Dear reader, I’m sure you’re familiar with the expression, “Behind every cloud is a silver lining,” right? I might be saying it wrong — I’m always mixing my metaphors — but you get the gist. It means that hope is like violent diarrhoea — it hits you when you least expect.
I mean, who knew my getting shot in the ass would bring Sophia back to Jiji Ndogo? Okay, that and the fact that her fiancé, whom I hadn’t known existed, turned out to be a lying, cheating, conniving, married scumbag. Whatever the case, as usual, her presence has transformed hell into paradise, and yours truly from a hopeless romantic to a hopeless romantic with a chance at love.
“How do you like your eggs?” Sgt Sophia M Kali is standing at my door, groceries in hand. You read that right. She’s in my dingy little one-room shack. “What — cat got your tongue?”
I shake the cobwebs off my head. “Uh… yes, please.”
“Yes, what? You fed the cat your tongue?”
“On bread. You know, dipped in the eggs then fried…”
“French toast. Got it.” She starts on breakfast. “I’ll change your dressing once we eat.”
Did you hear that? She means my butt dressing. Sgt Sophia M Kali is offering to clean a wound on my Gluteus Maximus! Forgive my excitement, but this is a woman I’ve had the hots for ever since I first laid eyes on her, but one who has done everything in her power to frustrate me. Now, she seems to have done a complete about-turn.
“Are you okay?” She throws me a concerned look. “You’re staring at me as if I’ve morphed into a ghost.”
“Frankly, you might as well have.”
Her eyes get even softer. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been unnecessarily hard on you, Makini. Believe me, I didn’t set out to be.”
“I’ve been hard for you, Sophia, and I must admit I did set out to be.”
She tosses back her head and laughs. Hard and genuinely. Rigid, conformist, stick-up-her-bum Sgt Sophia M Kali is laughing at my lame jokes.
I should be happy, right?
And why not! It seems I’m on my way to hitting the jackpot — that is, if I haven’t already. If that witch in Stephen King’s Thinner cast a spell on me to get all my wishes fulfilled, I’d be skipping with joy all the way to the bank and into Halle Berry’s bed (I know. I have the hots for Sophia, but if wishes were horses, I’d ride mine all the way to that chocolate bundle of sexiness in Hollywood).
“Were you always this funny?” Sophia asks.
“I’ve always thought you lacked a single funny bone in your body.”
“Remember what I told you on the ride back from the hospital? I’m a changed woman. I’m tired of being the stick in the mud.”
“And the wet blanket, spoilsport, party pooper—”
“Okay, okay. I get it, and my days of being a grouch are behind me.” She points the spatula at me. “You, on the other hand, should fasten your seatbelt. You’re about to take a ride on the wild side.”
I should be happy, right?
I’m not. Like in a sudden case of the aforementioned diarrhoea, I’m scared out of my wits. “Why are you doing all this?” I ask.
“You mean being nice? Should I have a reason?”
“Your fiancé hurt you. You must hate all men.” And then it comes to me, clear as the morning sun. “Oh, Lord. You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?”
