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Bad bachelor: Is this closure or revenge?

My Man - By Art Amacho
Four years ago, while in Mombasa, I run into this 26-year-old intern in another ad firm – a slim, petite, perky-boobed, dreamy-eyed light slip of a lass (Shutterstock)

Ever since my father, who I last saw when I was three, did a runner on me again two weeks ago, I haven’t slept well. What a coward!

Then our stingy boss Cynthia Worm gave us new commission rates — five per cent, down from eight per cent — and to think I was complaining last year when we were getting 15 per cent, that 20 per cent would be fair! But thanks to my pal Davie who lent me his apartment till December, rent isn’t an issue for now.

So last week, I find an old one-night-stand called Diane on FB, and soon we are chatting on WhatsApp. Let me tell you about Diane. Four years ago, while in Mombasa, at one of those company-sponsored seminars (wonder if they’ll ever return, post Covid-19), I run into this 26-year-old intern in another ad firm – a slim, petite, perky-boobed, dreamy-eyed light slip of a lass, who looks 22/23.

Working my silver tongued magic on her, she took me to her humble little flat (on the last day of the seminar) where I spent the night working magic on her.

I remember the innocent smile on her face in her sleep, as I slipped out of her flat at the crack of dawn, hailed a tuk tuk to the bus station to catch the Coast Bus to Nai – we bad bachelors have no time for sentiment after a well-executed hit and run.

Yet, from time to time, I’ve found myself thinking of Diane, her sweetness and her innocence.

So that, last Friday, my salary in, I found myself asking after a long chat “si I kuja Coast kesho?”

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To my pleasant surprise, Diane said ‘fine,’ and on the Saturday SGR train ride down to Coast, I found I was actually thrilled at the thought of seeing Diane. Are ye falling in love, Amacho?

Anyway, I had booked myself into a luxury seaside hotel on Diani Beach and had time for lunch, a swim and shower, before Diane was shown to my suite, as per instructions I left the reception.

I remembered her petite frame in a flowery summer beach dress last time I saw her in June, 2016. The woman who came into the suite had grown chubbier, with a rounder face, wore glasses (shock) and a buibui (shocking!), but when I hugged her, her now big breasts squeezed against my chest turned me on immediately.

“Diane,” my voice caught, as she sat on the suite’s couch. This was a bigger, beauty-fuller woman, but when I offered her a better version of wine, ordered from the bar just for her, she declined and instead asked me for warm mineral water.

I gave it to her, poured myself a whiskey, sat next to her and said: “So sorry I left you like that, sweetheart ... I’ll make it up to you, starting tonight, err, today ...”

“No need to Art,” she said, and placed her warm, now slightly pudgy hand, on my arm. Then she filled me in on her life since I fled.

Life had gone on, as it always does. In 2017, she had met a ‘serious man,’ she said, in a tone that implied I’m in the ‘joker’ category. “We got married in 2018,” she said, “and were blessed with twin girls last December. You? Guess you’re still single, and running after innocent girls.” She laughed, and that made me annoyed.

“So you summoned me all the way here from Nairobi to gloat, Diane?” She stood up.

“No, Art,” she said. “You broke my heart in a way no one had. I just wanted to be sure I’m over you. And now I am sure.”

“So this is goodbye, Diane?”

“The name is now Rukia, dear! But to answer your question, yes it is.” Then she left me with my heart crushed.

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