I wanted to kiss her but kept my lips to myself, my hands to myself, in fact I didn't touch her at all except for a brief hug when I was saying goodbye.
“So I'll see you oba when?” I said as a way of saying goodbye, my lips close to her ear.
“Shah!” she retorted, pulling away, she was smiling. “Soon...”
Much too soon but not soon enough, I reckon.
*Sigh*
I told myself I wouldn't count the days but for lack of what better to do; thus begins day one...

Digression is Like Making Fists With My Toes; A F**king Life Saver

The words I could not say

The words I should not to say

The words I need to say...

she's leaving on an airplane tomorrow. Although for many of you who will read this, tomorrow is already today.
I have to be honest, secretly, I don't want her to go. I've just gotten her back into my life. But even though, a part of me still wants her to go. To get as far from me as friggin possible. It'll make things easier. It will make things harder. It will open up a portal to worlds better left unexplored. That I would rather not explore. To worlds that I must explore.
“Let her go.” a friend of mine told me today. “See where things lie once she gets back.” not bad advice considering she'll only be gone for a month and some days.
What?!? Only?!? I can hear you say. Yes, only. Five weeks. Well, at least it would have been if she had left when she was supposed to. That being Sunday. But seeing as she's now leaving on Wednesday evening, its now five weeks minus three days. Like I said, a month and some days.
Gosh, listen to me, pining over her like some love sick puppy. Its a little embarrassing. After all this time, after everything that has happened, I still want her back. But then I guess we both know that. Have both known that. Not that its really that stretch of the imagination. Why else would I suddenly want to be a part of her life again. And her in mine? Guesses anyone? Apart from the obvious. Yup, thats what I thought. You cant think of a single thing, can you? That's okay. Its not your fault. Neither can I...

God, these mosquitoes are annoying. Who knew living so close to the lake would be such a friggin nuisance?
I watched Die Hard again last night. It must have been for like the umpteenth time. Remember the opening scene when the passenger sitting next to Bruce Willis on the plane told him that the best way to unwind after a flight was to take off your shoes, take off your socks, place your feet flat on the carpet and proceed to make fists with your toes? Well guess what I'm doing...
while eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, drinking a glass of milk and typing with one hand...and I ask myself why I'm putting on weight. I must be close to ninety now. Dude, I need to lose some weight. These love handles I'm flossing just aint doing it for me. Methodology? Lemme see. Jogging? No. Biking? Nadda. Swimming? Hmmmm. I could try eating less. Gimme two weeks on a crash diet and I'll be back down to seventy-five easy. Then, it would be time to hit the gym and work my way up make to eighty-five. Gosh that sounds like too much work. You know what? How about I just lie and say i'm comfortable with the way I am now?
Nice digression, dont you think? From the topic that shall not be named for fear of reintroduction into this current post. Above not mentioned topic will have many posts dedicated to it in the following weeks, believe me.
Its getting to be that time. Time check: 1:33 am and my lil digression is beginning to wear off. One small thing and i'm thrown off kilter. Damn facebook. Damn it to hell. At least until the first grey streaks of morning and sanity returns. Listen to me biting myself. I really do need to call it a night. So until the first grey streaks of morning and sanity returns...
Holla.

Public Service Announcement

Announcer: This is a public service announcement brought to you, in

part, by Tim Brady.

Our Protagonist (that would be me): (whispered): Tell 'em I don't give a fuck

Announcer: Tim Brady does not give a FUCK...what you think!

Our Protagonist: Tell 'em to suck it

Announcer: If you don't like it, you can suck his fucking cock!

O.P: Tell 'em they kissed my ass

Announcer: Little did you know, upon reading this post, you have just

kissed his ass!

O.P: Tell 'em I'm fed up

Announcer: Tim Brady is fed up with your shit...and he's going to kill you!

O.P: Yeah

Announcer: Uh...anything else?

O.P: Yeah...SUE ME. 

