Finally, cooking dinner for the girl next door

She agreed for dinner in your house after the ten options you suggested. Saturday evening it is. She will be spending a great deal of the day shopping and doing her hair, she said. She gave you a carte blanche on what to cook but warned you in good humor, "it had better be good, I'm not a fan of badly cooked meals." That made you nervous.

But you forgot to ask if she is vegetarian or she likes her meaty servings. But that is not the immediate problem. You are wondering, did she have to make her hair today? Is that a sign? I mean, it is mid-month, who makes her hair and does shopping mid-month?

Anyway, at around 3, you begin your forays to the local supermarket for some fish fillet and beef, and bottle of wine (for her) and whisky (for you). You pass by your ever-faithful mama mboga for accouterments and you head home. So, it is ugali and fish fillet, beef stew and matoke, some salad like that, and as a last resort, you call for a cake, just in case everything backfires.

You are set to go. You pray silently that a car does not knock her down. Or she doesn't show up with her friend. Or a cousin. As in women are capable of anything and have at least 1001 ways for to ruin a perfect date.

You take your laptop and make the selection of the best RnB and hip hop from your generation, though you don't know her exact genre. You pick some unusual African American movie, with enough slapstick humor to get you by and a plot that does not need your attention. Water, serviettes, toothpicks, hand towels and such all on the table. You have outdone yourself.

It is 6:37 p.m. and your heart is pounding. Today, you have to decide if you can make a move or drop her. No time chasing after waterfalls. A few minutes past 7, she calls you to tell you that she is held in some slight traffic from Kenyatta market, but will be over in a short while. You get up, go warm the food.

After 20 or so minutes, she walks in looking immaculate. Her hair was probably done by the best hairdresser in the three East African capitals. And by heavens, her face is smooth - you ignore her slight, discernible forehead. She is wearing a floral dress that is a lustful man's dream. It is an arresting dress that curves over her waist and hips. You are speechless.

"That is some fine hairdo...," you compliment her, having learnt that 90 per cent of men are usually denied sex when their women come from the salon and they fail to compliment them.

She blushes, and you add, "Great, stuff, and the dress, why lie, I should take you out tonight, I will be the talking point in the club," she laughs easily and settles in the sofa. Tonight, she chooses a seat farther from the door, which she had made her favourite spot. She is a bit nervous. She excuses herself to use the washroom as you go to set up dinner.

When dinner is served, you realize the beef and matoke stew are without salt. And she hates raw salt on food. Her criticism stings. You hate her.

"So tell me about the woman in your life?" she moves forward and cues you that she is listening.