The text is as cold as a mortician’s slab. It is foreboding. You have not spoken to Carol since you came back from the short vacation. You have put off all meetings with Cindy, who is insistent that she has to see you urgently. She has invited herself to your place over the weekend. Now you have to invent an excuse; anything short of killing an imaginary uncle and attending the funeral...
First things first. This text from Carol doesn’t sound good. For two hours you have not done anything productive. She wants to see you ASAP. And “things are not OK.” You are alarmed. It can only be one thing. You walk out the office at 4 o’clock, feigning a freaky headache. You know the kind of mess you have walked yourself into.
It is a Friday afternoon, the damn rains just can’t stop. But luckily the traffic on Uhuru Highway is moving. In another ten minutes it will be utter chaos. Tupac is shouting from the car radio, as you drive distractedly. You drive like a maniac. After 6, you park the car and you get rained on, to your apartment, climbing the flight of stairs. Your eyes are red. You have put up your defences, ready for any bad news.
You knock on the door. Carol opens it. She is in a blue corporate T-shirt, extremely short shorts. You wonder why she is not feeling the cold, or bothered by the mosquitoes that have developed a healthy appetite for human thighs. With the rains, of course, there is no electricity. It is dark in the house. Carol hugs you, hanging on, like she wants some comforting, but your anxiety cannot entertain her clinging. You curtly withdraw and take off your shoes and sit down.
She goes for a candle. The weak yellow light makes the mood all the more sombre. Carol looks extremely saddened.
“What's up Carol?” Silence.
You sit far from her. She is upset for something you are about to establish. You watch out for any projectile that she may hurl your way should you not have an answer to any of her questions. What could be the problem? Dumped officially? Has the man in Germany married (hope so), or has she had a confrontation with Cindy, who by the way should be on her way here, since you have not invented a perfect excuse.
“Carol!” you call her with a whiff of impatience. “I have missed my Ps...” She says with a weak, faulty, almost stuttering voice. A voice that has probably been crying the whole day, perhaps, the whole week.
You heave the heaviest sigh, slump yourself in the chair. You can’t even pretend, this is what you call an undesirable situation. She really wasn’t ready for a pregnancy. Not now. Her boyfriend. Her job. Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.
You rub your head, then your beard, which you have been told is how you handle a nervous moment.
There is a knock on the door and you open while seated. It is Cindy. She has been rained on...
“You are not picking your calls? What is it with you?” she asks you in a misguided sense of ownership, very controlling.
“Hi Carol,” she greets her nervously, sensing the palpable tension in the room.
“Is there something wrong here?” she asks as only an entitled friend can.
“Let's go, to my house.” You hold her hand as you walk out. You can sense she is trembling.
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