Okay, so Ive so wanted to do that for like the longest time. And dont worry, i'm not gonna kill you. Not unless you get too close during one of my rage black outs. I'm not saying its happened before...its just that you can never be too careful...can you?
Inhale, exhale. Think blog post...
*sigh*
Better...
So it was wednesday when I had one of these

shoved in my face. Ive never been one to turn down a free beer (hello! Its a free beer!) but this new variety of lager kind of made me pause. Leave alone that it was served warm (and yes, because this is Uganda, room temperature often qualifies as warm so please no trying to sugar coat it by saying that its scientifically proven that drinks served at room temp. are actually more healthy for you cuz I aint buying it missy), it just didnt taste right.

Oh yeah, setting. I always seem to forget that. This was at Mateo's. You know, bar slash restaurant slash bathroom quickie center...for those of you who are curious...NO, i'm not going to elaborate. All you need to know that its starting to become a trend and i'm beginning to get a little worried.
Dusk.
Okay so it was more like twilight but I like the way that dusk sounds. It makes it sound all “i'm about to embark on the best campfire story ever” and shit. You know how they go:
(Crackling fire, flashlight in hand held beneath your chin, its beam distorting your face casting the hollows of your cheeks and your eyes in shadow) “Our story begins at dusk. On the eve of the summer solstice...” And Ex-Girlfriend-Who-It-Always-Seems-To-Be-Complicated-One-Way-Or-Another-With (lets call her...New-New because that was the name of Lauren London's character in ATL and I am on such a Lauren London bend right now that it should be illegal) was ushering this lil shin dig that was supposed to be promoting this new beverage that I (Pah-toowee!) personally found insufferable. 

It was my first time seeing her in about two months. Her first time seeing me with my hair short, the added pounds and the whole “nigga I'm grown” shirt and tie get up I was on...minus the tie.
She looked good. More than that, she looked gorgeous. Not that I told her so. Do you think that maybe I should have? Like really? Do you think Our Protagonist may have made a boo-boo? No matter. I'll make up for it. In a VERY big way. You best believe that.
Coincidence that I was there? Nah. She invited me. So what if she was working. It was a chance to see her again. Especially since she was leaving for...uh, for Finland in a few days. (The power is in the details love...yeah, you know i'm talking to you)
and work she did. Only stopping by my table every so often to check on me after my so called “friends” high tailed it, leaving me all alone. Lucky for me she didn't have to work long. After her and her girlfriends had finished eating a free pizza from Mr. I Hope This Will Get Me Somewhere (and no, that wasn't me, Ive got way too much swag for that) it was time to go home. We lived in the same direction now and so naturally we walked down to Cooper Complex together to get our respective taxis.
Long story short, (cuz bruh, I really need to get some sleep) that gnawing in my stomach, the one that kept on telling me that I missed her more than what was probably healthy...kept on gnawing. If anything, it got worse. I had gotten a little nibble, now I wanted to have the whole friggin' sandwich. Yeah, bad metaphor, I know. But you know what? I'm tired. And you know what else? Maybe I should stop writing these so called “Midnight Sessions”. Even though it's closer to early morning. 4:02 am to be exact. What do you think?
Anyway, Ive seen her almost everyday since then. And a day hasn't passed when I haven't at least heard her voice.
I told her I missed her. And that was/is the truth.

I wish I could see into your mind. I wish I could read minds. It would make life a whole lot more simple. But since I cant, I guess I'm just going to have to make do with this. This being my Public Service Announcement.

4:11 am

Chapter One: Without a Spark

I believe in many things. In things like truth and faith and justice. I believe in God. And in his son. And that everything good in this life begins and ends with him.
I also believe in the devil. In selfishness and greed. In devious planning and malicious deeds. In getting whatever you want...by any means necessary.
I believe in many things...but I do not believe in love. Love is a lie. An illusion. A crutch for the weak and readers of poorly written romance novels. and the sooner the world realized this, the better.

