Sophia wants to wait until marriage

My dear reader, ever heard of the saying, “It’s better not to have hoped than to have hoped and gotten zilch?” Of course not. That’s because I just made it up, but it sums up my situation to a “t”.

Here’s how it works. You, a perennially unemployed graduate, apply for a job for the umpteenth time, because, you know, all the gods in all the universes had a caucus, decided that no mortal soul shall get a job on the first try. This one time, you get a letter inviting you to an interview a million kilometres farther than you’ve gotten before.

You dress up and meet the interviewer, who crinkles his nose at you as if you did a “number two” on yourself on the way over. You talk about yourself, swear that you’re the best fit for the company, and lie your ass off about where you see yourself in five years — CEO, house in Runda, a Lamborghini in the garage, three brats in a Group of Schools… you know, the works. No mention of the high possibility of you still crashing on your BFF’s couch. Crinkle Nose tells you they’ll be in touch.

A little hope is raised, but if you’re wise, you keep applying. The chances of them “getting in touch” are less than those of Zoo Kericho winning the Kenya Premiere League title in this lifetime. Somehow, the gods of benevolence shine a rare light on you and a strange number buzzes your phone. At first, you don’t pick up, fearing it’s one of your creditors come to collect. When it insists, you answer with a falsetto, ready to swear you’re not who they think you are, that despite their convictions, they have the wrongest number possible. But it’s Crinkle Nose calling. Guess what? You’re shortlisted. Can you come in for a second and final interview?

Now, as you “borrow” your friend’s best suit, padding the shoulders to keep the droop to a minimum, hope as hot as lava is simmering inside you like your mama’s stew used to before adulthood kicked in and she kicked you out of the nest. This time, no Crinkle Nose. It’s Crinkle Nose-Squinty Eyes, Crinkle Nose’s more uppity boss. He makes you repeat everything you told Crinkle Nose, throws in a few more “nuanced” questions — first time you hear the word nuanced, by the way. Crinkle Nose-Squinty Eyes thanks you, says you should wait by your phone.

The volcano of hope inside you erupts violently enough to bury Pompeii twice over. You still remember Pompeii from history class. You recall it was a Roman city buried under volcanic ash in the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79. You have to be on your toes. You never know what they’ll throw your way at an interview.

One year later, Crinkle Nose-Squinty Eyes is yet to call. You’re still sharing your BFF’s couch with a host of cockroaches who keep showing up with deeds claiming superior squatters’ rights. No brats, no Lambo.

So, what does this have to do with me, you ask?

Well, nine months and 18 days since I first shot my shot, Sophia and I share my bed. Juzi she requested a full body massage. Hot damn! Finally, something was about to erupt. We made out. My fingers explored, but only as far as the gates to the Promised Land.

“Uh-uh!” She slapped my hand away. “Not until you put a ring on it.”

Truth be told, something erupted, but in the toilet, and violently enough to bury Pompeii thrice over.