***

Victor closed his eyes. 
Shut out the world and maybe something will come to you, he told himself. 
Breathe in. breathe out. Inhale. Exhale. Shake out your fingers, shake out the jitters and try again.
After cracking his knuckles, Victor opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. The three same paragraphs stared up at him from his spiral bound note book. Caroline could never understand why he never used his laptop when he wrote. She was endlessly pointing out to him how wasn't it double the work, that? Writing it by hand then transferring it to the laptop that she had bought for him exclusively for his writing. And it would have made at least some kind of sense if he at least sent off the hand written pages to be typed up by some pale faced, limp haired transcriber but no, Vic, as he was known as by his friends, insisted on typing them up himself. It helped him to edit, he claimed.
“But isn't that your editors job?” Caroline had asked him once.
“Sure it is.” had been Victor's answer, “but what's wrong with trying to make Tracey's job a little easier?”
Caroline had scoffed at that. She never did like Tracey. She was pretty, intelligent, successful and had a whole lot more in common with Victor than Caroline did. Spelled out, she was a little jealous. And despite Victor's constant reassurances, Caroline kept constant tabs on him whenever she knew he was with Tracey “working”.
Three damn paragraphs. That was all Victor had been able to write. And he wasn't even sure if they were even good paragraphs. Two years since his last book and he only had three paragraphs.
Victor let out a sigh. And the worst part was, as any writer knows, you cant force these things. When the spark isn't there, the spark just isn't there.
Then you better find that spark, Victor told himself.
Victor scoffed.
You say that like you don't think Ive been looking.
But two years Vic? Like seriously?
Get off it, he told himself. I'll find it, just give me a little time.
A little time man? Ive given you two friggin' years. And what have you done with it? Written three lousy paragraphs.
Victor let out another sigh. Ran a hand over his recently shaved head. The thin carpet of hair on his head a constant reminder of what he had lost. It had taken him the two years since his last book to grow out his hair. He had made a deal with himself that he would cut it off until he had completed his next one. But then Caroline had pointed out something.
“What if,” she had started as she had played with his hair, “It's your hair thats the problem? Stopping the words from coming. Don't get me wrong, I love your hair baby. I'm just saying, what if?” it sounded ludicrous, of course but at that point, Victor had been desperate. And so off had come the locks. That had been a month ago. And now...still nothing.
Victor was at the end of his tether and at the end of his tether he had done the one thing all writer's know not to do; he had tried to force it. The result? Three lousy paragraphs.
In a sudden fit of emotion Victor grabbed his pen and using it like a knife slashed at his spiral bound note book. Once the page was nothing more than a few shreds of paper he sent the note book spiraling across the room, where it hit the wall and landed in a heap on the floor.
“Honey?”
There is the rustling of sheets, a creak as Caroline sits up in bed.
“Is everything ok?”
“Fine.” Victor says rubbing his head, “Everything is fine.”
More creaks.
“What time is it?”
There is a sudden wash of light as Caroline leans over and turns on the lamp on her side of the bed.
“Late. Turn off the light and go back to sleep.”
After a moment.
“Are you sure you're ok?”
Victor lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Just go back to sleep ok?”
One moment. Two moments. Three moments, four. A sigh.
“Okay. Come back to bed soon. I miss you.”
Caroline stared at the back of Victor's head for a moment then laid back down.
Click. She turned off her lamp, enveloping her side of the room in darkness, leaving only the small radius around Victor's desk illuminated.
Victor waited about five minutes before getting up. Caroline was a fast sleeper. He knew that's all it would take. Making as little noise as possible he went over to where he had thrown the note book and bent over to pick it up. Note book in hand, Victor walked back to his desk. Sat down. Laid the book down in front of him, turning to a fresh page.
Picking up his pen, he breathed in, breathed out and started again.

Dormitan's Nightmare: Prologue

He dreamed of flashing lights. Of story book days and legendary nights. He dreamed of fame, oh of glorious fame. And of power...and of respect.
He dreamed of dinner parties at the finest restaurants, of million dollar deals and toasts with 100 year old wine.
He dreamed of the prestige; of awestruck glances, of hands offered in reverence.
“Welcome, Mr. Dormitan” they would say.
“It's an honor, Mr. Dormitan.” they would say.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Dormitan.” they would say.
With hands behind his head, insomnia stricken he would dream. Warming his bed, filling his head, he would dream. Never letting up, never letting go long enough to wake up, or for that matter, to fall asleep...

How To Survive a Mud Slide: The Weekend Round Up

And so ends another weekend...not the most exciting Ive had but it had its well...not quite perks, but it had its moments. Drenched hoodie and squishy shoes (I'm sooo dreading having to clean those sons of bitches...I need to get myself a washing machine!), red bull and boxed vodka (or was it whiskey? Not quite sure, not that it matters, it still got the job done in record time), various cameos from Kigowa's Finest (whatever happened to us guys? We used to have that “solidah”, now we're so splintered its like we never were. I guess that's what happens when people grow up, move on and move out), food court chillin after midnight at Oasis while all the other night time lemmings milled about on the ground floor looking like a bunch of brainless ninnies (and yes I did say ninnies, you'll have to forgive me if I sound a little, well, superiotic. Not a real word mind you, juss made it up; root word superior. Thats juss how I am. superiotic that is.) hitting the dance floor at efendy's to “drop it like its hot” (I still haven't gotten the hand of doing the cryp walk yet), people still asking me why I cut off the dreads( get off it already, they're gone, they'll grow back, lets leave it at that), and the lemon mering cream on the pie; fifteen annoying minutes at Iguana with still Banging Body Barbara and I'm Too Cute For You Latta...I mean like seriously? What do you even call that? I had never walked out on a girl before but that was friggin ridiculous. And if you want the full story you'll juss have to inbox me or something because theres no friggin way I'm gonna waste space by telling you about it here.
All in all though, I give it a 7/10. It was a great distraction. I had fun.
But tomorrow's Monday and you all know what that means...back to work. * sigh * three...two...one...and here we go.

Stick a Fork in Me, Because I'm Done (I Really Have No Idea What to Call This)

It always comes back. 


It's always her. 


No matter what happens. No matter what I do. 


Two  weeks, two months, two years; 


it doesn't make a difference...she's there. 


Always beneath the surface,


 waiting...waiting...

One taste is all it takes, toxic is toxic. 


Vials in boxes, boxes in closets. 


Pad lock it, mock it but


 it doesn't make a difference...she's here. Where? 


Here. Always beneath the surface, 


Waiting...waiting...

12:34 am

Its simple really. There's really nothing to it. All you have to do is pick up the phone and call. No, not now you twit. Tomorrow, when its appropriate. Midnight phone calls simply for the sake of saying hi only work with girlfriends and girls who you're trying to fuck and the fact is, right now, you just don't know her like that bruh...
Uh-huh, well, thank you for the input...bruh. And thank you for reminding me. Not that I needed reminding. I'm fully aware of the situation as it stands at the moment thank you very much. I'm just trying to figure just how to go about handling it, thats all. Because although ignoring it has worked for quite some time now, I have the feeling that that luxury is about to come to an end...

Kiss me. 

I don't care if there's no music playing, 

slow dance with me.

I don't care if there are people watching,

let me put my arms around your waist,

let me hold you closer...

P.S.

Ive missed you
, 

Ive missed everything about you,

please don't deny me this chance...

1:52 am

I intend to one page this. Meaning that I only have a few lines to spill this. Not that I have much to spill. Or maybe I have too much too spill. So much so that I find trying to cram it into this limited space one notch below futile thus not worth the effort. In plain English please. In plain English? I ain't gonna say shit so you might as well stop reading now. I'm on that facebook shit, replying wall posts, inboxes, status and note comments and all that other good stuff. I will leave you with one thing though. Even if it is only a reiteration. I miss her. Always have. Staying distracted has been a good way of not having to face that. Not anymore though. And you know what that means, right? Drama-tox is almost over folks. Its been fun but God knows I'll be so much more happy with a lil drama tossed in...so get ready, because here I come!

Hit the Person Sitting Next to You Over the Head With Your Bible Day

Pen to pad, finger tip to key, one eye on the horizon, one to the past and here we go...

But first, it will only take a moment I promise, let us pray (all eyes closed and all heads bowed):

“Lord give me grace and dancing feet

And the power to impress

Lord give me grace and dancing feet

Let me outshine the moon.

Tonight make me unstoppable

And I will charm, I will slice

I will dazzle them with my wit

Tonight make me unstoppable

And I will charm, I will slice

I will dazzle, I will outshine them all.”

Amen. Now, with that out of the way...

Has anyone seen my tattoo? I seemed to have misplaced it. Maybe you've come across it. It's black, about yay high, kind of exotic looking, claims to be “Eternity” in the ink. It was last seen on the right side of my neck. After some girl (name politely withheld) tried to suck it off with her Hoover tunnel mouth. Or at least thats what it seemed like. She just wouldn't let up. I don't know which nigga lied to her but for future reference, ladies, sucking on the neck does not turn us on. We men. We like head. Whether it's in the back of a special hire or in the corner stall of the ladies room at Barbecue Lounge on a Tuesday afternoon after three long island ice teas (those things work wonders by the way). Both the ice teas and the head. Give a nigga good head and he'll be likely to keep you around. Give a nigga great head and his black ass will be likely to ask you to be his Official Girl. These are trade secrets ladies so I hope youre taking notes...
but enough about The Head. Let's talk about something a tad more...what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yes: palatable. I know I had a few people squirming in their seats for a few sentences there. But fear not prudes, shrews and church fairing women over the age of 35, it was but a minor digression. But even though that may be the case, please do keep in mind that these are home truths I speak of. Whether you like it or not.
Now, has anyone seen my tattoo? I seemed to have misplaced it. Maybe you've come across it. It's black, about yay high, kind of exotic looking...wait, Ive already said that haven't I...? Crap. Lemme think, lemme see...right. Here we go. Wait, not yet, I gotta pee. BRB...

*7 minutes later* i.e Not spent in Heaven

Phew. I thought I would never get out of there. And you know what the messed up part is? I don't even feel any better. I still feel like someone is holding my bladder in a vicious choke hold and now on top of that, I feel hungry. Weird combination right? And not just hungry but like “OMG! I feel like I havnt eaten in the past two days” kind of hungry. And if theres one thing you should know about me, it's that I dont, nay I can not, function properly when my stomach ( my best friend third only to God and my...um, *quiet clearing of the throat* Toshiba lap top) has not been taken care of. Probably the reason I dont seem to be making any sense right now. Not even to myself. Not a common occurrence I assure you. Solution? Simple. Remove pen from pad, finger tip from key, eye from horizon, eye from past and get something in my friggin belly. And in the meantime...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qex0OjXolzc

The Truth of the Matter Is...This May Have to Come With A Disclaimer

The truth of the matter is I'm starting to wig out. Lose my nerve. Ronnie was right, I really am back at square one. And even though everyone keeps tellin' me that I'm rockin' the shit out of the new look, for some reason I'm still not convinced.
So Saturday was supposed to be a good day. And don't get me wrong, it was. It really was. A great dinner, lots of booze and fly women coming out of the wood work. What more could a brother ask for? Dreadlocked Lloyd would have been all over that muthafucka like an African fly on a piece of unattended meat. But not this one. Nope not “I just shaved my head, my skin is breaking out for some reason I cant really figure out, I really don't know what to say to these hoes; Lloyd”. No not him. He just sits in his chair and watches all the booty shaking from afar. From a safe distance. He wants to participate, show these niggas that he aint nobody to play around with, but at the same time he's like “fuck it. What do I get from pimpin these hoes anyway? Its not like I'm gonna bust a nut on any of them.”
and while trying to convince myself of this, the taste of beer now more than a little stale on my tongue, (it was like bottle 4 or 5 or 6 or whatever) I see someone who looks just like her. Looks like her, dresses like her, dances like her...it was pretty fucked up. mainly because I had managed to get to the point where I barely thought of her. And now this specter of her turns up, in some skRmpy blue thing (or was it green? I cant really remember...not that it really matters) and with the flick of a hip, like flipping a switch, initiates a program that has decided to call itself “Project: Miss Her”.
And before you say anything, no you don't have to worry, it aint full blown yet. Its like that AIDS shit, it takes some time to mature. All its managed to do so far is get me thinking about contacting her. But that wont be for another few days yet. And thats assuming I even decide to.
Raise your glasses boys because I'm about to make a toast.
“To all those girls who fuck with niggas heads (Alex, come on, raise that glass you know you're right up here with me...in fact it should be you giving this little speech)...FUCK YOU! We aint taking your shit no more. This is a new year and no matter how smackable that booty is, no matter how good your head is (and sweetie don't kid yourself; it aint that good) no matter how good people say we look together, no matter how much those niggas hate, bitches, enough is enough! We got too much on our damn minds already. All that other bullshit you bring along is unnecessary. Now say it with me boys: fuck dem bitches! (I see you Sam, stop fucking laughing cuz this aint no fucking joke and repeat after me) FUCK...DEM...BITCHES!!!!!
* sigh * Ok, now that Ive gotten that out of my system, maybe I can dish out a tirade on something else. 
Juss hold on and gimme a second...
Uh-huh, here we go...artificial insemination....
Ok, you know what? Fuck that. I aint gonna be able to do a tirade on that shit. Let me give this another try...
Pretty faces, pretty faces, pretty faces...i love dem pretty faces. But they can piss me off sometimes. Fuck that. They piss me off a lot. Whats up with girls with pretty faces? Did they all get together one day and decide that “hey, here's an idea, why don't we all be bitches?” and yes I can already hear all you naysayers but before you all open up your pie holes in protest, pause and really think about it. That's right, I can hear the wheels turning...pretty girls are bitches. And yes, I admit, there are exceptions to the rule, there always are. just not that many. Now girls, take a look at the girl on your left...now at the girl on your right...all three of you are bitches. The ones who arent bitches arent in the room...now what does that tell you?
Okay um, maybe I should stop here. I'm only fucking with you anyways. I don't really think pretty girls are bitches...not that many of them anyway. And for any bitches (oops!) I mean, ladies that I might have offended, let me offer you my sincere apologies...seeing as you're the same girls I'm gonna wanna bang come next weekend...it wouldnt be advisable to piss you off...
Am I right?

Yet Another Reason to Hate Valentine's Day (A Flash Back)

I never did tell you her name, did I? And um, I guess I should thank you for never asking. Not that I wouldn't have minded. Its just that she doesn't really like having her business being put all out there. Never has. And I guess that as long as she remained nameless, anonymous, she could convince herself that It wasn't really her business that I was putting all out there. It was mine. My dirty laundry. She was just a shade of lipstick on the collar of my favorite shirt. She could be anyone. And I reckon thats just the way she liked it.
Her name is Samantha. Sam for short. I called her Sammy once but she thought that a tad too much. And so I settled for Sam. Unless of course she's having one of her blond moments, in which case I call her “Samantha who”.
Now, to be quite honest, Ive never been one for valentine's day. Never liked it, probably never will. Least of all because I hate the color red. And so when I say that a romantic valentine's day in Mbale with Samantha was the last thing on my mind, I hope that you will be apt to believe me. I asked her up because...well, I really don't know why I asked her up. Ive never really thought about it. I do know though that I never really expected her to actually agree to come. I had asked her half jokingly and so when she did say that she would come, I took it as some sort of sign I probably shouldn't have. But in my defense, wouldn't you? I mean, you don't go out of your way to go on a trip to somewhere you've never been to be with someone unless you're trying to say something...or, as I later found out, unless you're Samantha.
She arrived on the afternoon of Friday the 13th (please, no jokes) and the first thing that struck me was how good she looked. Up to know I don't know whether it was because I hadn't seen her in some time or if she really was having one of her “super cute days”.
It was nice to see her. But although we tried our best to make nice, there was no denying that my unanswered question, or rather inadequately answered question was still looming over us.
But even though, I committed myself to not bringing it up that day. In my opinion, it was too soon. I wanted us to at least try to enjoy ourselves before I rained down on our parade.





Saturday




The weather was wonderful. Not too hot, just enough sun, the hint of a breeze and the promise of a star lit night. Some might even say that it was perfect. Not me though. I don't believe in perfect. Not anymore. I'm too old to believe in fairy tales.
But that being said, it was a pretty good day. I enjoyed myself. Even if most of the time I was on edge waiting for the perfect opportunity to drop that mother load of a bomb in her lap. A opportunity that never came. I was foolish to even think that it ever would. Theres no such thing as perfect, remember? Just a series of small compromises, even more and even smaller denials and one huge pair of “mother of God, what are you wearing?” rose tinted glasses.
We hung out, caught up, ate ice cream, walked around, looked for pork, couldn't find any so settled  for goats meat and rolexes instead, a brew or two or three, got her a hotel room and wound up on this king sized bed that was just begging to be rolled around in.
with the evening having pretty much only one direction to go, I decided, much to the chagrin of the Lloyd writing this, that “you know what? That's not what I want. Not with this thing eating me up inside, tying my stomach into knots, making my head swim.” And so I decided to open my big fat mouth.
I had one arm around her. Had her in a place I liked to think she thought of as home. I could have kissed her if I wanted to. Turned the night into magic. A dark magic where all else would have been forgotten. At least until the first gray streaks of morning and sanity returned. But instead of doing this simple thing, instead of losing myself in the curve of her neck and the plum of her lips, I licked my own, took curious note of how my chest rose and fell and finally came out with it- Hiroshima!
She didn't say anything for a beat. Maybe two. Didn't do anything either. Then feeling her slowly exhale, I watched as she rolled out of the curve of my arm and onto the expanse of the bed. If she had thought of it as home before, that was now nothing more than a distant dream.
Seemed to take a moment to choose her words carefully. But even though, there was still a weary note in her voice when she said,
“my answer hasn't changed Lloyd. We still cant be together. For the same reasons I gave you before.”
I let that sink in. I let it marinate. And once it had, once the full absurdity of the situation had hit me, I got angry.
“Then why did you even come?” I asked her as calmly as possible. But even though, there was still a slight tremor in my voice.
“Ive never been to Mbale before, I thought it would be an adventure.”
“You thought that it would be an adventure.” I repeated after her.
“You thought that it would be an adventure.” I said again. This time more  to myself.
I laughed. But her and I both knew that there was no humor behind it.
“Let me ask you,” I continued,
“Knowing how I feel about you, it never once crossed your mind that boarding a bus, which you hate in case you've conveniently forgotten, to go somewhere you've never been, on valentine's day weekend, yes I know Ive said that I hate it and I do and God knows you're about to give me a reason to hate it even more, to visit me might appear to some, hell to anyone, to have some sort of special significance?”
Now although I'm not quite sure I said exactly that, I am pretty sure that I did say something to that affect. As for what she replied to that? I have not a clue. Of course, I'm quite allowed to speculate but that, for some reason, wouldn't feel quite right.
One of the disadvantages of letting things marinate for so long; things run quite amok, deciding to play hide and go seek with your memory. I'm not up to playing, however, and so i'm going to do my best to provide a pretty faithful summarization.
Advantage of king sized bed meant for rolling around in #4;
Perfect for putting as much space as you can between you and someone you're not especially fond of at the moment without falling off the friggin' bed, saving them from potential bodily harm.
She slept on one side of the bed and I slept on the other. She got the wall. I loved the wall. I was angry enough to try and take it away from her but some sensible part of me that had miraculously stayed put against all the odds managed to convince the rest of me that it wasn't worth the hassle.
And so it was until the first gray streaks of morning and sanity returned.